Composers Datebook

It was on today’s date in 1922 that English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams conducted the American premiere of his Symphony No. 3 (Pastoral) at the Litchfield County music festival in Norfolk, Connecticut.

It was his first trip to the U.S., and he reacted to American landscapes and customs with wonder and amusement. He found the Woolworth building in New York more impressive than Niagara Falls, writing to his friend Gustav Holst, “I’ve come to the conclusion that the Works of Man terrify me more than the Works of God.” He was also bemused by America’s summertime fondness for chicken salad, which he called “beyond powers of expression.”

As for the premiere American performance of his Pastoral Symphony, he reported it had been “excellent.”

Vaughan Williams would return to the United States twice more before his death in 1958. By that time his music had become very popular in American. George Szell in Cleveland, Rafael Kubelik in Chicago, and Dimtri Mitropoulos in New York were all in heated competition to secure rights to the American premiere of his Symphony No. 7, for example.

Spoiler alert: Kubelik and the Chicago Symphony won out.

Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958): Symphony No. 3 (Pastoral); Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra; Kees Bakels, conductor; Naxos 8.550733

On today’s date in 1885, George Bernard Shaw had these thoughts after a performance of Mozart’s opera, Don Giovanni:

“A century after Shakespeare’s death, it was fashionable to ridicule the pretensions of the author of Hamlet to intellectual seriousness and to apologize for his childishness. At present, a century after Mozart’s death, we have among us those who hold [similar views] of the composer of Don Giovanni. Now the truth about Shakespeare was never forgotten — never even questioned by the silent masses who read poetry, but skip notes, comments, and criticism … and the masses are similarly sound on the subject of Mozart, shown by the fact that Mozart will still draw a house when nothing else will.”

Today, Shaw is chiefly remembered as a playwright, but his collected music criticism fills three stout volumes.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791): Don Giovanni; Berlin Philharmonic; Herbert von Karajan, conductor; Deutsche Grammophon 419635

Frederick Loewe (1904-1988): My Fair Lady; Original Soundtrack Recording; Sony 66711

In the 19th century, young, Boston-born American composer and pianist William Mason made a point of tracking down and visiting the most famous European composers of his day, including a politically controversial German named Richard Wagner, who was then living in exile in Zurich.

The meeting took place on today’s date in 1852, when Mason was in his twenties, and the 30-something Wagner was just beginning to work on his epic cycle of operas entitled The Ring of the Nibelungen.

“At that time, I had heard only The Flying Dutchman, but considered it a most beautiful work, and was eager to meet the composer,” Mason wrote.

Wagner found the young American to be genial company for a few hours, during which (not surprisingly) Wagner did most of the talking. As a souvenir, Wagner presented his young American visitor with a few bars of music inscribed: “If you ever hear anything of mine like this, then think of me.”

About quarter of a century later, in 1876, Mason did think of Wagner and that June afternoon when he heard his souvenir come to life as the ominous dragon motive heard at the opening of Siegfried, the third opera in Wagner’s Ring Cycle.

Richard Wagner (1813-1883): Act I Prelude, from Siegfried; Vienna Philharmonic; Georg Solti, conductor; London 414 110

In the summer of 1853, Johannes Brahms had just turned twenty and was touring as the piano accompanist of Hungarian violinist Ede Reményi. On today’s date, they arrived in Gottingen, where they were hosted by Arnold Wehner, the music director of that city’s university.

Wehner kept a guest book for visitors, and over time accumulated signatures from the most famous composers of his day, like Mendelssohn and Rossini. Now, in 1853, Brahms was not yet as famous, but as a thank-you to his host, he filled a page of Wehner’s album with a short original composition for piano.

Fast forward over 150 years to 2011, when Wehner’s guest book fetched over $158,000 at an auction house in New York City, and this previously unknown piano score by Brahms attracted attention for many reasons.

First, few early Brahms manuscripts have survived, and second, the melody Brahms jotted down in 1853 showed up again in the second movement of his Horn Trio, published 12 years later.

Finally, there was a dispute about who had rediscovered the long-lost score: the auction house had the manuscript authenticated in 2011, but in 2012 British conductor Christopher Hogwood claimed he had discovered it while doing other research.

Johannes Brahms (1833-1897): Albumblatt (1853); Sophie-Mayuko Vetter, piano; Hännsler 98048

Long before Beyoncé, there was Josephine Baker. 

She was born Freda Josephine McDonald on today’s date in 1906 in St. Louis, Missouri. At 15, she talked her way into the chorus line at a local vaudeville theater; from there headed first to New York at the height of the Harlem Renaissance, and then on Paris and the Folies Bergère, where as a singer and dancer she quickly became a sensation.

By that time, Freda Josephine McDonald had reinvented herself as Josephine Baker. She was for Parisians the embodiment of the Jazz Age, the “Black Venus,” and the hippest American on the planet. 

She became a naturalized French citizen, married a wealthy French industrialist, and raised her 12 adopted children in France. In one of her most famous songs, she sang, “I have two loves, my country and Paris,” and proved as good as her word when during World War II she aided the French resistance. As she refused to perform for segregated audiences in America, she chose to remain in Europe.

American composer Valerie Coleman attempted to capture something of the many facets of this remarkable woman and her journey from St. Louis to Paris in her wind quintet, Portraits of Josephine.

