Music History Monday

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This podcast has
120 episodes
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Explicit
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Date created
2018/05/28
Average duration
22 min.
Release period
9 days

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Exploring Music History with Professor Robert Greenberg one Monday at a time. Every Monday Robert Greenberg explores some timely, perhaps intriguing and even, if we are lucky, salacious chunk of musical information relevant to that date, or to … whatever. If on (rare) occasion these features appear a tad irreverent, well, that’s okay: we would do well to remember that cultural icons do not create and make music but rather, people do, and people can do and say the darndest things.

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Music History Monday: Too Late to Matter for Georges Bizet, though Better Late Than Never for the Rest of Us
2024/02/26
George Bizet (1838-1875) in 1875 We mark the premiere on February 26, 1935 – 89 years ago today – of Georges Bizet’s Symphony in C.  The premiere took place in Basel, Switzerland, in a performance conducted by Felix Weingartner (1863-1942).  Bizet (1838-1875) never heard the symphony performed; he had died in the Paris suburbs in 1875 at the age of 36, a full 60 years before Weingartner’s premiere of his symphony.  Bizet’s Symphony in C, considered today to be a masterwork, was only “discovered” in the archives of the Paris Conservatoire in 1933, 78 years after its composition in 1855!  What If We contemplate a short list of those great (or potentially great) composers who died before their fortieth birthday. Henry Purcell (dead at 36), Giovanni Battista Pergolesi (26), Wolfgang Mozart (35), Vincenzo Bellini (33), Frédéric Chopin (39), Felix Mendelssohn (38), Lili Boulanger (24), Juan Arriaga (19), and George Gershwin (who died at the age of 38).  We should all deeply regret their early passing, not just because of the inherent tragedy of dying so young but because it is impossible not to think about what these composers might have accomplished had they at least lived Beethoven’s life span (56 years), or Sebastian Bach’s (65 years), or Richard Strauss’ (85 years), or Elliott Carter’s (103 years), or Leo Ornstein’s (106 years; though some say 109!). Leo Ornstein (1892/1895-2002) in 1981, looking darned good for his age; Ornstein’s exact date of birth is unknown, with various sources claiming 1892, 1893 or 1895 Admittedly, not everyone wonders about what those short-lived composers might have accomplished had they lived longer lives.   For example, apropos of Franz Schubert, Robert Schumann (who himself didn’t live a particularly long life; 1810-1856) wrote: “It is pointless to guess at what more Schubert might have achieved. He did enough; and let them be honored who have striven and accomplished as he did.”   Rather more recently, the pianist András Schiff (born 1953) said that: “Schubert lived a very short life, but it was a very concentrated life. In 31 years, he [composed] more than other people would in 100 years, and it is needless to speculate what he could have written had he lived another 50 years. It’s irrelevant, just like with Mozart.”  Schubert (1797-1828) in 1825, three years before his death at the age of 31 At very least, I would accuse Messrs. Schumann and Schiff of being intellectual party-poopers, by denying themselves the joys of speculation.  But I also believe their assertions that speculation is “pointless,” “needless,” and “irrelevant” to be downright wrong. Why “wrong”?  Because speculating on “what if” allows us to formulate alternative outcomes, alternative outcomes that in the end help us to recognize and process more deeply what actually did happen.    (Of course, if the American theoretical physicist and string theorist Brian Greene is correct, and we live in a “quilted multiverse,” then any possible event will occur an infinite number of times in an infinite number of parallel universes.  If this is true, there is no such thing as “speculation,” as anything we might “speculate upon” will already have occurred or will occur in some universe or another!) Back to our cozy, home universe. To my mind, far from being merely sport, speculating on possible outcomes allows us to sharpen our understanding of what actually did happen, and to appreciate as well the incredible web of interactive cause-and-effect that characterizes the progress of time. For example.
