program note in progress: honegger's viola sonata

I can't decide if I love or hate Artur Honegger's Viola Sonata of 1920. At first (or second or third etc) glance, the three movements seem oddly mis-matched--more representative of an early twentieth century musical pastiche than a unified work. A smattering of recognizable futuristic gestures and contrapuntal textures appear in the first movement alongside nonfunctional harmonies reminiscent of Debussy. The second movement reads like a musical opium den, the third has obvious references to church bells. Seems simple enough: 1920s Paris, Les Six, Futurism, whole tone scales, blah blah blah.

Indeed, the reduction above explains my apathy towards the sonata. Nothing earth shattering, the sonata is disjointed and easy--a mere diversion.

But then. Something happened. Whilst organizing my books, I came across this volume. Almost immediately I recalled images of its gruesome contents (trench warfare); believe me when I say that I had nightmares for weeks after reading it.

Could one interpret Honegger's music as a response to WWI atrocities? Perhaps it is a stretch, but in the past few days, I certainly have given some thought to the realities of Paris in the 20s and the first World War. And isn't using music as a vehicle for deeper historical-cultural understanding the fun of being a "re-creative" artist?

program notes in fifteen minutes or less

Notes for Hummel Viola Sonata op.5 no. 3
Hummel’s viola sonata can be understood in the context of a fin-de-siecle predilection for that which is elegant, operatic, and/or grotesque. Ostensibly paradoxical, these categories provide a conceptual framework within which we can understand proto-romantic/post-enlightenment art. A quintessential example of the epoch, Hummel’s viola sonata—in its three movements—exemplifies the aforesaid aesthetic triumvirate. Where the opening Allegro tips its musico-proverbial hat to the gallant style of years past, the Adagio Cantabile is understood as a diva’s lament; the Rondo a “low” dance on the edge of good taste.

the joy of feldman

Tomorrow night I will perform Feldman's The Viola in My Life (3). The piece took a little getting used to and quite a bit more practicing than I ever expected for something with a tempo marking "extremely slow and quiet," but tonight--the eve of my recital--I couldn't be more excited to perform it. Below is an excerpt from my program notes for tomorrow.

Described by author and New Yorker columnist Alex Ross as “one of the major composers of the twentieth century” and “a sovereign artist who opened up vast, quiet, agonizingly beautiful worlds of sound” Morton Feldman has been sadly neglected from contemporary concert programs. Ross, a tireless proponent of Feldman, also notes the composer's near-instant friendship with so-called American Maverick, John Cage: not surprisingly, the two bonded over a performance of Second Viennese School composer Anton Webern. In contrast to Cage, Feldman was brusque and imposing, boasting a six-foot, three hundred pound frame; one would hardly expect that the soul behind such a countenance was responsible for music that can only be described as a static ethereal soundscape dotted by forests of melancholic memories.

Shameless plug: Viola Recital: Clare Harmon, viola with Luke Foster, piano and Sarah Foster, violin | Thursday, August 19; 7:30pm | First Lutheran Church of New Richmond 258 N. 3rd Street, New Richmond WI

program notes in *twenty* minutes or less

I may or may not have dashed this together this morning.

Excerpted from program for August 15 concert:
Completed in 1875, Brahms’ op. 60 (his third and final piano quartet) can be understood in terms of its classical heritage but also its progressive harmonic forms. Brahms, a consummate craftsman, spent his formative years steeped in the music of the past—Bach and Haydn, for example. With this in mind, the listener is innately cognizant of classical forms and thus can apply a classical listening model: the quest of antiquity. Analogous the previous example of the salon with respect to the eighteenth century, the works of Homer (the Iliad and the Odyssey) were integral to nineteenth century education and socialization. In this sense, Brahms’ op. 60 is analogous to Odysseus’ trials: the listener departs from Ithaca—from that which is familiar—traverses the wine-dark sea, battles Trojans and Cyclopes (thus engendering Poseidon’s scorn) and finally returns to a home vaguely reminiscent of what once was. As proverbial dawn with her rose red fingers shines once more on each movement, the quest continues.

program notes in sixty minutes or less (vol. 1)

I think the title essentially sums up what is to come.

