Composers Datebook

On this date in 1747, a crowd of London concert-goers gathered in response to a newspaper announcement, which read, "At the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden tomorrow will be perform'd a new oratorio, call'd 'Judas Maccabaeus'… no person to be admitted without tickets… at half a guinea each."

The composer of this new Biblical oratorio was George Frideric Handel, and 'Judas Maccabaeus' would become one of his most popular works. One choral number, entitled "See, the Conqu'ring Hero Comes," celebrating a military victory of its title character, proved a smash hit that generations of audience members would whistle or hum on their way home.

Oddly enough, the audience at the 1747 premiere wouldn't have heard that tune, since Handel only added it to his score some years later, after the chorus was first used in another Handel oratorio altogether.

Fifty years after the oratorio's premiere, Ludwig van Beethoven would composed twelve variations on "See, the Conqu'ring Hero Comes" for piano and cello, and 90 years after Beethoven, a Swiss writer made the tune into an Easter hymn that some of us know as "Thine Be the Glory."

The tune also appears in a much rowdier context during the annual Last Night of the Proms concert in London, since it crops up in Sir Henry Wood's "Fantasia on British Sea Songs," an almost obligatory party piece played on that occasion.

On today's date in 1837, the Princess Cristina Belgiojoso-Trivulzio scored the social coup of the season at her Parisian salon. Ostensibly, it was the culmination of a three-day charity fundraiser in aid of Italian political refugees, but it REALLY was the artistic equivalent of a prize fight—the fists in question pummeling the piano keyboard. If you'll forgive the pun, it was a "Battle of the HANDS," a digital confrontation of the two leading virtuoso pianists of the day, Sigismund Thalberg and Franz Liszt.

Thalberg was up first, playing his own Fantasy on Themes from Rossini's opera, "Moses." Liszt followed with one of HIS fantasias based on operatic themes. The music critic for the prestigious Journal des Debats was present, and he wrote, "Never was Liszt more controlled, more thoughtful, more energetic, more passionate. Never has Thalberg played with greater verve and tenderness. Each used every one of his resources. It was an admirable joust. The most profound silence fell over the noble crowd assembled, and, finally, Liszt and Thalberg were both proclaimed victors by this glittering and intelligent assembly. Thus: two victors and no vanquished."

When asked for her verdict who had "won" the contest, the hostess, Princess Cristina replied with consummate diplomacy: "Thalberg," she said, "is the first pianist in the world—Liszt is unique."

In 2002, film director Godfrey Reggio released his latest movie. Entitled "Naqoyqatsi"—the Hopi word for "Life as War"—this was Reggio's third and final installment in a trilogy of unusual, non-narrative films, all with Hopi titles, each comprised of visually striking, collage-like visuals set against hypnotic film scores by American composer Philip Glass.

The preceding two films were: "Koyaanisqatsi: Life out of balance" (released in 1982) and "Powaqqatsi: Life in transformation" (released in 1988).

"Naqoyqatsi" may have been a non-narrative film, but Reggio's message was that humankind was transforming its natural environment into a technology-based one. Reggio described his 2002 film as a symphony in three movements, and even provided descriptive titles: Movement 1 - Language and place gives way to numerical code and virtual reality; movement 2 - Life becomes a game; Movement 3 - A world that language can no longer describe.

Fast forward ten years to 2012. That year Philip Glass was serving as the Creative Director of the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, and had been commissioned to turn his "Naqoyqatsi" film score into a concert work for cello and orchestra. In the film score, solos played by the famous cellist Yo-Yo Ma featured prominently, so this "repurposing" of film score seemed a logical step.

And so, on today's date in 2012, Philip Glass's Cello Concerto No. 2, subtitled "Naqoyqatsi," received its premiere performance with the Cincinnati Symphony conducted by Dennis Russell Davies and Matt Haimowitz as the cello soloist.

OK, if you say "band music," most people think "marching bands—sporting events." So if someone tells you there is a band work titled "Ra"—you might automatically respond: "sis-boom-ba." But that's not at all what composer David Dzubay had in mind. He was thinking of RA, the ancient Egyptian sun god.