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Frankie and Johnny, and Helen and Lee
2024/02/19
I am aware that Valentine’s Day is already 5 days past, but darned if the romantic warm ‘n’ fuzzies aren’t still lingering with me like a rash from poison oak. As such, I will be excused for offering up what I will admit is a belated, but nevertheless Valentine’s Day-related post. Gratitude We should all be grateful that the following Valentine’s Day-related post is not on the lines of those blogs I wrote in 2010 and 2011, blogs written for various websites in my attempt to drum up sales for my Great Courses/Teaching Company Courses. For example, I wrote a couple of Valentine’s Day-themed blogs in 2011, one for Huffpost and the other for J-Date, as in “Jewish-Dating.” For those posts – entitled “Romantic Music” – I was tasked with recommending appropriately “romantic” music for an intimate, tête-à-tête Valentine’s Day evening. This is how they began: “Fresh flowers, chilled champagne, and a candlelight dinner for two; the stereotypical trappings of a successful Valentine’s Day evening. But the sensual menu is still incomplete: smell, taste, touch, and sight are covered, but proper sound is still wanting. Yes indeed, music, the purported feast of the gods, the indispensable aural lubricant for romance, must be chosen and chosen well.” OMG; gag me with not just a spoon but an industrial-sized ladle. BTW, I will not waste your time with the music I recommended except to observe that it consisted of all the usual suspects, saccharine music for a Hallmark Holiday. One song that wasn’t on my list back then but would surely be on it today is one that reflects the cynicism with which I now hold the entire St. Valentine’s Day trip. That song is Frankie and Johnny. The Leighton Brothers, Frank (on the left, 1880-1927) and Bert (1877-1964) Frankie and Johnny There are so many different versions of the song Frankie and Johnny that to this day, no one is precisely sure who originally wrote it. (Writing in 1962, a musicologist named Bruce Redfern Buckley unearthed 291 different versions of Frankie and Johnny!) The version we are most familiar with today was created by the Leighton Brothers (Frank and Bert) along with the then well-known folk musician Ren Shields (1868-1913) in 1908. The lyric of the song tells the lurid tale of a prostitute named Frankie and her wayward boyfriend, Johnny. Here are the first nine of the song’s thirteen verses. “Frankie and Johnny were lovers, O Lordy, how they could love. They swore to be true to each other, Just as true as the stars above. He was her man but he done her wrong. Frankie and Johnny went walking, Johnny had a brand new suit. Frankie paid a hundred dollars, Just to make her man look cute. He was her man but he done her wrong. Johnny said, “I’ve got to leave you, But I won't be very long. Don’t you wait up for me, honey, Nor worry while I’m gone.” He was her man but he done her wrong. Frankie went down to the corner, Stopped in to buy her some beer. Says to the fat bartender, “Has my Johnny man been here?” He was her man but he done her wrong. “Well, I ain’t going to tell you no story, Ain’t going to tell you no lie. Johnny went by ‘bout an hour ago, With a girl named Nellie Bly. He is your man but he’s doing you wrong.” Frankie went home in a hurry, She didn’t go there for fun. She hurried home to get ahold Of Johnny's shootin’ gun. He was her man but he’s doing her wrong. Frankie took a cab at the corner, Says, driver step on this cab.
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Unauthorized Use
2024/02/12
February 12 is one of those remarkable days in music history, remarkable for all the notable events that took place on this day. So: before getting to our featured topic, let us acknowledge some of those events and share some links to previous Music History Monday and Dr. Bob Prescribes posts that dealt with those events. Carl Czerny (1791-1857) On this day in 1812, Beethoven’s student (and friend), the Austrian composer, pianist, and teacher Carl Czerny (1791-1857) performed as the soloist in the premiere of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major, the “Emperor.” Czerny was the subject of Music History Monday on July 15, 2019. We wish a heartfelt farewell to the German pianist and conductor Hans von Bülow, who died on this date in Cairo, Egypt in 1894, at the age of 64. Von Bülow was the subject of both Music History Monday and Dr. Bob Prescribes just last month, on January 8 and 9,respectively. Birthday greetings to the American composer Roy Harris (1898-1979), who was born on this date in 1898 in Chandler, Oklahoma. Harris and his Symphony No. 3 were featured in my Dr. Bob Prescribes post on April 9, 2019. On February 12, 1924 – exactly 100 years ago today – George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue received its premiere at Aeolian Hall in New York City. Gershwin (1898-1937), accompanied by the Paul Whiteman Orchestra, played the solo piano part. George Gershwin and his music have been featured regularly on my Patreon page, including Music History Monday on July 11, 2022; and in Dr. Bob Prescribes posts on October 20, 2020, and January 5, 2021. Finally, we mark the death on February 12, 1959, of the American composer George Antheil (1900-1959) at the age 58, in New York City. Antheil was the subject of Music History Monday on July 8, 2019. With no further ado, it is – finally – time to move on to today’s topic! Joseph Haydn (1732-1809) in 1792, by John Hoppner and commissioned in 1791 by the future British King George IV when he was the Prince of Wales On February 12, 1797 – 227 years ago today –– Joseph Haydn’s String Quartet in C Major, Op. 76, No. 3, nicknamed “Emperor” reputedly received its premiere. The quartet’s nickname – “Emperor” – stems from the hymn tune Haydn employed in its second movement theme and variations, a hymn Haydn had composed just a few months before and which was adopted as the Austrian national anthem in 1797. This elegant and stately hymn, through a route most circuitous (a route that will be detailed in a bit), eventually became the national anthem of Nazi Germany (an anthem that began with the words Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, or “Germany, Germany above all else”). Had Joseph Haydn – who was a kind, considerate, gentle, optimistic, old-world man of peace and good-will – had even an inkling that a depraved, criminal regime was going to adopt his hymn as its anthem (and as a result forever link his hymn with that regime), he would likely first have vomited and then burned the manuscript of the hymn and every copy he could get his hands on. The Nazi’s adoption of Haydn’s hymn for its own, political ends,
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Getting Back to Work!
