Varying Forms of Imitation and Thematicism in Orlande de Lassus’ Madrigals and Motets

Orlande de Lassus’ collection of madrigals first caught my interest for research because of the sharp contrast which they present to the repertoire of two part Lassus motets that I will also be discussing in this paper. With four books for five voices published between the years of 1555-1567, the techniques of polyphony and use of recurring rhythmic thematicism throughout many of the madrigals that I researched presented a good opportunity to compare against the predominantly imitative two voice texture of the Lassus motet Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum which I was assigned (Harr). The use of differing phrases, melodic variation, and the poetic style of the text which is displayed in the madrigal which I chose in particular seems to contrast against the often strictly imitative, melismatic, and shorter nature of the motet. Though I wouldn’t necessarily argue that there are particularly unique points of compositional contention in this specific madrigal, it is perhaps still interesting to discuss the compositional choices made in the piece, why they are codependent upon one other, and why they are so significantly unique from those found in the motet.

Published in 1555, the Lassus madrigal Mia benigna fortun’e ‘l viver lieto was first published by Gardane in Venice, and is part of what the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians calls a “highly successful” and frequently reprinted first book (of four books) of madrigals for five voices (10. Petrarca). Predominantly characterized by Petrarchan sonnets, the musical and lyrical content of the first book is defined by both serious and expressive thematic material throughout; a characteristic, according to the New Grove, of many of the madrigals written by Lassus before his departure from Rome in 1555. The New Grove continues to characterize these Petrarchan sonnets as melodically elaborate and complex, making a free use of melodic material with little or no imitation used throughout many of the madrigals included in the first book (Harr). Among many reasons, I might suggest, it is both the secular nature of these madrigals (or, more specifically, their use for popular consumption) as well as the dense five voice texture which it is set in that gives reason for their clearly unique lyrical and musical style of composition.

Observe, for example, the madrigal’s stark contrast against Lassus’ sacred, two voice motets. Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum was published more than twenty years later in Munich in 1577 as a part of a collection of bicinia (or duo) motets titled Novae aliquot, ad duas voces cantiones. According to Jeffery Tucker and Arlene Oost-Zinner in their article “Lasso’s Bicenia: Practice Towards Perfection” published in Sacred Music, the collection of bicenia motets predominantly served pedagogical function, and vary in the degree of technical difficulty with which the melodic lines call upon the singers for (Oost-Zinner). Furthermore, as the New Grove elaborates on, the duos illustrate the composer’s contrapunctal style of writing, and were reprinted numerous times most likely because of the importance which the ability to write in two parts played for sixteenth century composer training (Harr). It isn’t surprising, thus, to find that the bicenia motet Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum exemplifies textbook examples of imitation, countrapunctal part writing, and treatment of melismas; somewhat contradicting qualities, I might suggest from those found in the madrigals mentioned earlier.

An analysis of the music and text of Mia benigna fortun’e ‘l viver lieto, thus, as expected, proves that the piece does in fact fulfill all of the generalizations which the New Grove makes about the first book. Although all five voices make their first entrance in a typically imitative fashion (with the cantus entering first on a G above middle C, the quintus entering in strict imitation a perfect fourth lower, the tenor a whole note later in free imitation a perfect fourth lower than the quintus, followed by the altus also in strict imitation on the same pitch as the cantus’ entrance, and finally the bassus a breve after the altus’ entrance an octave lower than the cantus, in free imitation), this is in fact one of the only observable cases of strict imitation seen in the entire piece, and even here it only lasts for three bars, and has minor variations in melodic intervals in the tenor and bassus line. Of the next five succeeding phrases of the madrigal as well, only the fifth phrase (vòlti subitamente in dolgia e ’n pianto, page two, second system, Example 1) also begins in an imitative fashion, and none of the voices actually proceed in strict imitation. Rather, each voice enters with a vaguely similar rhythmic theme, but almost immediately proceeds to develop independent melodic material afterwards. As mentioned in the New Grove, in fact, the majority of this madrigal’s melodic content is “distinguished by a free use of material” where, instead of the technical capacity for imitation that many of Lassus’ other works demonstrates (including his motets, as I will soon discuss), the madrigal features a unique melodic line for each voice (Harr).

In lieu of strict imitation, I might suggest, is a sort of thematic unity created through recurring rhythmic imitation that not only helps to unify the polyphony of the madrigal’s five voice texture, but demarcates many (though not all) of the phrases in the piece. The first, fifth, and sixth phrases, in fact, all use recurring rhythmic themes as a means of designating a new phrase. The first, as mentioned earlier, employs a combination of strict and free imitation to create its staggered, polyphonic entrance, and thus by definition carries a high degree of rhythmic unity. The fifth phrase, however, is unique in that it does not employ any significant form of melodic imitation, yet still manages to create a staggered yet unified entrance by beginning each voice with the same rhythmic figure. Observe, the fifth phrase (vòlti subitamente in dolgia e ’n pianto, page two, second system, Example 1) begins with the altus line entering with a whole note followed by four quarter notes. Next, the cantus and bassus lines enter with a half note followed by four quarter notes, and finally the tenor line enters last with a quarter note followed by four quarter notes (the quintus also doubles the tenor line here, though does not feature this exact rhythm). Most importantly, however, is that each voice introduces this theme with a slightly unique melodic contour; the altus remains on one note for the entire five note theme, the cantus steps up a whole step from a half note to the four consecutive quarter notes, the bassus steps down a whole step, and the tenor moves up a whole step. Though each voice here presents a very similar rhythmic figure, the melodic contour of the theme is in fact slightly different each time it recurs, thus creating rhythmic imitation without melodic repletion, and maintaining independent melodic contour while still developing imitative unity throughout the phrase.

The sixth and final phrase (odiar vita mi fanno, et bramar morte, page two, third system, Example 2) again employs a similar use of rhythmic imitation without melodic repetition, but proceeds with the concept for more than half of the phrase. Notice at the start of the phrase, the tenor line first introduces the rhythmic figure: a half note, followed by a dotted half note, quarter note, and two half notes. In the succeeding nine bars of the phrase, this same rhythmic figure recurs in almost every measure, in every voice, at times simultaneously in two voices at once. Lassus, no doubt, created this sort of imitation to unify the phrase while maintaining its polyphonic texture. Each time the theme is imitated, however, it’s slightly melodically unique. When it occurs first in the tenor, the theme opens with an octave leap between the first half note to the dotted half note, yet when it is imitated in the bassus immediately afterwards, it begins with a leap of a minor sixth, and when it is imitated again in the tenor a bar and a half later, it begins with two consecutive Ds. A further analysis of this phrase shows that, in fact, the theme never occurs with the same melodic contour. Lassus creates here an imitative texture in these phrases without sacrificing the melodic variation that strict imitation does; a technique, as I will soon discuss, that proves to be quite relevant to the piece’s dense texture as well.

