more to Czerny, op. 300

Among the 121 preludes in Carl Czerny's op. 300 are several that play very directly to rising gestures and follow through into the design of the whole. No. 30 uses the same broad schema as no. 15 (discussed in the preceding post)--a line from ^3 to ^8--but clothes it in rapid scale and octave figures. The first half takes F# up to D but does not close the cadence; instead it starts over with broken octaves and then concludes with a stereotyped short cadenza that carries ^5, ^6, and ^7 up to close on ^8. This "freeing of the ^6" is one of the most characteristic and distinctive figures in 19th century music, especially in the first half of the century.

Czerny, op. 300

Carl Czerny's The Art of Preluding, op. 300, may be the ultimate compendium of this aspect of sophisticated concert practice in the first half of the 19th century. Unlike The Art of Improvisation, op. 200, which is a treatise with examples, The Art of Preluding is a collection of preludes of many types in all keys. All are "ossified" (that is, published) versions of the kinds of preludes that pianists would apply to any and all of the music they performed in concert, including chamber and ensemble concerts, not just solo recitals.

A surprisingly large number of the 121 preludes have prominent rising gestures, but only a few follow through into the cadence. The most obvious of them elaborates a simple V7-I cadence by expanding the V through an octave's worth of a harmonized chromatic scale: see no. 31 below.

 An earlier Prelude in Ab major takes a rising line very gradually upward from ^3 to ^8:

Carl Czerny's Preludes

Figures below are taken from the English edition of Czerny's The Art of Preluding, op. 300. Please note that the cadences shown on the first page (p. 2 of the original volume) are not examples of chord spelling from a harmony textbook -- Czerny calls them the "shortest Preludes." It was assumed that a pianist would improvise a passage before playing a complete composition, such as a sonata or rondo -- a practice that only gradually faded away after the mid-nineteenth century. (One of the longest hold-outs was Clara Schumann, generally one of the most conservative concert pianists of the era.)

The "shortest Preludes" all use a ^7-^8 figure in the uppermost voice. Notice also that Czerny doesn't bother to express the other half of the old clausula vera formula (^2-^1) in an inner part.

In the "rather longer Preludes" (the second page, or p. 3 of the original), only the two on the fourth system unequivocally expand the cadence stereotype that Kofi Agawu cites as universal, with ^3-^2-^1 above: see my post on the topic.

The English edition of Czerny's op. 300 may be found on IMSLP: here.

Dance collections (2)

This continues yesterday's post, which provided links to several dance collections available from IMSLP and described those collections in terms of design and key sequence.

It is perhaps a little embarrassing that one conclusion to be drawn from comparing Schubert with Czerny and Marschner manages no more than to repeat some old clichés: If Czerny's dances are a bit dull in their routines, despite some technical "glitz,"

and Marschner seems already to be striving toward opera,

then Schubert distinguishes himself as an inexhaustible fountain of charming and memorable melodies. (first strains of D365ns7-9)

On the other hand, with respect to design and style, Schubert's dances are completely within the limits of typical practice for the period 1815-1830. Arguments made for Schubert's uniqueness on those terms are indefensible.

Dance collections

Here are a few links to dances or dance collections from IMSLP:

Carl Czerny, Les Etrennes, Op. 32. 24 waltzes published by Tobias Haslinger, Vienna, reissue after 1826.

Stephen Heller, Ländler und Walzer, Op. 97. 12 waltzes published by Friedrich Kistner, Leipzig, [date?]

Johannes Brahms, arr. Theodor Kirchner. Liebeslieder-Walzer, Opp. 52 & 65. Piano solo arrangement of both sets, complete. Simrock, Berlin, 1881.

Carl Maria von Weber, Allemandes, Op. 4. 10 dances with trios. From collected edition of music for piano (c. 1890).

Heinrich Marschner, 12 Dances, Op. 53. 6 waltzes and 6 ecossaises. Halberstadt: C.Brüggemann (1820s?)

Czerny's set, details: All 24 dances are in 8+8 design, except n22, which is 16+16, including a truncated reprise. Numbers 7, 12, and 22 make demands on technique in isolated passages; otherwise, any pianist who could play the published waltzes of Schubert could easily play these, as well. The sequence of keys: ns1-6: A major; ns 7-9: C major; ns 10-12: F major; ns 13-14: F minor; ns 15-16: Db major; ns 17-18: F major; ns 19-20: A major; ns 21-22: E major; ns 23-24: C major. Or, overall: A-C-F-Fm-Db-F-A-E-C.