Excerpt from program for Mozart, Bach, and Brahms. August 15, 2010
Mozart’s 1783 Duo exemplifies the late eighteenth century classical style, specifically with respect to the salon: in its original eighteenth century context, K,423 would have been performed by amateur musicians in an informal setting as a facet of their classical education and cultural socialization. Indeed, in conjunction with the general characteristics of the salon (performances by dilettantes in a setting raucous and radical), a dialectic listening model can be applied to better understand the work. There are numerous moments throughout the work’s three movements wherein musical gestures signifying a conversation between violin and viola could also be understood as Hegelian dialectic (thesis/antithesis/synthesis) or Aristotelian logic (major premise/minor premise/conclusion).

Bach's English Suites offer the contemporary listener further evidence of Bach’s skill in synthesizing elegance and truth from ostensibly antithetical elements: lewd dance forms, and so-called “learned” counterpoint. Often misunderstood as quintessentially baroque, Bach’s music is indeed rife—but, importantly, not wrought—with counterpoint and it is this quality that contributes to the composer’s undisputed place at the front of the early eighteenth century avant-garde. Thus in this sense, the composer can be labeled as baroque, but we must also acknowledge his innovations. The aforementioned “synthesis” could be seen as a subtle signifier of burgeoning revolution: the interaction of “low” dances (the Sarabande and the Courante, for example) with learned musical forms symbolizes the erosion of class distinctions and the onset of the Enlightenment.

the annihilation of passive voices

Confused by the title? Indeed. Recently, I became painfully aware of my overuse of the passive voice. Generally, I consider myself an adept writer, however late-nights, metaphorically full-plates, and slap-dash efforts to finish lingering academic commitments have facilitated my grammatical back-slide. I read something recently that proclaimed something to the effect of "your verbs should attack your nouns." I take it as a declaration of action, of rhetorical combat: fight the good fight against filler words; meaningless (poorly constructed) text. I cannot wait, a new project!

Not totally unrelated, I am presently resurrecting my Italian. As my studies progress, I find that my knowledge of English grammar (re)gains lucidity: the components of language vivify and solidify. Even as I write this little flurry, my mind fills with thoughts of tenses, subjects, verbs, direct objects...exhilarating! Don't be surprised if, nel futuro, you see alcune parole in italiano.

So how does all this relate to Chamber Music Midwest? On the most basic level: program notes. Better. Program. Notes. Excited? On a less literal level, I'd suggest that "annihilating passive voices" is central to Chamber Music Midwest's mission. I strive to make the festival about active participation (dare I say "voices") for both audience and performer--a goal I intend to further realize next season with performances from Grapefruit and pre- and post-concert activities. Sarà meravigloso!

listening models, dialectic + dance!

If there are two things that really trip my intellectual trigger they have got to be dance and dialectic--with all their ramifications, alterations and interpretations. I love it.

I am playing Beethoven's unfinished and so-called "Eyeglass" duo tonight with one of my favorite cellists. We are finding the work to be surprisingly difficult, we concluded that it must have been "really easy on the piano." Beethoven himself would have played the viola, and a letter to the intended cellist reveals (according to popular lore) the meaning of the work's unusual title (Beethoven writes that the players would require eyeglasses to read the music as it was freshly composed).

The idea of friendship and dialogue offers a compelling case for a dialectic listening model. What exactly do I mean by a "dialectic listening model" you say? I am talking about the classical argument, classical education and their application to eighteenth century listening practices. Despite their abhorrence for Scholasticism (I'm thinking about John Locke--if I weren't pressed for time I'd haul out the ol' Bertrand Russell History of Western Philosophy and find the exact quotation...), these guys were students of Aristotle and the rest, no doubt allowing this sort of intellectual training to subtly inform their interpretations of art and music. For example, imagine that you know nothing about music theory or form, yet you do have a solid grasp on the classics and you come from the salon culture of the eighteenth century. Given these circumstances you would likely apply two important facets of each of the aforesaid--conversation and the dialectic--to understand "abstract" music, Beethoven's Eyeglass duo for example.

The first movement lends itself splendidly to the dialectic listening model: viola and cello converse back and forth offering contrasting and complementary interpretations of the theme and accompanimental motives. The arguments culminate at the close of the development wherein assertive pizzicati are volleyed between players until a musical consensus is achieved, represented by an ever-so-slightly sentimental adagio. Following the recapitulation, the movement concludes with a coda: the last gasps of an all-in-good-fun argument.