Lassus’ motet Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum, in stark contrast, is composed with a set of relatively unique compositional techniques. While the madrigal employs extensive melodic variation throughout the piece, the motet is composed in a much more melodically conservative fashion, using various forms of imitation throughout to create its polyphonic texture; a result, I might suggest of the use of a clearly thinner vocal texture in the two part motet, as opposed to the five part madrigal. The differences found between these two pieces, thus, is rooted not only in their differing aesthetic purposes (the motet for pedagogical uses, and the madrigal for popular consumption), but in their contrasting compositional settings as well.

Observe, for example, the recurring use of both strict and free imitation throughout the motet. An analysis of the melodic interval content of the first phrase of the piece (Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum, first through third system, Example 3) shows that it is almost entirely in strict imitation, excluding the melodic leaps employed to emphasize the change of words in the phrase. As analyzed in the score, each word of the phrase is intervallically identical to the one which it is imitating, with the word “Justi” imitated at an octave, the words “tulerunt spolia impiorum” imitated at a perfect fifth, and the word “impiorum” imitated at a perfect fourth on its second repetition. Further analysis of the succeeding two phrases of the motet, as well, prove to show that the second phrase (et cantaverunt, Domine, nomen sanctum, third through fifth system, Example 4), begins with a theme presented in the altus that proceeds to be imitated by the bassus in retrograde for four bars, and the third phrase (et victricem manum tuam laudaverunt partier, fifth through seventh system, Example 5) begins with a theme presented in the bassus which is then freely imitated in the altus for four bars.

Although neither the second nor the third phrase proceeds in imitation for more than a few bars, two details are apparent here. First, Lassus clearly goes out of his way here to exhaustively demonstrate as much imitative counterpoint as he can in a single piece of music, making use of three different types of imitative counterpoint in what is quite clearly an exemplary pedagogical tool (though also artistically valuable as well, no doubt), and second, these techniques of imitation are most clearly audible and perceivable because of the thin, two voice texture which it is written in. Unlike the dense, five voice polyphony of the madrigal which was analyzed earlier, the techniques of imitation are most audible here because the texture is so thin. I might suggest, even, that Lassus didn’t bother using any significant form of strict melodic imitation in his madrigal simply because the technique wouldn’t really be audible in the dense five voice texture which the piece employs. As appreciable as a strict imitation between two of five voices may be in a score, it is more than likely that such compositional prowess would be lost in texture in actual performance. I might suggest, thus, that the dense, five voice texture of the madrigal is exactly the reason why Lassus chose to employ a form of rhythmic imitation without really taking care to mimic any significant form of melodic imitation throughout; a conclusion, no doubt, made apparent in the madrigal’s comparison to the highly imitative nature of Lassus’ two voice motet.

While textual contrasts have the most significant influence over the techniques of imitation used in these two compositions, however, I would suggest that both lyric content and length play a simultaneous role in characterizing the two pieces’ syllabic settings as well. As mentioned previously, the New Grove lyrically characterizes the first book of madrigals for five voices as predominantly Petrarchan sonnets which by definition are serious and expressive in poetic fashion (Sadie, Petrarch, 498). Likewise, the bicenia motet Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum, as Tucker and Oost-Zinner discuss in their article, is set with a sacred text, is commonly used in liturgical settings, and is generally less verbose than the Lassus madrigal.

These two characterizing qualities, in fact, are extremely relevant to the fashion in which their texts are set. A lyrical analysis of the madrigal, for example, proves that the use of melismatic content in the piece is at best minimal, almost exclusively occurring at cadences and phrase endings (most likely as a means of signaling the end of a phrase, I would suggest). The lack of significant melismatic textual settings in the regular discourse of each phrase, however, is likely tied to the madrigal’s poetic lyric setting, and the importance which the audience’s ability to understand the lyrics of the piece has in the compositional process. A translation of the text proves, as expected, that the madrigal discusses serious themes of sadness, pain, and hatred for life:

Mia benigna fortuna e ‘l viver lieto,/ ( My kind fortune and joy in life,/)

i chiari giorni et le tranquile notti/ ( the bright days and the tranquil nights,/)

e i soavi sospiri e ‘l dolce stile/ (the sweet sighs and the amiable style/)

che solea resonate in versi e ‘n (that once resonated in my verses and my

rime,/ rhymes,/)

vòlti subitamente in dolgia e ‘n ( now suddenly change to pain and

pianto,/ weeping/)

odiar vita mi fanno, et bramar (make me hate life and long for

morte./ death./)

(Johnston, 19)

No doubt an elaborate poetic scheme at work in the madrigal’s text, it is apparent that the meaning of the text and the emotion portrayed through it is just as relevant (if not more relevant) than the musical aspects of the piece. Particularly considering that the madrigal was originally published in an entire collection of similarly poetic compositions, the desire to accurately portray the poetry of the Petrarchan sonnet which is used here is apparent in the piece’s lack of melismas which, though function well in melodic elaboration, tend to obscure the word being used when extended for long periods of time. To avoid such an obscuring of the text, thus, each syllable is represented by a single note at almost all times, making essentially every phrase and every stanza clearly audible in performance.

Likewise, the motet Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum employs a significant amount of melismatic settings, both at cadences and otherwise. In this case, it seems that the use of the melisma throughout the motet is not just a means of signaling a cadence, however, but as a consistently recurring tool of melodic development and elaboration. Particularly as the piece develops in climactic energy, the use of the melisma grows in frequency and length. Notice that the first phrase of the piece is relatively syllabic, and only features one melisma over the word “Justi,” sustained for two bars. As the piece develops, however, the frequency with which melismas are used and the duration with which they are stretched out over grow longer. The melodic peak of the piece, in fact, is emphasized in the last seven bars of the piece, featuring the longest melisma of the piece in the bassus, aptly creating the motet’s climactic point not just through melodic contour, but through lyric setting and extended melismas as well.

The use of melismas here, I would suggest, is a tool which Lassus chose to employ because of the relatively diminished emphasis on the text’s meaning. Although it is certainly true that its liturgical setting is not completely irrelevant, it is also true that the motet’s established pedagogical function plays an important role in the extensive use of melismas throughout as well. Considering in particular that this motet was originally published as a part of a collection of twelve pedagogical compositions (as mentioned earlier), the decreased emphasis on the text’s meaning certainly supports the composer’s choice to use the melisma as a compositional tool in developing the piece’s melodic and rhythmic contour. Although this is certainly not to suggest that all sacred compositions without expressed pedagogical function avoid the use of melismas, I would suggest that the melisma has more of a presence in the motet than in the madrigal because a proper interpretation of the text is not nearly as important in the motet as that placed on the madrigal’s Petrarchan sonnet.