2024/02/05
Giuseppe Fortunino Francesco Verdi (1813-1901) in 1887 On February 5, 1887 – 137 years ago today – Giuseppe Verdi’s 25th and second-to-last opera, Otello, received its premiere at the Teatro alla Scala in Milan.  The premiere was the single greatest triumph in Verdi’s sensational career.  But it was a premiere – and an opera – that was a long time coming. Background He was born on October 10, 1813, in the sticks: in the tiny village of Le Roncole, in the northern Italian province of Parma.   Verdi’s first opera, Oberto, received its premiere at the Teatro alla Scala in Milan in November 1839, when Verdi was 26 years old.  Oberto was a modest success – it received 13 performances – and based on its success, the management at La Scala offered Verdi a contract to compose three more operas.  Verdi had begun his second opera – a comedy called A King for a Day – when catastrophe struck: he lost his wife and two young children to disease during a horrific, 20-month span between 1839 and 1840.  Rendered nearly insane by the deaths, Verdi nevertheless battled through his grief and managed to complete A King for a Day.  The opera received its premiere on September 5, 1840; it was booed off the stage and its run was cancelled on the spot after that one performance.  For Verdi, the experience was excruciatingly painful, and it’s one he never forgot.  Twenty years later, still mad as hell, Verdi wrote: “[The audience] abused the opera of a poor, sick young man, harassed by the pressure of the schedule and heartsick and torn by horrible misfortune!  Oh, if the audience then had – I do not say applauded, but had borne that opera in silence – I would not have had the words to thank them.  Today, I accept the public; I accept its whistles, on the condition that I am not asked to give back anything in exchange for its applause.” Verdi in 1839, as painted by Giuseppe Molentini From that night in September of 1840 to the end of his life, over sixty years later, Verdi’s personal relationship with the public was set in his own mind, and, as far as Verdi was concerned, it was not an affectionate relationship.  He later wrote that as a result of the fiasco: “At 26, I knew what ‘the public’ meant.  From then on, successes have never made the blood rush to my head, and fiascos have never discouraged me.  If I went on with this unfortunate career, it was because at 26 it was too late for me to do anything else.” Verdi was a tough, taciturn, straight-talking, no-nonsense man to begin with.  The loss of his family and the failure of A King for a Day made him doubly (triply? quadruply?) so.  Still, with the help and support of La Scala’s director, Bartolomeo Merelli, Verdi continued to battle through his grief over his family and rage over the fiasco that was A King for a Day to compose his third opera, entitled Nabucco.  Nabucco, which received its premiereon March 9, 1842 (also at La Scala) was a smash hit from which Verdi never looked back.   Verdi in 1842, at the age of 29 The Galley Slave No composer ever worked harder than did Giuseppe Verdi.  In the 14 years between 1839 and 1853, he composed nineteen operas.  Verdi called these his “galley slave years” because he worked like one: 16 to 18 hours a day, always under deadline, endlessly harried by librettists, producers, singers, critics, and conductors; always emotionally depressed and physically ill with some bug or another. According to Verdi, he hated the whole stinkin’ opera trip, and as early as 1845 – at the age of just 32 – he was a...