Where dialectic offers a convincing conceptual framework for the first movement, dance and the mind/body duality (a preoccupation of the eighteenth century intelligentsia) allows for a meaningful interpretation of the Minuetto. A traditionally "high" dance, Beethoven's Minuetto becomes an example of the aforementioned duality, featuring moments traditionally refined and radically raucous.

program notes: the art of song

Alban Berg | Jugendlieder
Prior to beginning his studies with Arnold Schoenberg, Berg composed numerous works of juvenilia between the years 1901 and 1904 (when he began his studies with Schoenberg). The Jugendlieder betray the young composer’s allegiance to late romantic composers such as Hugo Wolf.

Arnold Schoenberg | Phantasy, op. 47 + Brettl Lieder
Where the Phantasy represents the Schoenberg we’ve all come to know and love (or hate, depending upon your tastes), the Brettl Lieder offers a glimpse into the composer’s formative years. Brettl Lieder—and its tonal, theatrical aesthetic—is contrasted sharply by the 1949 dodecaphonic Phantasty.

papa schoenberg

Like a true champ, I left all of my Schoenberg-related texts at home: Schorske's Fin-de-Siecle Vienna, Alex Ross' The Rest is Noise, Janik's Wittengenstein's Vienna, Tuchman's Proud Tower, even the big-bad Morgan Twentieth Century Music. I'll do my best. Though for anyone curious about the cultural history surrounding Schoenberg and his circle, I would highly recommend the Schorske. If you want something broader, Tuchman is great as well. But I digress.


There are (clearly) quite a few things to say about "Papa" Schoenberg. Since I'm featuring works very early (Brettl Lieder, 1901) and very late (Phantasy 1949) in his oeuvre, in the program notes I will discuss his formative influences and their subsequent culmination in his twelve-tone compositions.

Before discussing the music, there are quite a few cultural influences (even though I truly hate that word) that need to be addressed. One cannot deny that Vienna around 1900 was a hot-bed of clashing socio-political, artistic, and philosophical mores (if memory serves, Schorske describes these things as the "forces of movement"). Let's take a brief inventory of these aforesaid conflicts, shall we? Karl Lueger and the Christian Socialists (think pre-Nazis) governs a largely Jewish bourgeois. Visual artists trained in the ways of the academie attempt to find a fitting aesthetic to rebel against it. The burgeoning mid-nineteenth century feminist movement continues to gain steam thus causing reactions both subtle and violent. In conjunction with these conflicts, you also have the culmination of nineteenth century idealism, especially in art. This creates an interesting synthesis in that the artists of the era were perpetually trying to start anew (things like Ver Sacrum and Barr's The Modern), yet their attitudes were inextricably linked to nineteenth century attitudes and ideas. The most clear examples are in visual art and music.

In the visual arts, the early nineteenth century notions of artistic genius become so over-blown that you get things like this (alluding to him), this (quoting this), and this. More than merely a vessel for divine inspiration, the artist has become divine. Furthermore, there is the (overt) intimation of martyrdom. It is no coincidence that the term "avant garde" comes into use in the second half of the nineteenth century.

With respect to music, the relationship between past and then-present is more subtle, less violent, even (to use an analogy popular in nineteenth century criticism) biological: Schoenberg's twelve tone music is the "grown-up" version of Bach--or at least that was how he saw it. Indeed, the composer viewed himself as a member of a noble lineage. But, in keeping with the attitudes of his artistic comrades-in-arms Schoenberg certainly viewed himself as an arbiter of the "new." Musically, this sort of attitude can be seen in the combination of a decidedly novel harmonic/melodic idiom (twelve tone/pantonal) with archaic rhythmic structures (the waltz, the baroque dance etc). Below is a great youtube find of Menuhin and Gould discussing this combination. I think Menuhin has a nice analogy to describe the relationship of underlying form and outward aesthetic.

Pretty good, eh? I really do think Menuhin's analogy is apt: like in the Shakespeare example, the underlying forms in Schoenberg are at times extremely subtle and you really need to have a knowledge of, shall we say, musical iconography. The music gains completely new meaning when you can not only identify a waltz, but recognize that in the context of twelve tone music it signifies the Vienna of days gone by. Furthermore, in post-WWI Europe the mutilated waltz could be interpreted as a symbol of a scarred, disfigured countryside strewn with corpses, punctured by warfare (images of Under Fire are still lingering in my mind, apologies).

Menuhin also points out that when all tones are equal (the musical reflection of the ever-growing egalitarian spirit of the twentieth century, but that is a separate entry...), all you have are tone-colors and silence, and I would add, rhythm. To make the music interesting, the performer must exploit the variety and range of the violin in addition to truly understanding the tradition from which Schoenberg emerged.