This, in fact, is a textual contrast which, along with the other compositional choices brought up in this paper, sharply demonstrates the contrast between Lassus’ sacred, secular, and pedagogical compositions. As expected, the analytical findings done for this paper largely coincide with the existing historical evidence that stand to generalize the character of the two compositions in consideration here. Just as the New Grove indicated that the collection of madrigals that Mia benigna fortun’e ‘l viver lieto was initially published with are predominantly poetic, secular, and melodically elaborate, so my analytical findings of the piece demonstrate that not only are these indications true, but the compositional techniques employed all benefit these aspects in a codependent manner; the text setting is syllabic to benefit the elaborate lyric content, and the melodic elaboration (in lieu of strict imitation) is linked to the dense five voice texture of the piece.

Likewise, my research and analysis done with the bicenia motet Justi tulerunt spolia impiorum coincide in a similarly codependent fashion. Just as Tucker’s article and the New Grove both indicated that the motet originally served pedagogical purposes for two part contrapunctal writing, so my analysis confirms. Not only does the piece demonstrate textbook examples of strict and free imitation in two parts, but it also exemplifies the fashion in which melismatic text settings function in the development of climactic arrival points; the motet, in other words, is an exemplary pedagogical tool because of the compositional choices made. Thus, as I expected when I chose two clearly contrasting Lassus compositions, my analysis and comparison of these two pieces exemplifies two very different styles of composition which nevertheless both typify their era of music simultaneously. This is a curious finding, no doubt, considering that the two pieces were not only written by the same composer, but within twenty years of each other; a testament, perhaps, to the broad range of music which existed during the era.

Works Cited

Haar, James. "Lassus." Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. 5 Oct. 2010 <http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/16063pg1>.

Johnston, Charles, trans. Lassus: Il Canzoniere De Messer Francesco Petrarca. Harmonica Mundi, 2003. Print.

Oost-Zinner, Arlene, and Jeffery Tucker. "Lasso's Bicenia: Practice toward Perfection." Sacred Music 1st ser. 134 (Spring 2007). International Index to Music Periodicals. Church Music Association of America. Web. 1 Oct. 2010. .

"Petrarca." Orlando Di Lasse: Sammtlirhe Werke. Ed. Adolf Sandberger. 1st ed. Vol. 2. Leipzig: Breitkopf and Hartel, 1894. 37-39. Print.

Sadie, Stanley, Margot Levy, and John Tyrrell. "Orlande De Lassus." The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. 2nd ed. Vol. 14. New York: Grove, 2001. 295-322. Print.

Sadie, Stanley, Margot Levy, and John Tyrrell. "Petrarch." The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. 2nd ed. Vol. 19. New York: Grove, 2001. 498-99. Print.

Discussing Post-Beethovenian Composition as Aesthetically Independent Cultural Artifacts of Romantic Era Music Composition

“Beethoven controls our thinking to the extent that it dictates the shape of all other music and its values; he is the daylight by which everything else is night. Even to speak of his “dominance” is to use a word that is too weak—for it implies that there are real, albeit lesser, alternatives. In this case, even the alternatives are dictated by Beethoven: everything is either in the manner of the heroic Beethoven or not in that manner.”

-Scott Burnham

The historical perspective which Scott Burnham’s passage above depicts about Beethoven as the single most dominant influence of musical aesthetics as we know it today, while not fallacious, is somewhat too vague to properly portray the historical relevance of Beethoven and the aesthetic influences which he exerts about the style of post-Beethovenian composition. Most immediately, I would agree that the literate European tradition of the mid to late 1800s is very much fashioned by either similarity or dissimilarity to the pre-established Beethovenian standards of the era. One cannot discuss post-Beethovenian composition without first discussing the Beethovenian aesthetics that may or may not be present; such is the natural result when a single composer contributes as much as Beethoven has to a musical aesthetic (that is, the importance of heroism, sublimity, motivic structure, and a myriad of other aesthetics which the Beethoven repertoire pioneers about Romanticism).

However, while it is true that the aesthetics of post-Beethovenian composition reflect the vestiges of the Beethovenian style, it is also true that a number of other cultural influences have contributed to its development that are significant not just for their contrast against the “manner of the heroic Beethoven,” but for their cultural relevance as well. The diminishing importance of audience perception, for example, has led to the development of compositional innovation that significantly defines part of the musical aesthetic of the post-Beethovenian era. Twentieth century composition, in fact, is very much defined by the search for innovation. Schoenberg’s “emancipation of the dissonance,” the development of Twelve-tone composition, or the concept of Serialism, for example, are all results of musical composition motivated by innovation; quite opposing to the implications which Burnham’s passage makes. Claiming that post-Beethovenian composition is exclusively defined by its relation to Beethovenian aesthetics, in fact, is not just critiquing the “dominance” of Beethoven as a figurehead in music history, but questioning the very concept of post-Beethoven innovation of the Romantic era and onwards. Burnham’s passage, in fact, seems to suggest that everything composed post-Beethoven is not at all innovative, but merely defined by its attempt to mimic (or not mimic) Beethovenian aesthetics.

Here, I might suggest, is where Burnham’s argument seems a bit excessive. The retrospective conception which he holds about Beethoven as the final, “dominating” creator of true innovation hinges on the conception of musicology as a linear occurrence; that is, according to Burnham’s sense of musicology, the Romantic era is exclusively defined by Beethoven, and thus all other musical innovations (both of the Romantic era and afterwards) can only be characterized as either “of the heroic Beethoven or not in that manner.”

This, I would argue, is not true. The history of music and composition, rather, is characterized more accurately as a product of collaborative influences, where a number of Romantic composers, (both of the Beethovenian era and of the post-Beethovenian era) contribute to the aesthetics of post-Beethovenian composition. The dominance which Burnham indicates about the composer, in fact, is not nearly as overarching as he makes it seem. Post-Beethovenian innovation is not just defined by its similarity or dissimilarity to Beethoven, but rather is a product of various influences, both cultural and otherwise.

Referring back to the contradictions which I previously brought up between Burnham’s argument and Twentieth century innovation, I might argue that we could now apply this same perspective towards some of the cultural innovation which developed both during and shortly after the Beethovenian era. Innovation seen in the Romantic era, though not necessarily driven plainly for the sake of innovation (as is frequent in the Twentieth century), is often independent of Beethovenian influences, nevertheless. Felix Mendelssohn’s Fourth “Italian” Symphony, as Professor Mathew mentioned during his lecture, is an excellent example of a compositional fashion that is deliberately not of the heroic Beethovenian style, though of the same musical era. Speaking of the symphony’s first movement, Mathew points out that Mendelssohn’s “Italian” is suspiciously lacking in many of the qualities associated with Beethovenian heroism. “While Beethoven’s symphonic style is driven by the working out of thematic problems, Mendelssohn’s Fourth is very straight forward in thematicism.” The initial presentation of the main theme in measure one, even, is harmonically, melodically, and rhythmically stable; almost unheard of associations with the heroic style of Beethoven. Unlike the “built in” harmonic and melodic complications of Beethoven’s famous “Eroica C#,” or the rhythmic instability created by the motivic structure crossing the barline of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Mendelssohn’s use thematic content is almost deliberately stable and straight forward.