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Music History Monday: Idomeneo
2024/01/29
We mark the premiere on January 29, 1781 – 243 years ago today – of Wolfgang Mozart’s opera Idomeneo, Re di Creta (“Idomeneo, King of Crete”).  With a libretto by Giambattista Varesco (1735-1805), which was adapted from a French story by Antoine Danchet (1671-1748), itself based on a play written in 1705 by the French tragedian Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon (1674 -1762; that’s a lot of writing credits!), Idomeneo received its premiere at the Cuvilliés Theatre in Munich, Germany.  Idomeneo was a hit, and it constitutes not just Mozart’s first operatic masterwork but, by consensus, the single greatest Italian-language opera seria ever composed! Setting the Biographical Scene The complete Mozart family portrait painted by Johann Nepomuk della Croce in 1780. Wolfgang is at the center; his sister Maria Anna (known as Nannerl) is on the left and his father Leopold on the right. The painting on the wall at center depicts Wolfgang’s mother, Anna Maria, who died in Paris in 1778. On January 15th, 1779, the 23-year-old Wolfgang Mozart returned home to Salzburg after having been away for 15 months.  His trip, which had taken him primarily to Mannheim and Paris, had been both a professional and personal disaster.  He had left Salzburg with his mother, filled with high hopes, high spirits, and dreams of finding a permanent job and romance.  He returned without his mother (who had died in Paris), without a job, without any money, and without the young woman he had met and fallen in love with during the trip (one Aloysia Weber), who had rejected his proposal of marriage and sent him packing. In returning – at his father Leopold’s insistence – to Salzburg and the dreaded employ of Archbishop Hieronymus Colloredo (to say nothing for the life of chastity required by both his father and the archbishop!), Mozart was painfully aware that he was wasting his time, his talent, and his testosterone.  And he was furious about it. By 1780, the now 24-year-old Mozart was both personally and professionally suffocating there in Salzburg.  He desperately wanted out and despaired that life was passing him by.   More than anything, Mozart wanted to compose opera (something that was difficult to do in Salzburg, given that the archbishop had closed all the theaters!).  Mozart was, at his core, a person of the theater and lived for everything the opera theater entailed.  He wrote: “I have only to hear an opera discussed, I have only to sit in a theater, hear the orchestra tuning their instruments – oh, I am quite beside myself at once.”  The Stars Align As the old line goes, “sometimes, it’s not just what you know but who you know that matters!” In 1780, that line applied very nicely to Mozart, for which we all must be grateful.  Because it was thanks to his own, hard-won personal contacts that he received the commission for Idomeneo, a commission that changed not only Mozart’s life but the very history of Western music, taken as widely as we please.… See what happened, only on Patreon! Become a Patron!  Listen and Subscribe to the Music History Monday Podcast The Robert Greenberg Store
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Music History Monday: Johannes Brahms, Piano Concerto No. 1
2024/01/22
Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) in 1858 We mark the premiere on January 22, 1859 – 165 years ago today – of Johannes Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 1, in the German city of Hanover. No other work by Brahms caused him such effort; never before or after did he so agonize over a piece, working and reworking it over and over again. Background On October 1, 1853, the 20-year-old Johannes Brahms showed up at the door of Robert and Clara Schumann’s house in Düsseldorf, in the Rhineland.  At the time, Brahms was pretty much a complete unknown outside of his hometown of Hamburg.  He was visiting the Schumann’s at the behest of the violinist and conductor Joseph Joachim (1831-1907) who, although only two years older than Brahms, was already world famous.   Physically, the young Brahms looked virtually nothing like the bearded, portly, cigar-smoking, bear-like dude of his later years; at twenty he was described as being: “a shy, awkward, nearsighted young man, blonde, delicate, almost wispy, boyish in appearance as well as in manner (the beard was still 22 years away) and with a voice whose high pitch was a constant embarrassment to him.” Clara (1819-1896) and Robert Schumann (1810-1856) circa 1850 This 20-year-old kid might not have looked like our familiar image of Brahms, but his extraordinary talents as a composer and pianist were already there, and in spades.  He performed some his early music for Robert and Clara and they were, very simply, gob smacked.  That evening Clara wrote in her journal: “Here is one who comes as if sent from God!  He played us sonatas and scherzos of his own, all of them rich in fantasy, depth of feeling and mastery of form.  Robert could see no reason to suggest any changes.  A great future lies before him, for when he comes to the point of writing for orchestra, then he will have found the true medium for his imagination.”  Robert’s diary entry that night was rather more abbreviated: “Visit from Brahms (a genius).” Brahms stayed with the Schumanns for a full month, and bonded with them like a wad of gum to the bottom of your high tops. … Continue reading only on Patreon! Become a Patron!  Listen and Subscribe to the Music History Monday Podcast The Robert Greenberg Store
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Music History Monday: American Pie
2024/01/15