There is indeed, much more to say. The issue of dodecaphonic music as an expression of egalitarianism is really quite fascinating. It become even more captivating when you contrast it with say, the musical language of Mozart. Where Schoenberg celebrates musical equality, Mozart (whether intentionally or not) enables rigid class structure with rigid tonal hierarchies. Indeed, much, much more to say.

program notes: duetti

J.S. Bach | Suite no. 1 for solo cello BWV 1007
Likely one of the most oft appropriated selections from Bach’s oeuvre, the first cello suite has achieved "pop" status—featured in a myriad of television commercials and films alike. The complete suite is comprised of the oh-so-familiar prelude, followed by a series of dance movements. As it is accessible to the ear, we need not discuss musical style, harmonic language, etc. Certainly crafted with incredible skill, the musical forms are not too difficult to grasp: the music is "pretty" and we like that.

More compelling are the uses (and implications [1]) of dance forms. Before discussing Bach’s stylization, we must first turn to the intellectual firmament in which the composer’s aesthetic was codified. Still lit by the Scientific Revolution's afterglow, the beginning of the eighteenth century (Bach's most prolific period) was enlightened by empirical thought. Particularly pert for our discussion of Bach is the epistemological shift occurring between the onset of the early modern period and the nineteenth century. Where the former looks to break from Scholastic dogma via empiricism, the latter idealizes the mind, perpetually seeking transcendence. Nestled by these epistemological poles, Bach synthesized theology and eighteenth century rationality. Like his classical-era artistic offspring, Bach is partially interested in the physical sensations of living, "practice" (read: empiricism). And it is this context that his use of dance forms becomes truly captivating. In conjunction with the deeply religious overtones of the music, Bach's stylization of once lascivious and lewd dance forms contributes to a musical aesthetic elegant, intricate and dense. The result is the interaction of spirituality/learned-ness and physicality coalescing in Hegelian unity. Combined with his overt religious affiliations, references to the physical (the "low" dances: gigue, courante, sarabande) become apt descriptors of the dichotomy of the epoch.

Luciano Berio | Duetti per due violine: Bruno
Berio’s collection of thirty-four violin duets follows in the tradition paved by Telemann, Leclair, Mozart, and (later) Bartok. Composed in 1979, Bruno (an excerpt from the complete collection of duets) offers a glimpse into Berio's musico-rhetorical language. Brief though it may be (a mere 1’45”), the music betrays both a love of folk idioms and an influence from the twentieth century European modernist milieu from which the composer emerged. This kind of duality is expressed in Berio’s use a nineteenth century form (the waltz) dressed in Darmstadt-ian [2] garb. Further aligning himself with the Second Viennese School (the progenitor of his "European modernist milieu"), Berio’s dance quotations are akin to those of Mahler and Schoenberg. Within these allusions, another hallmark of Berio's aesthetic is evidenced: there is an unmistakable sadness—the ennui associated with nostalgia.

Jean Marie LeClair | Sonata no. 4 in D Major
In any exegesis on eighteenth century repertoire the influence of the salon must be considered. More than merely an enlightenment extravaganza, cacophonous and "cultured," the salon held tremendous sway for the intelligentsia, composers, and musicians of the day. One such musician was the composer-violinist Jean-Marie Leclair. Likely composed for performance at the French Concert-Spirituel, his sonata features thematic reiteration in predictable (and might I add, repetitive) forms. Indeed, the salon was raucous, abuzz with discourse and dialectic and it was this nascent environment that shaped the aforesaid formal characteristics (repetition—If you wish your music to be heard in a noisy setting, repeat it). Furthermore, the virtuosic writing is a product of Leclair's own violinistic facility.

[1] The dance would become extremely important for Arnold Schoenberg, largely considered to be the father of the Second Viennese School. Schoenberg saw himself as the successor to Bach, and as such referenced the baroque suite frequently (perhaps most famously in the op. 25 piano pieces). Although Schoenberg saw these allusions as natural and organic, they would later garner criticism from total serialist, Pierre Boulez.
[2] Darmstadt—an institute and festival in Germany—would act as a breeding ground for the European aesthetic popular from the 1950s-1980s. It was here that composers such as Ligeti, Stockhausen, Boulez, Berio, etc, would learn their craft.

leclair, or, "how i learned to stop worrying and love writing program notes"

Precious few hours separate this moment from the first notes of Chamber Music Midwest.

So. Leclair.