Heller's set, details: The designs vary quite a bit; they are listed below along with keys.

n1 8+8; first strain repeat written out F major

n2 16+16 with reprise D major

n3 8+8+8 as ABA Bb major

n4 8+16, partial reprise D major

n5 8+8 A major

n6 16+8 A minor

n7 8+8+8+8+18 as ABABA with last A extended in coda fashion. No repeat signs. F major

n8 8+16+10, where 16 includes a full reprise and 10 is a separate coda. Ab Major

n9 8+16+16, where 16 includes a full reprise and the second 16 is a slightly varied version of the first 16. Both 16s are repeated as a group (error?) Db major

n10 8+8 with the second strain repeat written out. C major

n11 16+(10+16)+32. First strain no repeat sign; full reprise in the second strain; 32-bar coda is marked "ad libitum." F minor

n12 16+16+8+16+8+16+40. F major

Overall key sequence: F-D-Bb-D-A-Am-F-Ab-Db-C-Fm-F.

The set was probably published around 1860 and shows the hybrid character of Schumann's early sets, especially Papillons. The early pieces could be grouped for dancing, but progressively the set becomes more and more pianistic, more in the nature of character pieces and not social dances.

Weber's set, details: all dances and their trios 8+8. Keys: C-F; G-C; Cm-CM; Eb-Bb; D-D; Dm-F; C-F; Db-Ab; C-F; Bb-Eb. Thus, tonic-subdominant pairings predominate (6 out of 10). It's hard to imagine these dances being played in succession as a complete set. A division into two groups (1-4 or 1-5; 5-10 or 6-10) is plausible, but even then one would probably want to employ some alternativo designs (repeating the trio, then going on to the next dance without a reprise).

Marschner's set, details: The waltzes are clearly meant to be grouped, as in a "single" Strauss or Lanner set. An 8 bar introduction; 8+16 in A (with reprise); 8+12 in E (with reprise); 8+8+8, each section repeated in A; 8+16 with reprise in D; 16+44 in Bb, with second strain as 28+16 (reprise); 8+8 in F. At the end of n4 is a notation "I da capo al Fine" -- somewhat mysterious, as it could mean that n4 should be played as an independent trio to n1 OR that n1 should be reprised at this point perhaps to close the sequence 1-4: so, 1-2-3-4-1 OR it might suggest that n4 is the last in a series of trios, so: 1-2-1-3-1-4-1. Of course, in performance, any of these was possible. A similar notation at the end of n6 is easier to decipher: "V da capo al Fine," making n6 a trio to n5.

Czerny's Op.12 Variations and ^5-^6

Carl Czerny's set of variations on D365n2 is in the bravura style but is obviously meant for domestic consumption, as he carefully and skillfully holds down the technical requirements to a level -- and with the kinds of figures -- that any reasonably well-trained pianist of the day could have managed. The piece consists of an introduction, theme, four variations, and lengthy coda.

The introduction seems to announce that the androgynous ^5 & ^6 will be its focus -- it's almost embarrassing in its profusion of figures:

As it turns out, although there are hints in the theme -- ^6-^5 over V and the expressive alteration of same to ^b6-^5 in the second strain -- Czerny steadfastly ignores the implications of his own introduction, downplaying or even eliminating the ^6-^5 in the variations. The final cadence of the fourth variation seems determined to erase all memory of the figure with an elongated scale, all that just before the sudden jump to bVI to announce the coda.

The score comes from IMSLP. It's a later edition marked as Wolfenbüttel: L. Holle, n.d., plate 178, but not dated. IMSLP also has a PDF scan of the original edition: Wien: S.A. Stemer und Comp, plate S. und C. 3377, but the scan quality is very poor.

Dance in Vienna circa 1820, part 4

The waltz's second wave of popularity in Vienna in the first decades of the nineteenth century did not need to cover a trajectory from lower-to-middle class entertainment to middle-to-upper class entertainment–instead, it added the powerful influence of a new middle-class consumer culture to move from the beer garden and dance hall to open-air and promenade concerts by 1830 and also to the musical stage, both comic and serious. As Donald Tovey puts it, "Let us not forget that this dance music is no dream of Utopia, but was a bourgeois reality in Vienna [in the early nineteenth century]" (27). (Tovey is actually referring to German dances by Mozart [K.567 and 601], but he muddles the two generations of the waltz's early popularity by mixing Mozart with Schubert and Carl Maria von Weber.)