Professor Mathew’s conception of Mendelssohn’s Fourth demonstrates two very distinct perspectives on Romantic era innovation and the influences of Beethovenian aesthetics. Immediately, it is apparent that presenting Mendelssohn in this fashion depicts exactly the dominance which Burnham’s passage suggests about Beethoven. Much of Burnham’s passage, in fact, seems to ring true by Mathew’s perspective; retrospective discussion of the Romantic era is indeed very much dominated by comparison to Beethovenian models. So important are Beethovenian aesthetics in defining the Romantic era that even in defining the additional Romantic era innovation which occurred during that time period, (often simultaneously as well as independently from Beethovenian aesthetics), the discussion is still dominated by Beethovenian contrast. Mendelssohn’s Fourth, in other words, despite all of the innovation which it represents, is still significantly defined by what it is not.

However, much of the points of contention which Professor Mathew pointed out in his lecture also simultaneously demonstrate the profound role which cultural influences played in shaping much of the Romantic era innovations which developed independently from Beethovenian influences. The “straight forward thematicism” which Professor Mathew associates with Beethovenian contradiction is referred to in Richard Taruskin’s Oxford History of Western Music as “evidence that Mendelssohn never outgrew his precocious youthful style[,] like many musicians from highly cultured, affluent families…(Oxford, v. 3, 180).” What Taruskin’s perspective seems to imply is that, though Mendelssohn’s use of thematic content is clearly very unique from the Beethovenian style, it is not so much a product of the composer’s deliberate attempt to distinguish himself from Beethovenian aesthetics, but rather is a result of the composer’s cultural upbringing amongst high cultured, wealthy families. The most prominent attribute of Mendelssohn’s thematic style, in other words, has nothing to do with its contrast against the heroic Beethovenian aesthetic, but rather with its reflection on Mendelssohn’s cultural heritage, and the connection it demonstrates between financial stability and compositional style.

Musically, as well, Taruskin associates the same motivic simplicity seen in the “Italian” Symphony with Mendelssohn’s “predilection for a national character,” referring to the pictorial innovation which his nationalist symphonies are credited for (including both the Fourth “Italian” Symphony and the Third “Scottish” Symphony). In this case, Taruskin speaks broadly of the nationalist symphonies as “souvenirs from countries to which he has traveled,” indicating that much of the thematicism heard in the symphony serves as musical references to exotic cultures (Italian and Scottish cultures being exotic amongst German audiences). More specifically, Taruskin associates the finale of the Fourth Symphony as and allusion to the Italian tarantella style, and the Third “Scottish” Symphony as incorporating Scottish highland tunes. Referring again back to Professor Mathew’s association with Beethovenian contradiction to Mendelssohn’s straight forward thematicism, it seems as if Taruskin’s perspective on the nationalist symphonies fairly thoroughly demonstrates a clearly distinguished aesthetic from Beethovenian influences. The “Italian” and “Scottish” Symphonies, in other words, are perceived as unique not just because of their contrast against Beethovenian aesthetics, but because of their reflection of Mendelssohn’s cultural heritage as well as their innovative borrowing of exotic cultural thematicism.

These contrasting perspectives of Beethovenian influences on Mendelssohn’s Fourth and, more broadly, the concept of innovation in the post-Beethovenian era speaks quite eloquently to how we should perceive the dominance of Beethovenian influences. In this discussion, it has become apparent that most of the innovative aesthetics of the Romantic era, though largely dominated by Beethovenian comparisons and contrasts, is a product of a wide variety of influences and, on this level, seems to at least partially contradict the perspective which Scott Burnham’s passage portrays. What I would argue is true, however, is that many of Beethoven’s symphonic works (most especially, the Fifth and Ninth Symphonies) traverse cultural boundaries more fluidly than any other composer, and is, for this reason, most readily associated with the aesthetics of Romanticism. The question is, however, why is it that Beethoven’s symphonic works are more representative than that of Mendelssohn (or any other composer, for that matter)? What makes Beethoven the proverbial “blank flag,” as Professor Mathew put it, capable of projecting symbols of our own choosing?

This, of course, brings us back to our original discussion of the so called “dominance” of Beethovenian aesthetics that Burnham suggests. If, as I’ve now discussed, it isn’t true that all alternatives of Romantic era innovation are dictated by Beethoven, then why is he our most commonly used blank flag? What I might suggest is that Beethoven is a product of cultural training. The Ninth Symphony’s recurrence in popular culture, as Professor Mathew mentioned, whether it’s used by the allies during the Second World War, the Nazis during Hitler’s birthday, or simply in the context of a Sesame Street skit, seems to be called upon not necessarily because of the aesthetic that the music fills out (especially given the wide parameter of contexts which Beethoven’s symphonic works come up in), but because of the Romantic aesthetics that Beethoven’s persona fills out. The concept of the heroic “mad genius,” I would suggest, is by far what is most important about the Beethovenian legacy. Typecasting the Romantic era through a character persona seems to be what makes the composer’s music so suitable as a “blank flag” and thus, as Scott Burnham put it, “dominant,” even in dictating alternatives. It is not, however, necessarily accurate to say that the musical values of Beethovenian aesthetics exclusively define Romantic ideals, though his character persona may be.

Works Cited

Taruskin, Richard. The Oxford History of Western Music; Volume 3: The Nineteenth Century. Vol. 3. New York: Oxford UP, 2005. Print.

Critiquing E.T.A. Hoffmann and the Creation of Sublime and Inexpressible Emotions in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony

Although E.T.A. Hoffmann’s critique of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony makes some of the most important claims of Romanticism and sublime expression in art of the late 19^th and 20^th centuries, it is arguably what isn’t stated in his sweeping generalizations and broadly based critiques that make this article so ripe for discussion. At the most fundamental level, his assertion that Beethoven’s fifth has nothing in common with the “outward, material world” is far too broad and unspecific to apply to all the aesthetics found in the fifth symphony, and leaves evidence that simultaneously both supports and refutes this claim to contradict his statement. Though Hoffmann’s article does well in pointing out what specifically he finds to be sublime and inexpressible with analyzed measure numbers, he doesn’t discuss what it is about these passages that fundamentally distinguish them from any other kind of music. How these inexpressible, sublime emotions are created, in other words, is left entirely unaddressed. Analytically, in fact, I might argue that many of the pioneering Romantic assertions that Hoffmann makes in this article go unproven (despite the thorough examples which he provides), as the article seems to focus primarily on the emotions that Beethoven’s fifth creates, rather than how these emotions are created.

