Hello from the Divertimento String Quartet bunker. We very much hope that our friends and followers are keeping well amidst the current restrictions and difficulties.
We are planning on a return to concert giving as soon as we possibly can – hopefully in May. Details will be announced soon. We are very much looking forward to performing Shostakovich’s 3rd quartet and Mozart’s K.464.
The insularity of lockdown is challenging in several ways. I would however like to highlight a curious symptom of lockdown that is rarely if ever discussed, which is a shame because it has the potential to bring much benefit to our experience of lockdown. I am sure it is something that many of you will have noticed; namely an increased awareness of sounds.
Sometimes a sound that would have gone unnoticed before comes to the fore in a surprisingly vivid way. I have found myself being enthralled, amused, bemused and amazed by such sounds, many of which are very quiet. Often they are completely new and original. Even something as mundane as pulling tea bags out of a shelf becomes a remarkable sonic event:
I have discovered the surprising joy of street telecommunications furniture. Out walking along a street normally plagued by a stream of noisy cars but becalmed in lockdown, I became aware of a hum emanating from this box:
(Please note the other piece of street ‘furniture’ here, which it has to be said is a load of rubbish in comparison.)
And here is the veritable symphony of sound that I heard – headphone listening is advisable for full enjoyment:
Yes, it is a very quiet symphony but none the worse for that.
Some sounds have arisen during the routines in lockdown. I will let you guess what this is.
Here is a clue:
Several composers have incorporated the sounds of everyday life in their compositions, from Bach’s donkey in Cantata BWV 201 (audible around 2:00 in this recording) https://youtu.be/9RnmGBgHsQ4 to the inclusion of recordings of birds in Rautavaara’s Concerto for Birds and Orchestra “Cantus Arcticus” https://youtu.be/HLjXgV-Mhp0 . I also recall the very effective inclusion of children’s voices in Supertramp’s ‘School’ https://youtu.be/mYP7RpZqAs8 .
There are without doubt countless other examples in classical and popular music, and who knows what everyday sounds percolate into music, unknown to both composer and listener. Please feel free to comment with your own favourite examples of everyday sounds in music and add links if possible.
The sounds that we hear in lockdown can intrigue and entertain us, for sure. They don’t need to be translated into a formal musical context to become meaningful. They draw us into a fascinated contemplation of the phenomenon of their existence and of our perception of their existence.
It is now just under a year since we posted an arrangement of a Bach prelude for violin and viola during the first lockdown. It seems appropriate to add another one during the current lockdown and we hope that you enjoy it. It is a cliché to say it, but it’s true: Bach’s music is timeless, ceaselessly flowing like his name. (Bach = brook or stream in German). Of all composers he is arguably the most cosmic – and yet he could also revel in the comic braying of a donkey. The mundane can also be priceless.
Warmest wishes to you from Andrew, Lindsay, Vicky & Mary
I have heard it said that the music of Haydn and others from his era is like ornamental porcelain. Quite what is meant by this, I am not sure. Maybe it is a compliment; I suspect not. I think the implication is that it is a thing of beauty but rather distant and somehow rather fragile and passionless.
From the musician’s perspective, Haydn’s music is supremely crafted, as is the very best porcelain of this period, with classical proportions, but what makes it so rewarding to play is the way the parts balance, there is an astoundingly sophisticated awareness of texture, and the emotional content is so varied, from melancholy to silly humour. His music – his quartet music at any rate – is clearly written for friends and emanates from a warm heart.
Eirene, goddess of peace. Meissen (Michel-Victor Acier). The Hermitage
This stunning Meissen figure was made in or around 1772, the same year that Haydn wrote his ground-breaking but not porcelain breaking Op 20 quartets.
Eirene, the Greek goddess of peace, stands elegantly – almost provocatively – atop various symbols of war that have been immobilised by her, presumably. The ancient classical allusions are very clear but this is a decidedly modern take on the subject, and unmistakably of this neoclassical period of European art. (There is no doubt a potentially lively feminist response arising from this depiction of Eirene, and on the origin of the subject. An online group debate could be fun.)
Can we see a link with Haydn’s music? Well, it is porcelain, which Haydn’s music is too, apparently! The classical basis is there, and the ornamentation, and grace, and colour and texture. Does it touch the soul as Haydn’s music often does? I leave that for you to ponder on. Responses to music and art are so varied.
Eirene is holding a torch – presumably one that doesn’t require a battery. It is possible to see this as symbolic of the Enlightenment that was blazing through Europe and beyond at that time. Haydn was very much a part of this.