On January 15, 1972 – 52 years ago today – Don McLean’s folk-rock song American Pie began what would eventually be a four-week stay at number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.  The song made the singer, songwriter, and guitarist Don McLean (born 1945) very famous and very rich, and it is considered by many to be one of the greatest songs ever written. Don McLean (born 1945) in 1972 No One is Perfect Not a one of us is perfect, and that goes double/triple/quadruple for me.  I eat ice cream right out of the carton before putting it back in the freezer, and will guzzle club soda and tonic water out of the bottle before putting it back in the fridge. I will lick a knife with cream cheese or peanut butter on it, lest any of it go to waste, and I will observe my personal ten-to-fifteen second rule when I drop food on the floor (providing one of the cats hasn’t gotten to it first).  I don’t always turn my socks right-side-out before putting them in the washing machine, and I have been known to forget to water the plants even when I’ve been reminded to do so. (Regarding the freaking plants: the heck with them if they don’t have a sense of humor; besides, do I ever ask them to make me a drink?).    (FYI: I routinely introduce myself to house plants as “Agent Orange.” You can actually hear them shrivel.) I would add in my favor that I always put the seat down and replace the toilet paper roll; I floss every day; hang up my towel; immediately put my dirty clothes in the hamper; and never, ever, leave dirty dishes on the counter or in the sink. What, you ask, has prompted this bit of confession, which might very well be considered TMI by many (if not most) of you? Here’s why. By admitting to some of my many flaws, I am attempting to pre-emptively head off your criticism of me, criticism for disparaging a rock ‘n’ roll song considered by many to be an icon, a classic, one of the greatest songs of the rock ‘n’ roll era (an era now some 70 years in age!).  The song I am referring to is none-other-than Don McLean’s American Pie. Freddie Mercury (second from left, as if you need me to tell you) and Queen in 1977 We’ve Been Down This Road Before This is not the first time I’ve proven myself aesthetically imperfect by offering up a less-than-positive critical evaluation of a presumably “classic” rock ‘n’ roll song.  (Yes: I typically prefer to take a high critical road here on Patreon, but sometimes that’s just not possible.) Such a thing happened in my Music History Monday post of August 24, 2020, a post that “celebrated” what was then the 45th anniversary of Freddie Mercury and Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody.  I admitted then and will admit now that I have always considered Bohemian Rhapsody to be among the most overrated things in contemporary popular culture, right up there with Tik Tok, air pods, anime, and Cardi B.  In that post I observed that Bohemian Rhapsody was never considered, by its creator(s), to be anything other than nonsense. According to Freddie Mercury’s friend, the DJ and television personality Kenny Everett (who played a key role in promoting Bohemian Rhapsody on his radio show), the song’s lyrics have no meaning whatsoever.  According to Everett, Freddie Mercury told him that the words were simply “random rhyming nonsense.” Producer Roy Thomas Baker (born 1946, center) with Queen in 1975 Bohemian Rhapsody’s producer Roy Thomas Baker recalled in 1999: “Bohemian Rhapsody was totally insane, but we enjoyed every minute of it.
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Pianist, Conductor, Composer, and a Cuckold for the Ages
2024/01/08
Hans Guido von Bülow (1830-1894), circa 1875 We mark the birth on January 8, 1830 – 196 years ago today – of the German pianist, conductor, composer, and cuckold, Hans Guido von Bülow.  Born in the Saxon capital of Dresden, he died in a hotel in Cairo, Egypt, on February 12, 1894, at the age of 64.  Poor Hans von Bülow.  He was one of the top pianists and conductors of his time.  His career was closely associated with some of the greatest composers of all time, including Richard Wagner, Johannes Brahms, and Pyotr Tchaikovsky.  Famous for his devastating wit and ability to turn a phrase, it was Bülow who coined the alliterative trio of “Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms.” Sadly, for all of his many accomplishments and deserved renown, he remains best known today (in no small measure because of scandal-mongering sensationalists like myself) as one of the great cuckolds of all time, right up there with myself (cuckolded by my college girlfriend Maureen Makler and an Israeli guy named Avi Luzon); Eddie Fisher (cuckolded by Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton), and Henry VIII (cuckolded, or so we are told, by Ann Boleyn and a wide assortment of various courtiers and hangers-on).  Bummer all the way around, Hans, just bummer. (Listen: to make up for this gracelessly scandalous post and to give Herr von Bülow some of the respect he is due, tomorrow’s Dr. Bob Prescribes post will feature Alan Walker’s superb biography of the man’s life, a life that should not be defined solely by the betrayal of his wife, Cosima Liszt von Bülow, and his erstwhile “friend,” Richard Wagner!) Hans von Bülow (1830-1894) Bülow circa 1850, at the age of 20 He was born into the noble “House of Bülow,” an ancient German/Danish family whose members have, over the centuries, been entitled Freiherr (meaning Baron); Graf (meaning Count); and even Fürst (meaning Prince). Growing up in Dresden, Bülow began formal piano lessons at the age of nine and quickly established himself as a major prodigy.  In 1844, at the age of 14, he and his mother moved to Leipzig, where he enrolled at the Leipzig Conservatory, founded just a year before by Felix Mendelssohn.  It was there that Hans studied with the highly regarded pedant Louis Plaidy. In 1845, at the of 15, Bülow took his piano lessons with Friedrich Wieck.  (Wieck was the father of Clara Wieck-Schumann, eventual father-in-law of Robert Schumann, and the piano teacher who ruined Robert Schumann’s right hand!)   Hans von Bülow was as intellectually precocious as he was musically precocious.  Unfortunately, the physical package that contained these gifts was . . . wanting.  Writes Alan Walker: “As a child von Bülow was a weakling.  According to his mother he succumbed to ‘brain fever’ five times and was continually in the care of doctors.  [For our information, ‘Brain Fever’ is defined as ‘an acute nervous breakdown and/or temporary insanity, due to extreme emotional distress.’] Bülow was ravaged by headaches, which struck him down whenever the problems of life overwhelmed him.  He also became self-conscious about his personal appearance; his short stature, high forehead, and slightly bulging eyes caused him embarrassment. Eventually, he learned to protect himself from the imagined hostility of the world by his trenchant use of language, which became the scourge of his enemies and the despair of his friends.” Hans von Bülow in his adulthood; there is no mistaking him for George Clooney In a story that has become as cliché as a movie character setting fire to a building and walking away in slow motion, Hans’ parents (that would be the novelist Karl Eduard von...