This is of course not to say that Hoffmann’s article is not historically relevant; quite the opposite, in fact. His contradiction of vagaries seems to be exactly what makes the article so intriguing, as it is perhaps not the qualifying proof that makes it so important in the history of musical sublimity, but rather the discussion of Romantic aesthetics that the article spurs. Hoffmann’s article is not an artifact of proof, but rather one of assertions. With all of the broad statements of musical sublimity overlooked in his article, there are a number of compositional issues that remain unaddressed and left open to discussion, as perhaps he intended. What makes this article so important, it seems, is not defined any sort of pioneering compositional tactics of Beethovenian Romanticism that Hoffmann uncovered (which, as it seems, his article decidedly does not find), but rather by the discussions of Romanticism, sublimity, and emotions that were subsequently spurred on by the assertions which Hoffmann’s article makes.

The contradictions of Hoffmann’s decidedly vague analysis, thus, are where I would like to begin my discussion of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The historical context of the symphony and its distinct historical allusions to already established musical aesthetics fundamentally contradict the concept of inexpressible emotions that not only existing in, but are allegedly pioneered by Beethoven’s Fifth. How can the symphony claim to be the first Art form to exist without any connection to the “outward, material world” if it is still fundamentally grounded on already established musical attributes? The prevalence of the Sonata Form, the conventional juxtaposition of serious and sentimental emotions found in the first and second movement, and the allusion to utilitarian music in the fourth movement are a few amongst many aesthetics found in the symphony that fall under the same techniques of emotional development that existed long before the composition of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

The fourth movement of the piece, for example, is, as an isolated movement, an entirely conventional fanfare. The form is in 2/4, the orchestration uses bright brass colors, and the emotion of the movement is overwhelmingly celebratory. Historically, the movement is quite accurate not only to the aesthetics of the utilitarian fanfare, but to the emotional function of the fourth movement in the traditional symphony as well. As Professor Mathew said, the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Fifth serves as the “validation of a social contract” written through the course of the symphony’s four movements; a concept, no doubt, drawn from the traditional symphonic form. Out of context, the fourth movement is a standard utilitarian fanfare, found quite often in pre-Beethoven music to exist without attempting to portray any sort of sublime, inexpressible emotions. The movement, in other words, does not significantly stray far from the already established techniques of composition which existed much earlier than Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

This, of course, is quite a contradictory observation, as I wouldn’t deny that the fourth movement of the Fifth Symphony is in fact fundamentally unique from the standard utilitarian fanfare in its creation of distinct musical emotions that stand independent from the outward, material world, as Hoffmann stated. How then, as Hoffmann also accurately observed, does the fourth movement fanfare portray these apparently pioneering, inexpressible emotions of sublimity while still relying on the musical techniques of much earlier aesthetics? What is so different between Beethoven’s fourth movement fanfare, and, for example, any of Haydn’s numerous fourth movement fanfares? Again, it becomes apparent that the importance of Hoffmann’s discussion of Beethoven’s Fifth is not found in its analytical assertions, but rather in the discussion of contradictions which it creates, as I have just done.

The distinctiveness (and therein, sublime inexpressibility of emotions) observed in Beethoven’s fourth movement fanfare, I would argue, is not created through any single passage, but rather through a simultaneous use of juxtaposition and continuity about the symphony’s four movement symphonic form. Although the fanfare as an isolated movement is not unique, there are numerous, innovative qualities of the Fifth Symphony’s four movement form that contribute to its sublimity of expression. On the smaller scale, for example, the juxtaposition of contrasting emotions between its third and fourth movement is fundamental in the symphony’s creation of sublime expression. The “goblin” themed scherzo, as Professor Mathew characterized the third movement, uses its innovatively gloomy, dark colors (instead of the more traditionally expected, brightly colored minuet and trio) to prepare a musical emotion about the symphony that functions well as a mode of contrast. Instead of creating the traditional juxtaposition of similar movements against one another with a joyful dance preceding a celebratory fanfare, Beethoven juxtaposes a decidedly dark scherzo against a decidedly celebratory fanfare; two radically opposing aesthetics. Coupled with the additionally innovative, indistinctive transition between the two movements (an implicit technique of continuity, I might add), the arrival of the fourth movement fanfare occurs as a triumphant escape from the gloomy scherzo precisely because of this continuity. The sublime triumph of the fanfare, in other words, would be meaningless without first knowing the “goblin” which the music has triumphed over.

This same principle of juxtaposition and continuity, now, can be applied to the larger structure of the symphony as a whole. Every sublime, inexpressible aesthetic of the Fifth Symphony, as Hoffmann spoke of, can be considered a result of either small and/or large scale contrast. Professor Mathew mentioned in class that the sublime sensation of triumph that characterizes the fourth movement fanfare, as discussed above, is not only a result of tension built up through the third movement, but through all three movements preceding the fanfare. The fourth movement, he said, necessitates its excessively long, celebratory coda in order to respond to the building up of tension in the first three movements. The inexpressible emotions we find in the fourth movement, thus, can be attributed to both the juxtaposition of the scherzo against the fanfare as well as the fanfare against the entire piece.

I might argue, now, that the same is true for all of Hoffmann’s inexpressible, sublime aesthetics in the Fifth Symphony. The rhythmically unstable, recurring triplet motif of the first movement, for example, is most convincingly heroic upon its stable return as the “goblin theme” in the third and fourth movement, after it has been thoroughly explored throughout the course of the symphony. The rhythmically unstable motif, like the scherzo against the fanfare, is a technique of contrast; the desire to hear a rhythmically sound phrasing of the triplet motif is created only as a result of four movement’s worth of preparation and establishment of the inherently incomplete and unsound rhythmic structure of the motif. It is only after the motif has been portrayed so thoroughly as a thematic idea which crosses a bar line (and therefore rhythmically unstable) that the theme can be portrayed in the third and fourth movement in its rhythmically sound form. Without this extensive preparation as a rhythmically unstable idea, the motif’s presentation in the third and fourth movement would be more or less unremarkable, much in the way that the fourth movement fanfare would be unremarkable without its contrast against the third movement scherzo. Once again, contrast and juxtaposition of thematic ideas appears to be the means by which the sublime inexpressibility that Hoffmann spoke of is created.

The importance of continuity in thematic and emotional recollection in Beethoven’s Fifth which I’ve emphasized here insinuates that the concept of Beethovenian sublimity is overwhelmingly temporary. If inexpressible sublimity is created through contrast (and therein, a presentation of the unexpected), then this might suggest that these emotions are only valid upon the first hearing of the piece. Sublimity and inexpressibility, by the definition which I’ve given, would lend very easily to expiration, once the unexpected is no longer a surprise. In other words, if we already know through multiple hearings of the Fifth Symphony that a fanfare succeeds the third movement scherzo, and that the rhythmically unstable motivic device of the first movement will resolve to stability in the third fourth movement, then are these concepts really all that sublime anymore?