“Who Is Musical?’ – not perhaps the most eye-catching title for a book, but this is indeed the title of a book by Brahms’s close friend Theodor Billroth, who Brahms dedicated his Op 51 string quartets to. Billroth was working on the text of this first ever scientific study of the nature of musicality late in his life and it was published posthumously.
A highly regarded and innovative Viennese surgeon, he was also a very good musician. I find it moving playing the viola part of the Brahms quartet knowing that he would have played this very part and that to some extent Brahms would have had his friend in mind in his musical imagination.
Billroth stated that “it is one of the superficialities of our time to see in science and art two opposites. Imagination is the mother of both.”
Max Klinger. Brahmsphantasie: Accord 1894
Brahms was a great enthusiast of the art of Max Klinger – and Klinger was equally enthusiastic about Brahms’s music. They were without doubt artistic soul mates, in touch with their subconscious and finding ways to express their imagination.
Brahms felt that writing his music was about realising what he heard in his dreams, the sphere of imagination. Perhaps with science so pivotal and revered today, and with the arts being existentially challenged, the friendship of Brahms, Klinger and Billroth can show us the importance of imagination. Against all odds, we can still dream.
Music was my first love
And it will be my last.
Music of the future
And music of the past.
To live without my music
Would be impossible to do.
In this world of troubles,
My music pulls me through.
John Miles ‘Music’
Songwriters: Breyon Jamar Prescott, Michael C. Flowers
© Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
I was rather keen on this song when it came out and still retain a curious fondness for it. I related to its obsessive, repeated message and found it musically and structurally interesting – well, more interesting than some. Apart from its obvious message, the lyrics also summarise the lives of many composers and artists who have produced extraordinary and elevating works of art, often in the midst of suffering and difficulty. Beethoven, Schubert, Vermeer, Van Gogh, Proust, Joyce – the list goes on and on.
The lyrics also convey something of the compulsion musicians have to make music, and touch on the reason why people act on their wish to experience live music and go as far as venturing out to attend concerts – when it is safe to do so!
Since this quartet’s live public music making was terminated, albeit temporarily, along with music making the world over as a result of lockdown, we have enjoyed putting together some videos to connect with those who have been drawn to our music making, and to show that we are still up for it. Obviously we are aware that the videos may reach an audience but it is a very different sort of chemistry from playing live, interacting with each other on the spur of the moment, and with an audience nearby very much involved in the experience and responding very personally to what the music conveys.
It means a huge amount to us as musicians that you the audience are there, and not just for financial reasons! ‘This gift (of music) will not be like the alms passed on to the beggar; it will be the sharing of a man’s every possession with his friend.’ (Hindemith) To share our music making live is an act of sharing which goes both ways. The way an audience perceives the music and the music making is incredibly important. In a way, music only properly exists and comes into being in this context.
There is no doubting, too, that music can affect us and change us deeply, and that music, like writing and the visual arts too, also has a way of shedding light on our contemporary situation, politically, socially, emotionally, even if some of the music may have been written a couple of centuries ago.
For these reasons it is a huge loss not to be able to make live music and have this communal experience of reflection and inspiration. In fact it seems to present a huge question: without the interaction of performer and audience, what is the meaning of music? It would be interesting to hear your thoughts…
Those who attended Schubert’s small chamber concerts (‘Schubertiades’) obviously had no concerns at all about social distancing:
Schubertiade. Drawing by Moritz von Schwind (www.bezirksmuseum.at)
This drawing shows how many people there actually were crowded together at these performances. (Maybe there is a little artistic license. Von Schwind was a close friend of Schubert and would have wanted to show him in the very best light.) The scene reminds me ever so slightly of the concerts that we have done in the round, where the communal experience and role of music feels particularly heightened.
‘It is a fallacy that the artist invents for himself alone. No man lives or moves or could do so, even if he wanted to, for himself alone. The actual process of artistic invention, whether it be by voice, verse, or brush, presupposes an audience.’ Vaughan Williams
Rossini’s Barber of Seville Overture cropped and styled for two.
Created in response to one of our followers who dared to suggest that Andrew might need a haircut as we sink further in to the lockdown situation.
Divertimento String Quartet. Prokofiev String Quartet no 2 – part of the final movement, with an introduction by Andrew Gillett.
Divertimento String Quartet playing part of the Adagio from Max Bruch’s String Quartet. Mary Eade, Lindsay Braga, Andrew Gillett and Vicky Evans
As the lockdown continues, we share more fun behind closed doors. Oh, and a puppy.