Valerie Coleman (b. 1970): Thank You Josephine (J’ai Deux Amours), from Portraits of Josephine; Imani Winds; Koch KIC-7696

Today we remember two famous French composers, both organists, who came to dramatic ends in the month of June. On June 2, 1937, while playing his 1,750th recital at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris, Louis Vierne suffered a sudden and fatal stroke, dying in the organ loft in the presence of one of his most promising pupils, Maurice Duruflé.

Vierne was born nearly blind, but his exceptional musical ability eventually led to studies with the two greatest French organ composers of the 19th century, César Franck and Charles-Marie Widor. The piece that the 66-year-old Vierne was playing when he collapsed at Notre-Dame had the morbidly apt title Memorial for a Dead Child.

Three years later, on June 20, 1940, another talented French organist and composer, Jehan Alain, was killed in action during the World War II.

Alain’s compositions were considered experimental in both rhythm and modes. Even so, he had just won the French Premier Prix for organ in 1939 when the war broke out and he was called up for active service. Following the Battle of Saumur, his body was found by the roadside, with some of his music manuscripts scattered in the wind.

Louis Vierne (1870-1937): Carillon de Longpont; Richard Proulx, organ; Sacred Heart 101

Jehan Alain (1911-1940): Litanies; Carlo Curley, organ; Argo 430 200

In 1891, Czech composer Antonín Dvořák was earning about $3000 a year teaching at the National Conservatory of Prague. Jeannette Thurber, the wealthy founder of the National Conservatory of New York offered Dvořák five times his Prague salary to come to America, where his teaching load would be significantly less.

Even so, Dvořák was reluctant to leave his native land, but his wife suggested the family should vote on Thurber’s offer. Dvořák’s son, Otakar recalled the vote “for” America wasn’t unanimous but did prevail, so papa signed the contract — then let it sit on his desk until Mom took matters in her own hand — literally — and posted it back to America. Dvořák followed in due course.

On today’s date in 1893, Dvořák wrapped up his first academic year in America by signing a receipt for his May salary before setting off with the family for a summer vacation in the Czech-speaking settlement of Spillville, Iowa. 

No doubt he would be astonished to learn that in our time a dealer in celebrity signatures put that receipt up for sale. The salary stub was for $937.50. The asking price for the yellowed slip of paper bearing Dvořák’s signature? $2750!

Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904): String Quintet No. 3; Vlach Quartet; Naxos 8.553376

It’s an old story: a talented performer sacrifices everything, including his integrity, his happiness, his friends and even his lover to climb to the top, only to realize (too late!) what he has sacrificed along the way.

Yes, thanks to countless Hollywood “show-biz” films, the basic outline is familiar, and, whether based on fact or fiction, has resulted in countless movies: some memorable, some not.

In 1991, a French film was released that combined a little fact — and a lot of fiction — to tell the story of 17th century performer and composer Marin Marais, who was baptized in Paris on today’s date in 1656.

Marais was a virtuoso on the viola da gamba, an early ancestor of the modern cello. Sparked by the period-instrument movement of the late 20th century, interest in Marais’ music had been growing for some time before the release of the film, which was titled Tous les Matins du Monde, which translates as “all the mornings of the world [leave] without [ever] returning.”

Well, it does sounds a lot better in French, and whether or not the film tells the truth about Marais, it does conjure up some haunting images as a backdrop for some equally haunting music from the 17th century.

Marin Marais (1656-1728): The Bells of St. Genevieve; Spectre de la Rose Ensemble; Naxos 8.550750

On today’s date in 1899, English composer Frederick Delius mounted at his own expense an all-Delius concert in London, performed by a hand-picked orchestra and well-rehearsed chorus.

Although born and raised in England, Delius had been living as an expat in Europe, so this concert would be the first opportunity for British audiences to hear his music. The opening work on the program, Over the Hills and Far Away, could just as well have described the 37-year old composer’s prior career to the Brits.

The good news was the concert was a great success, with one critic stating “a composer wholly unknown to this country burst upon us with something like the astonishing effect of an unexpected thunderstorm.”

The bad news was almost immediately after the concert, Delius returned to France. The concert’s organizer wrote to him, “I was extremely sorry that you had to go … It was a business mistake, as you would have been the lion of the season … and would have made many useful musical and moneyed friends.”

In fact, it wasn’t until 1907 that the musical and moneyed British conductor Thomas Beecham would discover and champion Delius’s music in his own homeland.

Frederick Delius (1862-1934): Over the Hills and Far Away; Royal Philharmonic; Sir Thomas Beecham, conductor; EMI Classics 94653 and Warner Classics 47509

In all, American composer Henry Cowell composed 20 symphonies, and left sketches for a 21st. On today’s date in 1954, the Louisville Orchestra gave the premiere of Cowell’s Symphony No. 11 (The Seven Rituals of Music).

“There are seven rituals of music in the life of man from birth to death,” so Cowell explained in program notes. He said that these musical rituals included work, play, dance, love, and war, bracketed by the mysteries of birth and death.

Although interest in Cowell’s music has risen steadily since his death in 1965, performances of his symphonies are still rare events. Part of the problem lies in the eclectic range of styles to be found in his music. There is, for example, a Cowell Gaelic Symphony, another Icelandic Symphony, and yet another, influenced by Indian ragas and talas, the Madras Symphony.

This didn’t bother Cowell at all. As he once explained, “I have never deliberately concerned myself with developing a distinctive personal style, but only with the excitement and pleasure of writing music as beautifully, as warmly, and as interestingly as I can.”

Henry Cowell (1897-1965): Symphony No. 11 (Seven Rituals of Music); The Louisville Orchestra; Robert S. Whitney, conductor; First Editions 0003