A major figure in Egyptian mythology, the sun god Ra was born anew each day and journeyed across the sky doing battle with his chief enemy, a serpent named Apep, usually emerging victorious, though on stormy days or during an eclipse, the Egyptians believed that Apep had won and swallowed up the sun god.

David Dzubay's band composition named "Ra" is, as he describes it, "a rather aggressive depiction of an imagined ritual of sun worship, perhaps celebrating the daily battles of Ra and Apep," with the sections of the work alternating as if following the precise dictates of some grand and ancient ceremony.

Originally written for orchestra, Dzubay arranged his piece for concert band, and in this incarnation, it won an annual competition for new bands works. Ra was first performed by the Indiana University Symphonic Band, led by Ray Cramer at the College Band Directors' National Convention in Minneapolis on today's date in 2003. Both the venue and the performers selected for that premiere must have seemed particularly gratifying to Dzubay, since he was born in Minneapolis and received his doctorate in music at Indiana University.

In Beethoven's day, there were no independent symphonic orchestras in Vienna, so when Ludwig van wanted to put on an orchestral concert, the way he did it was to hire a theater orchestra for a night or two. Now, Viennese theaters were usually pretty busy and well booked up, but in Catholic Austria, they would shut down for a few weeks each year during Lent, which explains why a number of Beethoven's symphonies premiered in April when the orchestras were available for hire.

It wasn't until today's date in 1842 that Vienna's most famous independent orchestra played its first concert, and even then, as it still does today, the Vienna Philharmonic also doubles as the orchestra of the Vienna Opera.

The German composer and conductor Otto Nicolai led that first concert of the Vienna Philharmonic. The program included Beethoven's Seventh Symphony and two of his concert overtures, alongside vocal selections by Mozart and Cherubini.

Not surprisingly, Beethoven remains core repertory for the Vienna Philharmonic, along with those other two Viennese "B's"—Brahms and Bruckner. But in the 20th century, the Austrian orchestra presented important European premieres of works by Samuel Barber and Leonard Bernstein, two notable American "B's." And more recently, the Vienna Philharmonic premiered this work, entitled "Diversions," by the German-born, American composer and conductor, Andre Previn.

One of the preeminent figures in 20th century Japanese concert music was a composer named Toshiro Mayuzumi, born in Yokohama in 1929. The range of his music reflects a curious turn of mind. He wrote pieces in a neo-Romantic mode, experimented with electronic music and jazz, composed aggressively avant-garde works, and scored music for theater and both Japanese and American films. In 1958, he composed a "Nirvana Symphony," inspired by the haunting sound of Japanese temple bells. "For the past few years," wrote Mayuzumi, "I feel as if I have been possessed by bells. I wonder why it is that, no matter how splendid a piece of music may be, it sounds totally faded and worthless when set beside the lingering resonance of a temple bell." The "Nirvana" Symphony of 1958 was followed up with another orchestral work inspired by Buddhist themes, a "Mandala Symphony," which premiered in Tokyo on today's date in 1960. Mayuzumi collaborated on a number of projects with the nationalistic writer, Yukio Mishima, who, to protest what he considered the weakness of contemporary Japanese society, committed ritual suicide in 1970. Mayuzumi's 1976 opera, "Kinkakuji," or "The Golden Pavilion," is based on a novel by Mishima, which, thanks to a New York City Opera production in 1995, became the first Japanese grand opera to be staged in the U.S. Toshiro Mayuzumi died in 1997, at the age of 68.

She's been called a "British Gershwin" but perhaps a "British Poulenc" might more accurately describe the genial and graceful music of Madeleine Dring, a woman whose diverse and energetic creative life was cut short, when, at the age of 53, she died suddenly on today's date in 1977. Madeleine Dring was born into a talented musical family in 1923, and she showed early promise. On her tenth birthday she won a scholarship to study at the Royal Conservatory of Music in London, and eventually studied composition with Herbert Howells, Ralph Vaughan Williams, and Gordon Jacob. Dring was soon providing incidental music and songs for amateur and professional theatrics. She was also a gifted singer and actress, and performed occasionally on stage and television. Dring married the British oboist, Roger Lord, and a number of her chamber works feature that instrument. This one bears the witty title, "Three-Piece Suite." Six volumes of her songs were published after her death, largely through the persistence of her husband, and many of her other works have been published, performed, and recorded with increasing frequency, especially in the United States. Sadly, Dring died just when women composers began to receive increasing attention from music historians, performers, and audiences worldwide. In the year 2000, a biography and study of Dring's career were published in England.