The answer, of course, is yes (otherwise we would not still be listening to Beethoven’s Fifth today), but the reasoning, however, is not as clear. I might suggest that the reason the piece so convincingly portrays these sublime, inexpressible emotions is not simply because it goes against established norms by introducing innovative forms and motivic content, but because the piece relies so heavily on preparation. If sublimity and inexpressibility is a technique of juxtaposition and continuity, then this would suggest that the emotions of the piece don’t necessarily wear out or expire, but instead necessitate the entirety of the piece to be heard in order to understand these emotions. This is why Beethoven’s symphonies are so long, why the fourth movement of the Fifth Symphony is considered the rebounding of all of the emotions that have been built up over the course of four movements, and why the motivic structure of the piece recurs throughout the course of all four movements. Beethoven’s Fifth is a musical experience that only functions in its sublimity when portrayed from start to finish, and necessitates all four movements be heard in order to create this immense body of preparation. I would suggest that, without experiencing the symphony in this manner, much of the inexpressible emotions of the piece would be lost.

The Contradiction of Serialist Expressivity Seen in Pierre Boulez’s First Piano Sonata

The music of Pierre Boulez initially presented to me an opportunity to discuss a fundamental flaw which I have found to be an encompassing quality of serial composition. Its seeming inability to achieve the harmonic and melodic expressive qualities which tonal music does (in favor of a sort of “audience unfriendly” style of composition) means that the music lacks a very basic quality of expression which many have argued to be an essential quality which distinguishes music from raw, unrefined sound. What I found interesting about Boulez’s First Piano Sonata (specifically, the first movement), though, was not the atonal, intervallic based melodic contour of the piece. More impressive are the dynamic, rhythmic, and metric tactics which Boulez employs to achieve the same expressive qualities which a tonal composition does, but without calling upon the traditional techniques of tonal harmony. How is it that Boulez’s piano sonata appears to be so expressive despite its use of large, dissonant intervals? This paper will first discuss the specific techniques which he uses in his sonata to achieve this expressivity, followed by a discussion beyond analysis, arguing whether or not the expressive qualities of Boulez’s piano sonata are actually intentional. Do these qualities of expressivity positively contribute to the overall purpose of his composition as “audience unfriendly” music, or are they simply a contradiction to the purpose of the music’s atonality?

Although the expressivity witnessed in Boulez’s First Piano Sonata has many roots, it is first important to understand the great extent which the composer has gone through to create the atonal melodic and harmonic contour of his composition, as it is this contrast of atonality against expressivity which creates the fascinating paradox of Boulez’s sonata. According to Peter Stacey’s text Boulez and the Modern Concept:

The intervals that are predominant in the works that Boulez holds in high regard are largely the intervals of the major seventh and the minor ninth, with the intervals of the tritone, the sixth, the minor seventh and the major ninth also playing a significant role. These intervals derive from the characteristic Webern series exhibiting strong internal thematic unity…Webern’s technique could be described as a technique of avoidance. All the intervals chosen avoid any reference to a tonal centre…¹

What Stacey is suggesting here is that Boulez’s compositions build off of an intervallic Webernian technique by stringing together consecutive large, dissonant intervals in his phrase structure to prevent an allusion to a tonal center. Sure enough, Boulez’s sonata is built almost entirely out of large, dissonant leaps, with essentially no stepwise motion throughout the entire first movement. The result of this favoritism towards specific melodic intervals as a technique of “avoidance” is a sort of thematic unity built off of the repetition of intervals in similar (though not always identical) rhythmic context. What we are witnessing here is that, unlike Boulez’s later compositions (Structures, for example), he does not seem to forfeit every aspect of his sonata to a deterministic algorithmic control, and thus presents in his sonata an uncharacteristically expressive concept of thematic unity in an atonal setting.

This creation of thematic unity is additionally promoted in Boulez’s composition through his use of rhythmic continuity. Although a close analysis of the rhythmic patterns throughout the first movement would show that, as expected, there are no examples of exactly repeated phrases, there is nonetheless a clearly uniting quality about the sonata’s rhythmic themes. Boulez achieves this quality of thematic unity by varying only slightly the metric placement of each theme, creating a rhythmic pattern which, to the ear, appears to be an allusion to a previously stated rhythmic structure. However, a closer analysis of the sonata’s score would prove that these rhythmic structures which are aurally quite convincingly similar are in fact quite different.²

For example, in the first two measures of the first movement (figure 1) Boulez presents a figure which is as sporadic and unpredictable as the rhythmic structure of the entire piece. Here, we see a collection of large, dissonant intervals (minor 6^th, major 13^th, minor 9^th, and others) placed in a rhythmic setting with no distinguishably accented strong beat (notice as well that there is no given time signature, though the piece is presumably in 4/4). Observe, now, in measure 11-12 (figure 2) we see a phrase whose rhythmic structure is at best vaguely reminiscent of what previously occurred in the first two measures (notice as well that the intervals used here are quite reminiscent of the first two measures). Here, we see a similarly incomplete eighth note triplet figure, yet its metric placement within the measure is clearly different from the first occurrence. This sort of displacement is applied throughout the next measure and a half, creating a figure which appears to be unique from the first two measures. This abstraction of rhythm coupled with Webern’s “intervals of avoidance” is very much a characteristic of serial composition, and on paper is not indicative of expressivity.

However, aurally, when these two figures are heard, the metric displacement of the second theme against the first is more or less irrelevant, as the difference between the two is quite minute (a very close analysis of the two contrasting themes will show that it is in fact no more than an eighth rest value displacing the two themes at any given point). Peter Heyworth describes this sort of rhythmic connection of themes best in his contribution to William Gluck’s Pierre Boulez, a Symposium:

The beginning of the first movement [takes] on something of the function of a first theme. However, these first bars are not a theme in the sense of a fixed, clearly-recognizable bit of music; they are a collection of intervals which usually appear in somewhat the same rhythmic garb, though never exactly the same.²

What Heyworth’s discussion clarifies here is that, although Boulez’s rhythmic structures are not identically the same, their appearance in similar “rhythmic garb” convinces the listener that we are in fact hearing a unifying theme. Despite the notational differences, this recognizable repetition of thematic material creates a unique sort of unifying quality not often associated with post-war serial composition. This thematic rhythmic quality coupled with a repetition of melodic intervals grants Boulez a musical space to elaborate upon his themes, particularly beyond its first repetition.

This sort of elaboration is particularly the crowning quality of expressivity which I found to be in the first movement of Boulez’s First Piano Sonata. His variation in accents as well as dynamic elaboration makes use of this thematic repetition by building the expressivity of his sonata around the controlled dynamic of each repetition. Each time Boulez repeats a theme, we see a build up in these expressive qualities, resulting in a distinguishable appearance of a climactic arrival point, designating clearly definable sections without the use of traditional cadencial harmony.

Using the same thematic example, observe the reoccurrence of the rhythmic theme from measures 1-45 (pages 2-4). For the sake of argument, I will designate this portion of his sonata as the “first section.” Notice, in measures 1, 5, 11, 24, and 26, we see the recurrence of what is more or less the same “rhythmic garb” of Boulez’s original theme (you will notice that as the piece carries on, the idea of similar rhythmic garb becomes more and more apparent as a thematic concept). Despite the notational variation between the rhythms, however, each time the theme occurs, it’s dynamic is notated as either pianisamo (pp) or pianississimo (ppp). What Boulez achieves by recalling this theme periodically throughout the “first section” at such a quiet volume is a sort of overall unifying dynamic building up to measure 45 (marked “Beaucoup Plusallant,” p. 4, fourth system).

