Dmitri Shostakovich, "Festive Overture"

Unlike Sergei Prokofiev, who had the misfortune of dying on the same day as Stalin (March 5, 1953), thus causing his funeral to pass into the background, Dmitri Shostakovich survived the great Soviet leader for over twenty years. During that period, Soviet cultural life underwent significant changes, which could be appreciated a few months after the great leader's death.

Dmitri, who, along with Sergei, had headed the sadly famous list of composers who had gone astray, witnessed the new airs when in December 1953, he was asked to compose a short work in commemoration of the next anniversary of the Bolshevik revolution. He called it "Festive Overture"... so much so that the composer allowed himself to include in it a tune taken from the Opera that in 1932 had brought him the first reprimand.

 Legend has it that the master would have composed it with astonishing speed. Mythical versions of the time taken range from a few hours to three days.
What is unquestionable is that the new cultural era favored a fresh look at works that Shostakovich had abandoned due to the uncertainty surrounding their composition and subsequent reception. The maestro took them up again with the serious intention of finishing them. That is what he was doing when he received the commission. It is possible, therefore, that, in those circumstances, he devoted no more than three days to the brief work that greeted the revolution.

Festive Overture, for orchestra, in A Major, opus 96
Curiously, this is a traditional, if not conservative, work. In its scant six minutes long it brims with a joyful mood, without majestic boasts or pomp. The piece opens with a jaunty fanfare. It is followed by a lively section based on a melody from the already mentioned 1932 opera, which picks up speed. The somewhat grandiloquent finale shows that Shostakovich took no chances here. He was right, in over ten years, when it comes to a new symphony, the authorities will be wrinkling their noses again.

hr-Sinfonieorchester – Frankfurt Radio Symphony / Pablo Heras-Casado, Dirigent.

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Chopin, Étude No 7 from Opus 25

The twelve Etudes of Opus 25 were composed by Frédéric Chopin between 1832 and 1836. Published in 1837, six years after having settled in Paris, they added one more achievement in the production of the author, by then "the artist of the moment", of the Parisian soirées. They were his second collection of studies for piano. The first, opus 10, had been published in 1833, dedicated to "mon ami, Franz Liszt", a distinction that could surprise no one since both knew each other and professed mutual admiration.

Marie d'Agoult, dedicatée
Four years later, opus 25 was dedicated to Marie d'Agoult, a former countess, talented writer, and salon habitué whose closeness to Chopin and his music was reduced to her status as Franz Liszt's partner. An act of courtesy that surprises us to this day. Even more so, when we learn that Marie did not get along with Frédéric. That same year, 1837, the Sand proposed to Marie that she join Nohant in the company of "the Poles" (Chopin and his poet friends). In response, Marie wrote: "...Chopin, an oyster sprinkled with sugar..." ... "In him, only his cough is permanent."
Another enigma, in the unfathomable personality of the master.

Marie d'Agoult (1805 - 1876)

Etude Opus 25 No 7, in C sharp minor
A beautiful melody, somewhat sad, accompanied by slow chords of both hands. The left hand, in a couple of passages, attacks semiquavers at a certain speed, but, nothing comparable to the extensive and fast run, also in semiquavers, required in other Etudes, the so-called "Revolutionary", for example. It could be said, then, that this is a rather simple Etude. The difficulty, however, lies elsewhere.

The melody advances shared by both hands. Sometimes on the left, other times on the right. To sing the melody properly, the interpreter must fully understand what is happening with it, musically speaking. And to this painful singing, extreme delicacy must be added. Mastery in phrasing is the demand of the one who was called the poet of the piano.

The Etude is the most extensive of the twenty-four. It is not a study of technique as such, or of acrobatic skills, if the term fits, but one of musicality and interpretation. This is what the work demands, which in less than six minutes, unveils one of Chopin's most emotional pages.

The marvelous performance is by the Polish pianist Szymon Nehring.

Friedrich Kuhlau, Sonatina in C major

At the beginning of the 19th century, the young German pianist and composer Friedrich Kuhlau began to perform regularly in public, being applauded by a pleasantly surprised audience since, as a result of his copious works for flute, everyone believed he was a flutist. To such an extent that he was even called "the Beethoven of the flute." The truth is that Kuhlau didn't know how to play the instrument, and if he wrote for it, it was exclusively due to economic reasons: a market requirement.

An author of a good number of operas, nowadays the author is remembered mainly for his piano works. In addition to a Concerto, a series of sonatinas written for pedagogical purposes stand out, whose study today no future pianist can neglect, as they constitute an indispensable exercise before the approach of the sonatas of the great masters.

Friedrich Kulhau, in 1828
(1786 - 1832)

A Beethoven's friend
Born south of Lüneburg, Germany, at age twenty, he fled with his family to Copenhagen to avoid being recruited by the Napoleonic army. There, he introduced the Danes to the work of Beethoven, whom he admired. Later he had the good fortune to meet him, in 1825, during a trip to Vienna. It is said that they were great friends. Apparently, the admiration was mutual. It is said that both attended, as good friends, a somewhat scandalous party at which, in the heat of the champagne, they exchanged sparkling canons composed about their surnames. Some add that Beethoven, the next day, remembered nothing.

Sonatas or sonatinas?
Literally, a sonatina is a small sonata. More than a musical form, the word is a title the author has had at hand to designate a piece in sonata form but shorter and lighter, or technically less demanding, than a typical sonata.
The beautiful sonatinas of Muzio Clementi's opus 36 fully comply with this characterization. But this is only sometimes the case. There are sonatinas with demands no less severe. For example, Ravel's Sonatina or Alkan's Sonatina. And of course, Beethoven's "easy sonatas", from Opus 49, with medium difficulty, but difficulty nonetheless.