In any exegesis on eighteenth century repertoire the influence of the salon must be considered. More than merely an enlightenment extravaganza cacophonous and "cultured," the salon held tremendous sway for the intelligentsia, composers, and musicians of the day. One such musician was the composer-violinist Jean-Marie Leclair. Likely composed for performance at the French concert-spirituel, his sonata features thematic repetition in predictable (and might I add, repetitive) forms. Indeed, the salon was raucous, abuzz with discourse and dialectic and it was this nascent environment that shaped the aforesaid formal characteristics (repetition--if you wish your music to be heard in a noisy setting, repeat it). Furthermore, the virtuosic writing is a product of Leclair's own facility.

There is quite a bit more to say. If it weren't 2am, I'd discuss the salon, eighteenth century gender roles, and on and on. Another time.

bach and more epistemology

True to my procrastinating nature, I have yet to write program notes for several pieces featured on tomorrow's concert. A friend of mine once said that "working ahead is for sissies who can't stand the pressure." In theory, I try not to agree, but in practice, my adherence to this maxim is unquestioned.

So lets talk about Bach's G major Cello Suite, shall we?

Likely one of the most oft appropriated selections from Bach’s oeuvre, the first cello suite has achieved "pop" status—featured in a myriad of television commercials and films alike. The complete suite is comprised of the oh-so-familiar prelude, followed by a series of dance movements. As it is accessible to the ear, I needn't really go into musical style, harmonic language, etc. Certainly crafted with incredible skill (my God!), the musical forms are not too difficult to grasp. The music is "pretty" and we like that.

Most compelling however, is the use and implications of the dance. I've talked before about the eighteenth century's fascination with the body and in Bach's suites (and the violin Partitas, for that matter) it takes on a new complexity. In conjunction with the deeply religious overtones of the music, Bach's stylization of once lascivious and lewd dance forms contribute to a musical aesthetic elegant, intricate and dense. The result is the interaction of spirituality/learned-ness and physicality coalescing in Hegelian unity.

Bach is of particular interest to me for this reason, especially given my more recent research on changes in acquiring knowledge between the Renaissance and the late nineteenth century. Still lit by the Scientific Revolution's afterglow, the beginning of the eighteenth century (Bach's most prolific period) was enlightened by empirical thought. Particularly pert for our discussion of Bach is the epistemological shift occurring between the onset of the early modern period and the nineteenth century. Where the former looks to break from Scholastic dogma via empiricism, the latter idealizes the mind, perpetually seeking transcendence. Like his classical-era artistic offspring, Bach is partially interested in the physical sensations of living, "practice" (read: empiricism). And it is this context that his use of dance forms becomes truly compelling. Combined with his overt religious affiliations, references to the physical (the "low" dances) become apt descriptors of the dichotomy of the epoch.

duetti

Our first concert is just around the bend (Saturday at 7:30, if you're keeping track), and I couldn't be more excited. The lovely and talented duo of Kirsti Petraborg and Valerie Little will be joining me in a very diverse program--Berio and Bach and Spisak oh my! But seriously, it is going to be fantastic. Now that I am writing about it, I realize that it was Valerie and Kirsti who first planted the idea of a concert of viola duos in my mind. As part of their DMA recital requirements, they performed a concert comprised entirely of viola duets, and let me tell you, it was great. I never knew how good viola duos could sound. Make your jokes if you must (believe me, I've been making them all week), but be prepared to renege.

The duet repertoire has always interested me, likely due to its history in the salon (Mozart, for example), the studio (Bartok and Telemann) and finally the concert hall (more recent contributions by composers like Luigi Nono and James Dillon). The Berio duo Valerie and I are playing (Bruno) could be categorized as a "pedagogical" duet: potentially meant for teacher and student. Musically speaking, it offers a glimpse into Berio's musico-rhetorical language. Brief though it may be (a mere 1’45”), the music betrays both a love of folk idioms and an influence from the twentieth century European modernist milieu from which the composer emerged. This kind of duality is expressed in Berio’s use a nineteenth century form (the waltz) dressed in Darmstadt-ian garb. Further aligning himself with the Second Viennese School (the progenitor of his "European modernist milieu"), Berio’s dance quotations are akin to those of Mahler and Schoenberg. Within these allusions, another hallmark of Berio's aesthetic is evidenced: there is a certain sadness--the ennui associated with nostalgia.

Berio's complete oeuvre is wonderful, he is without a doubt one of my favorite composers. Indeed, I am drawn to the aforesaid duality, but there is something about his music that so perfectly captures the mid-late twentieth century spirit. To me, he expresses the fear, ennui and uncertainty of our epoch with an aesthetic both elegant and sincere.