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Shostakovich Symphony No. 13
2023/12/18
On December 18, 1962 – 61 years ago today – Dmitri Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 13 received its premiere in Moscow.  The symphony stirred up a proverbial hornet’s nest of controversy, and we’re not talking here about your everyday hornet, but rather, those gnarly ‘n’ gnasty Asian Giant Hornets! Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich (1906-1975) in 1962 It was a symphonic premiere that almost didn’t take place, though, in the end, the show did go on.  Nevertheless, the authorities (the Soviet authorities, notable for their heavy blue serge suits, vodka breaths, and deficient senses of humor) did everything in their power to squash the symphony out of existence.  In this they failed miserably, and Shostakovich’s Thirteenth is today acknowledged as not just one of Shostakovich’s supreme masterworks but as one of the most musically and politically important works composed during the twentieth century.  A Good Communist During the late 1950s, Shostakovich was increasingly used by the Soviet authorities as a sort of artistic “figure head,” meant to represent the supposedly “free” Soviet intelligentsia.  In 1960, the First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union – Nikita Khrushchev (1894-1971) – decided to make the 54-year-old Shostakovich the chairman of the newly founded RSFSR, the Russian Union of Composers.  It was a huge honor, and Shostakovich felt that it was a position that would make him, finally and for all time, unassailable, untouchable, unpurgeable and, of equal importance, would guarantee the safety and success of his two now-grown children, Galina (24 years old) and Maxim (22 years old).  However, there was a catch: to take the position, Shostakovich had to join the Communist Party, something he had long-sworn he would never, ever, under any circumstances, do.  Well, he did join the Communist Party, telling his friends that he signed the necessary papers while under the influence of alcohol, SUI, “signing under the influence.”  For months afterwards, Shostakovich was – no exaggeration – literally hysterical with self-loathing.  The musicologist, folklorist, and friend of Shostakovich Lev Lebedinsky recalled: “I will never forget some of the things he said that night [before his induction into the Party], sobbing hysterically: ‘I’m scared to death of them’; ‘You don’t know the whole truth’; ‘From childhood I’ve always had to do things I didn’t want to do’; ‘I’ve been a whore, and always will be a whore.’  He often lashed at himself in strong words.”  And so, kicking and screaming, Shostakovich joined the Soviet Communist Party.  For all the world, he was the picture of a good and obedient Communist apparatchik.  Again, according to the previously quoted Lev Lebedinsky: “Without fail he attended every possible ridiculous meeting of the Supreme Soviet, every plenary session, every political gathering; he even took part in the AGITPROP [agitation/propaganda] car rally.  In other words, he eagerly took part in events that he himself described as ‘torture by boredom.’  He sat there like a puppet, applauding when the others applauded.  Once I remember him clapping eagerly after Khrennikov had made a speech in which he made some offensive remarks about Shostakovich!’ ‘Why did you clap when you were being criticized?’ I asked.  He hadn’t even noticed!  What moved him was not a lack of principles, but [fear].  Take his attack on Solzhenitsyn and Sakharov.  It is well known that Shostakovich sympathized with both of them.  So God only knows what possessed him to put his signature on that filthy slander of Sakharov and Solzhenitsyn.