Kuhlau - Sonatina No. 4 in C major, Op.55 No 1
Composed in 1823, Kuhlau's Opus 55 contains six sonatinas. All of them are short, in two or three movements, averaging five minutes in length. Their first movements have a very brief or non-existent development section. The one we are listening to has only two movements, both lively.

Movements:
00:00  Allegro
02:49  Vivace

The rendition is by the Osaka-born master in 1934, Mitsuru Nagai.

Ligeti: "Lux Aeterna", for a mixed chorus, 16 voices a capella

 
In 1964, filmmaker Stanley Kubrick set his sights on making a film that would explore man's relationship with the Universe. Four years later, "2001: A Space Odyssey" was released to mixed reviews: "Monumentally unimaginative," wrote one critic. Another, on the other hand, noted that it was "a magnificent success on a cosmic scale." With some derision, a third noted: a work "somewhere between hypnotic and dull." Today, fifty years after its premiere, critics agree with the popular opinion of its time: a work of genius.

In this popular enchantment, the soundtrack played a very prominent role. At first, Kubrick opted for original music, but halfway through opted for pre-existing music: some very well-known, some known in certain circles, and some completely unknown. To this last category belongs the work Lux Aeterna, incorporated by Kubrick into the soundtrack without asking permission from the author, the Hungarian composer György Ligeti.

Kubrick incorporated no more and no less than four works by Ligeti into the film without canceling rights. Ligeti learned of this through a friend who suggested he go to see the movie with a stopwatch. He found that a good half hour of the film contained his music. But he didn't make a fuss. He simply sued the filmmaker, demanding compensation for one dollar. We ignore how the conflict ended. We only hope that in their subsequent work together (The Shining, Eyes Wide Shut) Kubrick had learned to behave.

György Ligeti (1923 - 2006)

Born in Hungary in 1923, a survivor of concentration camps, Ligeti was part of the great Hungarian exodus of 1956, settling in Germany where he was able to soak up the burgeoning development of contemporary music. He quickly joined the avant-garde, and soon began to produce works captivating for their boldness and complexity, often within very free rhythmic frameworks.
From 1960 onwards, the warm reception to several of his works transformed him into one of the prominent authors of the European avant-garde. After all, then, Ligeti was not so unknown when Kubrick took the liberty of borrowing his works without permission.

Lux Aeterna, for a mixed choir

This mysterious and rather gloomy but very beautiful work is written for a mixed choir of 16 voices a cappella, that is to say, without accompaniment. The words, in Latin, are taken from the traditional Requiem Mass of the Catholic liturgy. Composed in 1966 using the technique known as "sound mass", introduced by Ligeti in the sixties, it results in a body of sound that dispenses with rhythm and melody, using harmony to produce variations of vocal timbres in time.

At just over eight minutes long, it seems to suggest, with its whispering texture, a universal presence capable of permeating everything. This is what the voices emanating from the monolith, in the famous scene of Kubrick's film, arouse.

The rendition is by the Taipei Chamber Singers, conducted by its director Chen Yun-Hung.

Chopin, Polonaise - Fantaisie in A-flat

Throughout his life, Chopin wrote at least twenty-seven polonaises, the first of which was when he was only seven. The last was in 1846, three years before his early death at age 39. And we count "at least" 27 because at least seven polonaises have been lost; they appear in his correspondence to publishers, pupils, or friends but have not come down to us.
He called Polonaise-Fantasie the last one, for lack of a better title. So he confesses in a letter of 1845 to his Polish family, pointing out his "difficulty in finding the title of a new composition." These were only some of the difficulties. Family harmonies are fading, and so is love. He will spend that summer in Nohant, and it will be his last.

The difficulties are domestic but no less burdensome. The Sand children are no longer children. Maurice is twenty years old and Solange is fifteen. Both are entering life as difficult teenagers. Chopin does not take sides, for now. Rather, he is bored:

"The whole summer was spent here in walks and excursions in the region.... As far as I am concerned, I did not take part, because I would have found more fatigue than pleasure in it. I am tired, I am bored. My character suffers because of it and the young people experience no pleasure in my company."

Nevertheless, that year of 1846 proved to be prodigal. The three mazurkas of Opus 59, the sonata for cello and piano, the Barcarolle, and the Polonaise-Fantaisie, which had probably been outlined the previous year, were completed.

As mentioned, this "new composition" is preceded by at least twenty-six polonaises. There are brilliant, heroic, military, and tragic ones. But this time it took a lot of work for Chopin to find a suitable title or subtitle. And the question arises: why didn't he simply call it Polonaise. There was a reason. The work was far more than a familiar polonaise and, curiously, also something less.

Polonaise-Fantaisie for piano No. 7, in A-flat major, opus 61
It is one of Chopin's most important works and one of the most complex harmonic writing so only in the twentieth century the work began to be favored by audiences, critics, and performers.
In the opinion of scholars, the new composition seems more like a fantasy than a polonaise (with which Chopin, hesitantly, would have finally hit the nail on the head), a sort of melancholic reverie that, despite the atmosphere, manages to maintain the rhythmic characteristics of the traditional dance, albeit at times.
A long improvisatory introduction, marked allegro maestoso, leads into the thematic material proper.
Lasting a little more than twelve minutes, it was published that same year 1846, with a dedication to a student, Mme. Veyret, the wife of the honorary consul of Ecuador.

The rendition is by the brilliant pianist Kate Liu – born in Singapore – during her presentation at the International Chopin Competition in Warsaw, in 2015, when she was awarded the Third Prize.