From measures 46-66 Boulez arrives at the climactic point of his piano sonata. Marked “Staccato Sempre” at the beginning of the section, we observe the greatest release of rhythmic energy in the entire piece within these twenty measures. Dynamically dominated by sforzandos and forte markings, it is quite clear that he intends for this section to be the most energetic portion of the piece (there is even an indication of an increase in tempo at measure 45). The rhythmic theme of the first section is not apparent anywhere in these twenty measures, indicating that Boulez is in fact introducing new, climactic material here.

At measures 67-75, however, this climactic texture abruptly breaks with a low octave sforzando cluster (measure 67) followed by the rhythmic theme of the first section. Though brief, these eight bars are enough for Boulez to create a break from his climax, creating the definitive structure of what Heyworth calls “preparation, tension, [and] resolution.”² In other words, the two slower, quieter, rhythmically thematic sections surrounding measures 45-66 act as the preparation and resolution of the contrasting “tension” of Boulez’s sonata. What we are seeing here is a form-based artifact of tonal music put into use in a serial composition, creating the expressivity derived from form without the crutch of tonality. As a result, Boulez’s First Piano Sonata, more or less a representation of his early career (which was largely influenced by the expressionism of Arnold Schoenberg), portrays a lingering Romanticism at a time when post-war serialism was decisively not characterized by emotion or expression.

After a close examination of the first movement of Boulez’s First Piano Sonata, it seems that the appearance of this form based expressivity made possible by rhythmic themes and a repetition of melodic intervals is far too deliberate an attempt to couple expressionistic qualities with serialist atonality to be considered an unintentional allusion to the traditional forms of tonal music. The question remains, then, what is achieved by creating this link between serialism and expression? If the whole point of serial composition is to emancipate dissonance and therein liberate oneself from the limitations of tonality, then to place a serial composition within the confines of a strict “preparation, tension, resolution” form is to entirely contradict this sort of liberation. While there are compositions of Shoenberg’s where he wrote with this similar sort of expressionist style of serialism, a post-war composition of 1946 written in this style not only does not contribute to the defining qualities of serial composition at the time (that is, the deterministic control of algorithms in every aspect of a piece, largely employed in Boulez’s later pieces), but it is additionally very much riddled with contradiction. Why bother emancipating the dissonance of a composition when it is still confined to a specific structural form? What is the purpose of making a concerned effort to avoid melodic and harmonic expressivity in a composition when the same expressivity is still going to be portrayed through form? Thus, the argument of this paper is not (as I had first assumed would be) about the lack of expressive qualities often observed in “audience unfriendly” serial music- in fact, I found the expressive qualities of Boulez’s sonata quite enjoyable. More unexpected, then, is the appearance of so called “audience friendly” qualities seen in his “audience un-friendly” composition. The appearance of this expressivity is too much of a contradiction to allow this piece to achieve its purpose as a serial composition (that is, creating a higher degree of determinacy in a composition where there is a necessity for every notational mark in a score). As a result, I do not believe that this piece is very successful in its utility as a serial composition, precisely because of its expressivity or, for that matter, its aesthetically attractive qualities.

1. Peter Stacey, Boulez and the Modern concept (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), p. 10

2. Peter Heyworth, “The First Fifty Years,” in William Gluck, ed., Pierre Boulez: a Symposium (New York: Da Capo Press, 1986) p. 63

An Analysis of George Gershwin’s Three Preludes And the Influence of his Post-Rhapsody in Blue Music On the Merging of the Classical and Jazz Genres

The compositional career of George Gershwin is extraordinarily multifaceted in terms of the various styles in which he composed. A song writer, Broadway theater composer and concert hall composer, Gershwin is a figure whose music is relevant to both the classical and jazz musical genres, and is thus difficult to summarize with accuracy. The difficulty of placing him in a single stylistic group, however, is precisely what makes the discussion of Gershwin so fascinating. His career as a composer can more or less be divided by the success of Rhapsody in Blue (1924), a useful indicator of the beginning of his major work in concert hall music (prior to the success of this piece, his primary musical output is characterized by his theater works (Bordman, New grove)). Gershwin’s Three Preludes (1926), a collection of piano preludes introduced at a recital for Marguerite d’Alvarez, is an excellent example of his concert music after the success of Rhapsody in Blue. It is one of several pieces (in addition to Concerto in F (1925) and An American in Paris (1928) which reflect his increasing interest in classically oriented jazz composition after the success of his Rhapsody in Blue. This paper will take closer look at the first of the three, simply titled “Prelude I”, and discuss the appearance of this interest in classical music as it is evident in his Three Preludes. I will more closely analyze the first of his Three Preludes to show how this merge of opposing genres is created not only via melodic and rhythmic contour, but through the use of form as well, with particular emphasis on the piece’s resemblance to the Head Arrangement form commonly found in the jazz music of the Swing and Bebop era. Finally, I will conclude on a broader perspective how Gershwin’s “merge of classical and jazz” music played a role in shaping the definitive qualities of 20^th century Western music after World War I, with focus on American music in particular Head Arrangement.

According to The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, “the composition of Rhapsody in Blue reaffirmed Gershwin’s devotion to the merging of classical music and jazz (Bordman, New Grove).” An apparent trend thus presents itself in Gershwin’s music at this point in his career: already established as a prominent Tin Pan Alley songwriter and pianist, Gershwin began to study formal harmony and counterpoint as early as 1915, and even more extensively later in his career with composition teachers including Rubin Goldmark, Wallington Riegger and Henry Cowell Head Arrangement. His Three Preludes, written between the two major concert compositions of Gershwin’s post-Rhapsody in Blue phase (Concerto in F and American in Paris) is a definitive reflection of this increased involvement with formal compositional training (contrasting against the “naïveté or clumsiness of construction” which is seen in his Rhapsody (Taruskin, Oxford)).

Though it is difficult to compare Gershwin’s short solo piano compositions with his much longer Rhapsody in Blue, the “clumsy” form structure which Taruskin speaks of concerning the Rhapsody is certainly not apparent in the first of his Three Preludes. Written in ternary form, the composition of this prelude clearly employs a tactic of the Classical era to aid in the structural clarity of the piece as a whole. Through the use of this form, Gershwin is able to evoke the “away and back” trajectory which is so characteristically seen in 18^th-century music. As a result, though the thematic substance which he employs is certainly not Classical era material, the means by which it is presented, elaborated upon, and restated is clearly reflective of his formal training in harmony and counterpoint.