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Music History Monday: The “Amusa”
2023/12/11
Friederica Henrietta of Anhalt-Bernburg (1702-1723), the “Amusa” On December 11, 1721 – 302 years ago today – Johann Sebastian Bach’s employer, the 27-year-old Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Cöthen (1694-1728), married the 19-year-old Friederica Henrietta of Anhalt-Bernburg (1702-1723).  She was the fourth daughter (and youngest child) of Charles Frederick, Prince of Anhalt-Bernburg (1668-1721) and his first wife, Sophie Albertine of Solms-Sonnenwalde (1672-1708). We can only hope that the kids enjoyed their wedding, because, sadly, their marriage was not fated to last for very long. (Allow me, please, a small bit of editorial bloviation. Speaking as a lower middle-class American kid born in Brooklyn, New York and raised in South Jersey – meaning someone with zero tolerance for all this royalty stuff – I find all of these puffed-up hereditary royals insufferable in both their titles and their actions.  Among the actions of the literally hundreds of “princes” and “princesses” of the Holy Roman Empire was to intermarry, for generations, with other such “people of quality,” meaning their cousins.  A brief look at their life spans – which are, indeed, representative of their “class” – reveals how well that turned out.  Bach’s beloved boss, Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Cöthen, lived for all of 33 years.   Leopold’s father, Emmanuel Lebrecht of Anhalt-Cöthen [1671-1704] lasted just 33 years as well, though Leopold’s mother – Anna Eleonore of Stolberg-Wernigerode [1651-1690] – managed to live for 39 years.  Leopold’s wife – Friederica Henrietta, the Amusa of this post’s title – lived to be only 21.  Her parents – Charles Frederick, Prince of Anhalt-Bernburg and Sophie Albertine of Solms-Sonnenwalde did a bit better, living, respectively, to the ages of 53 and 36.  Meanwhile, our magnificent Johann Sebastian Bach lived to be 65 and would certainly have lived longer if not for a botched cataract operation by a quack “oculist” named “Chevalier” John Taylor who, incidentally, lived to be 69 years of age.  ”Chevalier” John Taylor (1703-1722) Speaking strictly for myself, if I had to choose between a “title” and a long life span, I’ll choose life span every time.)  Back, please, to the wedding of Prince Leopold and Princess Friederica Henrietta.  It was a lavish and extended five-week long affair, one that put my cousins Arthur and Larry Gottlieb’s Bar Mitzvahs in Massapequa, Long Island, to shame. Unfortunately, for Bach, the wedding was something else: it was the final nail in the coffin lid of what had once been his dream job: that of Kapellmeister (master-of-music) for the court of Cöthen, in the central German state of Saxony-Anhalt.  It was a position he had held since 1717 and one that he had hoped to hold for the remainder of his life.   Alas; as the old Yiddish saying goes, “Mann Tracht, Un Gott Lacht,” meaning “man plans, and God laughs.” Sebastian Bach (as he was known to his family, friends, and colleagues; “Johann” was but a Bach family patronymic that went back generations) was nobody’s fool.  He knew his worth, and at a time when artisans like himself were expected to keep a low profile and “know their place,” Bach was an outspoken, often troublesome, even cantankerous employee, something that got him into trouble on a regular basis.… Continue reading, and listen without interruption, only on Patreon! Become a Patron! 
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Unplayable
2023/12/04
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893) in 1888, looking rather older than his 48 years We mark the premiere on December 4, 1881 – 142 years ago today – of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s one-and-only violin concerto, his Violin Concerto in D major.  It received its premiere in Vienna, where it was performed by the violinist Adolf Brodsky and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Hans Richter. The concerto is, in my humble opinion, Tchaikovsky’s single greatest work and one of a handful of greatest concerti ever composed.   Yet its premiere in Vienna elicited one of the most vicious reviews of all time. Unfortunately for him, Tchaikovsky was indeed one of the most over-criticized composers in the history of Western music. (Just asking: do any of us like being criticized?  I think not, and please, let’s not dignify that oxymoronic phrase, “constructive criticism” by considering it seriously. I don’t mean to sound over-sensitive, but after a certain age – say, 25 – criticism of any sort, even if it is deserved [we’re talking to you, George Santos] is simply infuriating.) Tchaikovsky was also one of the most over-sensitive people ever to become a major composer, which meant that the sometimes brutal criticism he received drove him to near madness.  (Regarding Tchaikovsky’s sensitivity, as a youngster, his governess called him “a porcelain child” so easily was his spirit chipped and cracked.)  Given Tchaikovsky’s emotional nature, and the fact that he was additionally – as a homosexual in Tsarist Russia – leading virtually a double life, well, we’ve got a prescription for a challenging emotional life. Tchaikovsky and his “wife”, Antonina Milyukova, on their “honeymoon,” July 1877; Tchaikovsky appears genuinely shell-shocked, which in fact he was Who Will Play My Concerto? The actual composition of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto went smoothly.  