Vienna, alone among the major capitols of Europe, in fact, maintained both dancing and listening at promenade concerts and similar events throughout the century (Weber 112-13). Miriam Hanson also observes that "The great demand for new dance music . . . promoted competition and experimentation that contributed to the high quality and unique character of the classical Viennese waltz. Around 1830, . . . the suburban dance halls and restaurants fostered . . . a music which clearly reflected the city's predominantly bourgeois taste" (168). In the following, William Weber is referring to concerts and similar musical performances, but the same was certainly true of dancing:

after the end of the Napoleonic wars a new era began in the history of the concert world, one in which the middle class began taking on dramatic new roles. . . . [By] the early 1830s the concert life of [London, Paris, and Vienna] exhibited similar dramatic growth, and by 1848 a commercial concert world had emerged in each city, over which the middle class exerted powerful, if not dominant, control (6-7).

In the reminiscence below, a contemporary observer, Heinrich Laube, gives a particularly vivid account of the dancing segment of a Strauss concert at the Sperl in 1833. It is important to remember that these were complex events, not merely music played to serve social dancing, and that these "garden concerts" became the model for similar events throughout Europe. Dance music was played at times for listening, at times for dancing, and audiences also heard potpourris, special-effects compositions (such as battle pieces), opera overtures, and what today would be considered "concert music": "Next to the Zauberflöte Overture stood the Annen-Polka, and after the orchestrated Adagio of the Sonata Pathétique a waltz by Lanner, Fahrbach or Ziehrer" (Schönherr, 187).

Now preparations for the actual dance are made. To keep the unrestrained crowd in line, a rope is spanned . . . to separate the dancers from the rest. But this border is constantly fluctuating and yielding; only the rhythmically whirling heads of the girls are noticeable in that dancing stream. In bacchantic abandon the pairs waltz . . . joyful frenzy is on the loose, no god checks it . . . The beginning of each dance is characteristic. Strauss intones his trembling preludes, longing to pour forth fully . . . the Viennese girl snuggles deep in her lad's arm, and in the strangest way they sway to the beat. For a long while one hears only the long-held breast tones of the nightingale with which she begins her song and enchants the listeners, then suddenly the piercing trill bubbles forth, the dance itself begins with whirling rapidity and the couples hurl themselves into the maelstrom of gaiety. (Gartenberg 98)

By 1840, dance masters might still encourage health officers to intervene when "inexperienced youth" danced too quickly (Litschauer, 7-8), but almost all other trace of criticism was gone, and the way was paved for the eminently middle-class couple dancing of the polka, which quickly joined (and for a time nearly replaced) the waltz in the first years of that decade. Addressing himself to young composers, the very respectable Carl Czerny could write matter-of-factly that "the unparalleled favor which Waltzes have obtained throughout the world, has arisen from their cheerful, exhilarating and universally intelligible character." But the compositional pedagogue could not resist locating some plane of disapproval, which he shifts to matters of taste: "the circumstance that only few composers have yet distinguished themselves in this branch, is a proof that, even for this, talent and a just apprehension of all that the public especially prefers are required" (1:101). Czerny's deprecating "even for this" reminds us that the light music/serious music opposition was forged in its modern sense during the early nineteenth century. The waltz–and the venues in which it was played and danced–was very much a part of that process. Friedemann Otterbach examines the social and philosophical contexts of this process in detail (215-257; especially 220 ff.). See also David Gramit's comments on the dance in the context of the early nineteenth century establishment of the "serious concert" as a privileged venue (131-3).

References:

Czerny, Carl. John Bishop, tr. School of Practical Composition, Op. 600. 3 vols. London: Cocks, 1848; repr. ed., NY: Da Capo, 1979.

Gartenberg, Egon. Johann Strauss: The End of an Era. New York: Da Capo Press, 1979. Original edition published in 1974.

Gramit, David. Cultivating Music: The Aspirations, Interests, and Limits of German Musical Culture, 1770-1848. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002.

Hanson, Alice. Musical Life in Biedermeier Vienna. London: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

Litschauer, Walburga. "Franz Schuberts Tänze: Zwischen Improvisation und Werk." Musiktheorie 10/1 (1995): 3-9.

Otterbach, Friedemann. Die Geschichte der europäischen Tanzmusik. Wilhelmshaven: Heinrichson's, 1980.

Schönherr, Max. "On the Development of Austrian Light Music (1973)." [English summary]. In Lamb, Andrew, ed. Unterhaltungsmusik aus Österreich: Max Schönherr in seinen Erinnerungen und Schriften/Light Music from Austria: Reminiscences and Writings of Max Schönherr, 187-9. New York/Bern: Peter Lang, 1992.