It's all a matter of timing. In 1942, the Soviet Union was America's wartime ally, and the Soviet composer Dmitri Shostakovich made the cover of Time magazine. Seven years later, the war was over, but the COLD war was on—with a vengeance.

On March 25, 1949, Shostakovich arrived in New York for his first visit to America, hand-picked by Stalin to be part of the Soviet delegation to a "Cultural and Scientific Congress for World Peace." (That's what they called it, anyway.)

The goals of the congress organizers were idealistic, but the anti-Communist tide of American public opinion resulted in pickets, protests, and many cancellations. Those who did speak at the congress, including the American composer Aaron Copland, felt compelled to preface their comments with unambiguously anti-Communist manifestos. Shostakovich nervously read the equally unambiguous speech prepared for him by his Soviet minders, a speech attacking American imperialism in general and the expatriate Russian composer, Igor Stravinsky, in particular. It was embarrassing for everyone concerned, and the Soviet guests were asked to leave early.

While he was in New York, Shostakovich got to play a piano reduction of the Scherzo from his Fifth Symphony for a huge crowd at Madison Square Garden. That, at least, resulted in a big ovation—and maybe that was how he privately approached the whole, sad affair—as a kind of grim scherzo, or joke.

Music history, like your parents, often reminds us that "Life is NOT fair." On today's date in 1721, Johann Sebastian Bach, Kapellmeister at the Court of Prince Leopold of Coethen, wrote a flowery dedication (in rather bad French) on the title page of his manuscript score for six concertos and sent them off to Margrave Christian Ludwig of Brandenburg, perhaps angling for a job offer in response. To this day, these pieces are known as the "BRANDENBURG Concertos," although in all probability they were composed for and played at Leopold's court. By all rights, they should be known as the "Coethen Concertos," especially since it appears the Margrave of Brandenburg's orchestra never performed them. Bach's concertos require virtuoso performers, and if the Margrave's musicians ever did look at the scores, they probably just bowed deeply and said, "With respect, your Highness, IN YOUR DREAMS." The Coethen musicians might have been less intimidated by Bach's demanding scores, but perhaps Johann was already looking to move on. Prince Leopold's new bride was no music lover (and said so, rather pointedly) and Bach, a devoted church musician, perhaps felt frustrated by Coethen's strict Calvinism, which didn't even permit organ music during church services. In any case, Bach didn't get a job offer from the Margrave, the Prince didn't get the credit, and on all the CD jewel box spines, it reads: "The BRANDENBURG Concertos."

Any composer who sets out to write a violin concerto knows that his or her new work will be measured against the famous concertos of the past. But in the fall of 1936, when the Hungarian composer Bela Bartok decided to write a violin concerto, he asked his publisher to send him some recent work of his contemporaries. After seeing what Karol Szymanowski, Kurt Weill, and Alban Berg had accomplished in the form, Bartok set to work, with much input from his violinist friend, Zoltan Szekely, for whom the new concerto was being written. Bartok was in America when Szekely premiered his Concerto with the Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra, conducted by Willem Mengelberg. It was only in America, some years later, in 1943, that Bartok first heard his Concerto at a New York Philharmonic concert. He wrote, "I was most happy that there is nothing WRONG with the scoring. Nothing needs to be changed, even though orchestral accompaniment of the violin is a very delicate business." If Bartok was happy with the scoring, he wasn't very pleased with one New York music critic, who wrote that he didn't think the new work would ever displace the great violin concertos of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, or Brahms. "How is it possible to write such an idiotic thing," commented Bartok. "What fool fit for a madhouse would want to displace these works with his own?"