Social distancing scatters our quartet but brings on a little violin and viola duet. And if that’s not enough there’s a very cute puppy at the end.
Prelude No 17 from 48 Preludes and Fugues by JS Bach. Arranged by Friedrich Hermann.
Lindsay Braga-violin Andrew Gillett- viola
In the current situation that we find ourselves in, where life has largely been put on hold, apart from the valiant key workers who are tirelessly and admirably going about their work, it seems apt to consider the significance of rests and pauses, using music as a starting point. I have touched on the subject of rests in music briefly before in a previous post but I have found myself recently reflecting more extensively on the subject in the light of our enforced break.
Firstly: isn’t lace wonderful! Here’s an example of Honiton lace that has a decidedly spring-like burst of life about it:
Sample of Honiton Lace circa 1870 from the Allhallows Museum Collection (www.honitonmuseum.co.uk) Photo copyright The Allhallows Museum.
Lace provides a perfect illustration of the importance of rests in music. The needlework represents the notes and the spaces between imply the rests. They co-exist; without the spaces there would be no meaning. (I find that many of my pupils are rather baffled by this concept – that rests are so important and meaningful. In their minds, music is about making sound.)
It’s often not clear to the listener what a profusion of rests exists in the music they are hearing. Often, a player will have a rest when someone else is playing, so the rest is not so noticeable. A good example of the importance of rests in music is the end of Haydn’s string quartet Op 33 No 2 (‘The Joke’), where his use of rests sets up the ‘punchline’ at the very end of the last movement. We played this quartet in a concert series last year. Hopefully some of you might remember the hilarity we all had. You can listen to, and watch, the whole movement here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TiGVNpe_BhY
A very different use of rests is evident in the first movement of Schubert’s G major piano sonata D. 894. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lj0J0LpeVGQ The gap in the music created by the rests is a moment of thoughtfulness and calm.
I can’t resist directing you towards Schumann’s fabulous/surreal setting of Heine’s ‘Mein Wagen rollet langsam’. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQ42sPsFBuY The rests here colour the text so aptly and get the imagination going in the listener’s mind. And just listen to the piano coda! Here is the text:
Mein Wagen rollet langsamDurch lustiges Waldesgrün,
Durch blumige Täler, die zaubrisch
Im Sonnenglanze blühn.
Ich sitze und sinne und träume,
Und denk’ an die Liebste mein;
Da huschen drei Schattengestalten
Kopfnickend zum Wagen herein.
Sie hüpfen und schneiden Gesichter,
So spöttisch und doch so scheu,
Und quirlen wie Nebel zusammen,
Und kichern und huschen vorbei.
My carriage rolls slowly
Through cheerful green woodlands,
Through flowery valleys
Magically blooming in the sun.
I sit and muse and dream,
And think of my dear love;
Three shadowy forms nod at me
Through the carriage window.
They hop and pull faces,
So mocking yet so shy,
And whirl together like mist
And flit chuckling by.
(Translations by Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005))
There are many other such examples of the use of rests in classical music. Please do mention your own favourite examples, by commenting or emailing.
Pauses are a slightly different case but equally relevant to our musing at this time. Again, please do post your own favourite pauses in music (of any sort). One of the most powerful pauses I know is after the monumental build-up and cataclysmic crisis point in the last movement of Bruckner’s 9th symphony. You can find it in the section between 57:15 to 59:30 in this recording: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIJET6NO4-k&t=3565s The pause (a silent pause in this case – some pauses are a note played extra long) gives time to reflect on the crisis point, rest, and move on to a calmer resolution as the work comes to its conclusion.
The four of us wish all our followers good health now and beyond this crisis. We are very frustrated not to be able to perform our next programme to you but are looking forward to a resumption of play as soon as the covers come off, so to speak. We hope to include the occasional musical offering via the Divertimento website, just so you are reassured that we still have a rough idea how to play our instruments and that there is hope on the horizon.
Let’s take up an idea suggested by one audience member and post or email anecdotes of unusual things that have happened in concerts/performances. Do send them in and we will make sure they appear for all to see. I’ll start the ball rolling:
I went to a Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra concert in Plymouth in the early 1970s at which Alan Loveday was supposed to be the violin soloist. When it came to that part of the programme somebody announced that he actually wasn’t going to be there because he had gone to Portsmouth instead of Plymouth. I think the orchestra had been on tenterhooks right up to that point. I can’t remember what they actually played in the end!