Tovey, Donald. "[Mozart:] Orchestral Dances." In his Essays in Musical Analysis. Vol. 4: Illustrative Music. London: Oxford University Press, 1936. Pp. 26-7.

Weber, William. Music and the Middle Class: The Social Structure of Concert Life in London, Paris and Vienna. London: Croom Helm, 1975.

James Buhler's response

After my paper in the Notre Dame conference (see introduction), James Buhler read a response that was aimed specifically at Littlefield & Neumeyer, the article that broached the (now dated) idea of interpretation as activity essentially independent of a text and the practice of multiple analyses. I am posting the response text here, in the author's newly edited version:

Despite my great admiration for this article, it seems to me that it stops at an especially awkward juncture: it exposes the tensions of Neo-Schenkerian orthodoxy, but it doesn’t resolve them, and all the authors can do--and it must be emphasized that this "all" is still quite a lot--is revel in the force-field of these tensions by unleashing stockpiled analytical technology on a seemingly innocuous little piece by Czerny.

The choice of this particular piece supports the authors’ contention that "the so-called intrinsic value of a work of art has little, if anything, to do with its internal relationships, and everything to do with the expertise of the professional interpreter" (52). By choosing music written for a specific pedagogical purpose, analyzing it, and showing that it in fact possesses value that exceeds its pedagogical content, they emphasize the extent to which that value is a product of the analyst and analytical practice rather than the autonomous artwork as a thing-in-itself.

But all this leaves the project vulnerable to charges of ontological relativism. For if value has "everything to do with the expertise of the professional interpreter" and nothing to do with the work, then we may raise two objections, both related to what I take to be an underlying idealism in their position: (1) Are we to take value as merely illusory, a product only of the interpreting subject and not the object? If this is so, how are we to adjudicate competing value claims? (2) Does the material object, the work of art, not form one of the conditions of possibility of its value? If so, are Littlefield and Neumeyer not repeating the mistake they identify in Neo-Schenkerian orthodoxy of neglecting the lesser term that makes the greater term possible?

It is this residue of idealism, inherited from Schenker, that forces an apparently unseemly choice between an arbitrary order imposed dogmatically from on high, on the one hand, and the unbridled chaos of relativism, on the other. The choice that Littlefield and Neumeyer make leaves their virtuosic interpretative practice relatively empty, for if the quality of the material object has "little, if anything" to do with its value, if its use value is identical with its exchange value and nothing more, then what is the purpose of music analysis? Can music analysis mean and produce anything beyond self-revelation if music itself does not have a meaning that transcends what we say it is?

These questions remain insoluble unless we can distinguish the material dimension of the work from our verbal and analytical formulas. On the one hand, the musical work is a material object: every musical work possesses a material dimension, the “stuff” of the object that does not change when our descriptions, interpretations and analyses of it do. On the other hand, the work, once released into the world, is a discursive object: it is not the same work after analysis as it was before -- we embed the object within the discourse of our analysis. What makes this distinction so hard to grasp, despite its seeming simplicity, is that we only have indirect access to the material dimension: we can only speak of music, its materiality, by placing it into discourse.

This distinction between the material and the discursive dimension lies behind Neumeyer's provocative metaphor of the camera filter [in the Notre Dame paper, I compared analytic methods to camera filters]. We may choose a filter, but the image we produce is still dependent on the original object; and even the filters themselves come with material and discursive properties that we cannot ignore [blue filters, red filters, polarizing filters, etc.]. People make music mean, then, but not just the way they want. When we analyze a work, or more generally when we interpret it, what we do with it is not just of our individual choosing. We encounter analytical contraints of all kinds --institutional, technological, political, historical, social, and yes material -- and the analyses we produce are not indifferent to any of those constraints; certainly the analytical practice of Littlefield and Neumeyer is not indifferent to such constraints, which the virtuosity of their practice allows them to effectively expose and surmount. Once we are sensitive to the existence of the material dimension despite the constant displacement it undergoes, we no longer face a choice between absolute order or absolute chaos, epistemological fundamentalism or ontological relativism. We can have instead multiple analyses, an analytical pluralism, without fear of that epistemological relativism devolving into an ontological one.

I'll post my reply in tomorrow's entry.

Reference:

Littlefield, Richard, and David Neumeyer. "Rewriting Schenker–History, Ideology, Narrative." In Adam Krims, , ed. Music/Ideology: Resisting the Aesthetic, 138-146. Amsterdam: G + B Arts International, 1998. Originally published in Music Theory Spectrum 14/1 (1992): 38-65.