Cathy Berberian sings Berio, Folksongs

a fool for foucault

I just started Discipline & Punish. Heaven help me.

When I say "just" I truly mean it--I've only read the first few pages (what I could get through during last week's La Valse; the orchestra sounded so good, it was hard to concentrate on my reading...)--but the accounts of punishment in terms of eighteenth century spectacle and nineteenth century compartmentalization made me think about certain aesthetic concerns of the former.

I'm thinking specifically about the body--by including an eighteenth century account of torture (written in, by the way, classically matter-of-fact style), Foucault illustrates the era's interest in man as a physical being (as opposed to a spiritual one as in the Medieval era, or mental as in the nineteenth century). Because much of my recent reading and thoughts have revolved around the epistemological shifts occurring between the conversion of Constantine and the Scientific Revolution, I cannot help but view torture through this particular lens. What is truly fascinating is the way the practice of torture interacts and reflects upon then-contemporary art, philosophy and science.

Lately I have been thinking about the eighteenth century as a sort of confluence of empiricism, scholasticism, classical thought (specifically Aristotle's Poetics, among others...), and the last gasps of the Reformation and the Scientific Revolution's luminous afterglow. You end up with social change and Enlightenment philosophy, but we already knew that. To me, the changes in how individuals viewed themselves is what is truly captivating. Because of the aforementioned cultural milieu, philosophes and the so-called "great unwashed" alike experience a re-nascence (if you'll pardon the pun): a new egalitarianism is born out of the coalescence and subsequent synthesis of medieval and early modern ideals. Subtle thought it may be, these things work together to empower physical man, always returning to the sensational experience of living.

So what then, do you get in art and culture? Low dance forms in "high" art (the gigue, for example), the prevalence of the pastoral (as we will see in Tyler Wottrich's performance of Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 17), things like (the other) Fragonard, Madame Tussaud, La Specola, David's rendering, and of course, revolution.

I bring all of this up because I think it is so important to understand the cultural turmoil from which the first Viennese school (Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven) emerged. Although on the surface their music may seem "pleasing" (a description favored by the eighteenth century critic), it is rife with the tension of duality: empirical thought versus scholasticism, feeling versus rationality, the grotesque versus the ideal. The next time you listen to Figaro, just remember that a few blocks from the opera house, there was a good chance of being able to witness torture in all its unfettered, disquieting brutality.

some thoughts on mahler

Again and again, I return to Mahler. Ostensibly enigmatic, his music often seems to me to be a proto-postmodern pastiche; an attempt to express fin-de-siecle anxieties and nineteenth century nostalgia. A certain fascination with the past permeates and I can't help but think of the rampant historicism in Vienna at that time (Gottfried Semper, ahem ahem). What is really intriguing (as if rampant historicism isn't stimulating enough) is the way this historicism interacts with a yearning for progress--a hallmark of the early twentieth century. One need only to look at the work of say, Gerome and Nolde or the aforementioned Semper and his art historical counterpoint, Alois Riegl. In addition to these broad dichotomies, there is a certain duality that plays out in each individual's work. But I digress (and could go on...and on, but I'll spare you). What is great about Mahler, is that in his music this dualism is expressed so damn eloquently (and effectively, I might add). He uses all these archaic dance forms, but sets them in a modern idiom, fragments them, orchestrates them. In this way, his music (like the visual analogues Kirchner or Ensor) can be downright creepy.

We're playing his piano quartet this season. It is just a movement, a fragment from 1876 (that means Ringstrasse-era Vienna, by the way); apparently it was recently used in a Scorsese film and to my ears it sounds like Brahms. But, not just Brahms--more like post-German Requiem Brahms, anxiety-laden tragic Brahms. Take a listen for yourself:

For me, the pulsating quarter-triplets in the piano are most reminiscent of Brahms--the comparison being something like the cello part in the third movement of the C minor string quartet (but I feel like he uses this gesture quite a bit). You must agree that the music is imbued with ennui: the musical sighs, the low register octaves in the piano, and the aforementioned pulsations (that are to me, symbolic of the passage of time and the fear that often accompanies it). Even at seventeen, young Mahler was acutely aware of burgeoning change. And, like the rest of nineteenth century Europe, he was scared.

With all this in mind, I'll tell you that I am really looking forward to learning and performing this piece. In case you couldn't tell, I have a pretty strong affinity for fin-de-siecle Vienna.