However, the drama surrounding its first performance drove the poor, hysteria-prone dude to despair.   Background.  In late February of 1878, Tchaikovsky arrived in Clarens, on Lake Geneva in Switzerland, where he and his “entourage” took up lodging at the Villa Richelieu.  Tchaikovsky was on the mend from his epically disastrous marriage to a frankly crazed former student of his named Antonina Milyukova. The marriage had lasted less than three months, from July 18 to October 7, 1877, at which time Tchaikovsky had a complete nervous breakdown and was spirited out of Moscow by his brothers.   One of Tchaikovsky’s visitors there at Clarens was the violinist Yosif Kotek (1855-1885), a bi-sexual lover of Tchaikovsky’s.  Tchaikovsky and Kotek engaged in all sorts of activities there in Clarens – some of them even musical – and Tchaikovsky, feeling rejuvenated and inspired, sketched and orchestrated his entire violin concerto in under a month. Tchaikovsky wanted to dedicate the concerto to Kotek – he really did – but he didn’t dare because he was terrified by the gossip he believed the dedication would inspire.  So instead, he dedicated it to a faculty colleague at the Moscow Conservatory, the then world-famous violinist Leopold Auer (1845-1930).  Politically, it was a savvy choice: Tchaikovsky knew that Auer’s fame would give the concerto the sort of caché that would ensure its success. Leopold Auer (1845-1930) Sadly, Tchaikovsky’s plan blew up in his face when Auer pronounced that the solo part was “unplayable.” A mortified Tchaikovsky later wrote in his diary: “Auer pronounced it impossible to play, and this verdict,
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Richard Strauss, Stanley Kubrick, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Thus Spoke Zarathustra
2023/11/27
Richard Strauss (1864-1949) in 1894 On November 27, 1896 – 127 years ago today – Richard Strauss conducted the premiere performance of his sprawling orchestral tone poem Thus Spoke Zarathustra in the German city of Frankfurt.  Requests A momentary and applicable (if gratuitous) diversion.  Over the course of the first half of my musical life I played a lot of gigs, both in bands and as a solo piano player.  The bands ranged from fairly high end to not fairly high end.  The best band I ever played with was led by the alto saxophonist Lee Konitz; the worst was a disco band the name of which will remain my little secret.  The first band in which I played was a rock ‘n’ roll garage band called “Cold Sun” and the last was a Berkeley, California-based Klezmer group called “Hot Borscht.” (“Cold Sun” and “Hot Borscht”: temperature challenged tags in both cases.) The former home of The Pewter House Restaurant, at 3909 Grand Avenue, Oakland, California; the building, built in 1916, is currently vacant and in desperate need for some TLC As a solo player I’ve played pretty much every sort of gig, from cocktail parties, weddings, sing-a-longs, awards shows, and receptions to a long-running gig at a long defunct restaurant in Oakland, California, called The Pewter House. I played at The Pewter House, in 1978 and 1979, on Friday and Saturday evenings.  It was most definitely during my “starving (grad) student” stage, so what I particularly loved about the job was the dinner I’d eat with the staff after closing time.  There was always left-over prime rib, and I consumed my body weight on a weekly basis.  I also loved the people I worked with and dined with after-hours: the bartender, a big, beautifully mustachioed Czech named Marin; the wait staff (particularly the cocktail waitresses; OMG: how I continue to adore cocktail waitresses!); and the kitchen staff (mostly illegals who worked like dogs at multiple jobs and sent whatever money they could back home); talk about a cross section of Oakland’s population.  What I did not love about my job was an occupational hazard shared by all house musicians, and that is the request.  I’d prime my tip jar with a twenty and a couple of fives, but that wouldn’t stop folks from making requests and then winking at me as they dropped a dime or a quarter into the jar, as if they were doing me a favor.  As evenings wore on, and the restaurant’s action increasingly moved into the cocktail lounge (where the piano was located), the blood alcohol level of the clientele became markedly higher.  It was not at all uncommon, later in the evening, for me to be approached by an off-kilter patron who, in making their request, would say something on the lines of: “hey, can you guys play . . .” Yes, I was a solo act, but perhaps these inebriates were seeing double, thus the “you guys.” Among the most common requests I received at The Pewter House there in the late 1970s were: “can you guys play The Sting?” (this meant Scott Joplin’s classic rag, The Entertainer, which dominated the soundtrack of the 1973 Paul Newman/Robert Redford movie The Sting). Just as often I was asked to play Love is Blue, Classical Gas, Brian’s Song, and . . . and . . . wait for it . . . “the theme from 2001.” 2001: A Space Odyssey, Produced, Directed, and Co-written by Stanley Kubrick (1928-1999) The American film director, producer, screenwriter, and photographer Stanley Kubrick (1928-1999), who produced, directed, and co-wrote (with Arthur C. Clarke) the screenplay for 2001: A Space Odyssey; on the set By “the theme from 2001,
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Robert Greenberg
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