Observe, in measures 7-8 (figure 1), Gershwin presents the theme of the piece for the first time in its rhythmic context (he originally presents the theme in the first two bars out of rhythmic context, though this will be discussed later in the paper). The rhythm of the figure is its most notable quality; its syncopated nature is crucial in unifying the three recurrences of the theme (a discussion of syncopation as an element of jazz genre will also take place later in this paper as well). In measures 42-45 (figure 2), thus, Gershwin presents the same rhythmic figure as the original theme, but with melodic variation employed to create the trajectory of ternary form. Though the notes have changed, the syncopated rhythm of the new figure is still quite familiar. Measure 42 is an exact rhythmic imitation of the original theme which previously occurred in measures 7-8, and is then followed by a similar rhythmic replication in the first beat of measure 43. The original theme is then sequenced up an octave in measures 44 and 45 to conclude the thematic development. Although further abstraction of the theme then follows both melodically and rhythmically, it only contributes to the trajectory of Gershwin’s ternary form.

Next, observe the presentation of the original theme in measures 50-51 (figure 3), in which the theme here is melodically and rhythmically identical to the theme originally portrayed in measure 7-8, with a doubling at the octave. By returning back to this original theme, Gershwin completes the “away and back” trajectory of ternary form, first through the presentation of his thematic material in measures 7-8, then via its abstraction in measures 42-45, and finally through its recurrence in measures 50-51. What Gershwin has used here in his prelude is a treatment of thematic material in a fashion that is reminiscent of the Classical era ternary form. As a result, his use of form in the prelude is a reflection of the formal harmony and counterpoint training which Gershwin sought out at this point in his career, demonstrating sophistication in form which his earlier works had lacked.

The form of Gershwin’s first prelude, however, is not exclusive to the influences of the Classical era, but is additionally reflective of his roots in jazz composition as well. His treatment of thematic material in the piece clearly takes influence from the Head Arrangement form of the jazz Swing era (in which a “head” riff is presented first by the whole band, and then elaborated upon in each individual instrumental section via both orchestrated as well as improvised solos and solis (McMullen, Music 130B)). The first two measures of Gershwin’s Three Preludes are quite reminiscent of the role which a “head” riff plays. He mimics the contrast of timbre created by the rhythmic unison of an entire swing band performing a “head” riff by featuring the theme as a single, unaccompanied line, marked “con licenzia” (indicating a free interpretation of the figure, much in the style of jazz improvisation (figure 4)). The succeeding development of his theme in ternary form (discussed earlier in this paper) is then used as a tool to mimic the orchestrated and improvised solos and solis which were additionally characteristic of the Head Arrangement form. What Gershwin has created, thus, is a merge of the Head Arrangement form of the Swing era and the Classical era ternary form. As a result, Gershwin achieves the “merging of classical music and jazz” that so readily accompanies his reputation by borrowing the tools of composition from both the jazz genre as well as those which he acquired through formal classical instruction, and applied them where their purposes seemed to overlap (in this case, the use of ternary form to achieve the thematic elaboration of Head Arrangement form.)

Gershwin also employs this tool of merging genres melodically and rhythmically throughout the entire piece as well. Although I briefly mentioned the rhythmic significance of the syncopated accents found in the piece’s thematic material, the more immediately relevant appearance of syncopation is its constant presence in the left hand accompaniment of the piece. In measures 3-6 (figure 5), Gershwin presents a syncopated rhythm in which the style of the theme is quite characteristically drawing influence from Ragtime music and the “Stride Piano” technique founded by James P Johnson. In this technique, the illusion of multiple voices is created in the left hand by the extreme octave separation of the bass note and the chord (McMullen, Music 130B). In this case, the chord occurs each time on an off beat sixteenth note subdivision, generating the syncopated rhythm which drives through the whole piece. The thematic figure is then varied upon extensively throughout the piece, later showing qualities of the tango as well (figures 6) (Goldberg). It is quite clear, thus, that stylistically the left hand accompaniment of Gershwin’s first prelude is deliberately alluding to the qualities of Ragtime music and the jazz genre.

This allusion to Ragtime music in the accompaniment of the piece, contrasts against its function as a quality of classical music and the “rhythmic ostinato” (Schnapper, New Grove). According to The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, the rhythmic ostinato features a “repetition of a musical pattern many times in succession while other musical elements are generally changing (Schnapper, New Grove).” This, of course, is a quality which occurs in much of the music from the jazz genre as well as the classical genre, and is not exclusive to Gershwin’s music, but is nevertheless a crossover quality of the classical and jazz genres made apparent in the first of Gershwin’s Three Preludes. By presenting the rhythmic elements of the Tango and the Stride Piano in the context of an ostinato rhythm, he merges the two opposing genres into a single stylistic element. The result is a stylistically ambiguous accompaniment line which cannot be definitively placed in any genre at all. This, notice, is a quality which very much parallels the ambiguity of the prelude’s form as a genre defining quality as well.

In the course of my analysis, I have come to two distinct conclusions concerning the intention which Gershwin had in his “merging of classical music and jazz,” the first being that the great majority of Gershwin’s post-Rhapsody in Blue music is a reflection of his devotion to his own public popularity. As opposed to many of his Russian peers such as Arnold Schoenberg or Anton Webern, Gershwin had a great desire for public acceptance, and is a direct correlation to his great financial success (Taruskin, Music 77). The appearance of Head Arrangement form in his first prelude, for example, was quite likely a result of the form’s rise in popularity at the time of the piece’s conception (that is, the late 1920s.) As a result, it is apparent even in the analysis of a single one of his preludes, that Gershwin’s music was largely influenced by public opinion.

The second conclusion I have come to is one of a much more broad perspective. It seems that the role which Gershwin’s “merge of classical and jazz music” plays with respect to the overall development of twentieth century Western music largely coincides with the role which Paul Whiteman had on twentieth century music. “To make a lady of jazz,” as Whiteman’s Aeolian Concert hall performance was described by, is a more or less accurate description of Gershwin’s Three Preludes (Taruskin, Music 77). This figurative “lady” is reflective of his music in its imitation, but not replication of jazz music. In other words, Gershwin’s first prelude is a classical piano prelude with idioms from the jazz genre (as opposed to vice versa). By using freely expressive markings like “con licenzia,” as opposed to an improvised melodic cadenza, or by using ternary form, instead of a Head Arrangement form, Gershwin’s music is more accurately described as a “cleaned up” version of jazz, a very common description of the twentieth century Western music that combined the two genres, as Gershwin does (McMullen, Music 130B). As a result, I would conclude that, although his intentions in his genre merging compositions were financially based (Gershwin did not seem to write with the intention to get his name into the history books, as Schoenberg did), he did seem to have a profound impact on the appearance of jazz idioms in the classically oriented music of his time (Taruskin, Music 77). Thus, although Gershwin is often discredited as a “sellout” composer because of interest in public acceptance, his music, particularly that which occurred in the years after the success of Rhapsody in Blue, had a profound influence on twentieth century Western music, particularly in the sphere of American jazz music, and has thus found its way into the history books nonetheless.