GYÖRGY KURTÁG (b. 1926)
Messages of the Late R. V. Troussova, Op. 17
This
Pierrot-Lunaire-like set of connected—but somehow distant—settings of poems by Rimma Dalos for soprano and chamber ensemble is a fractured tale of a love affair gone wrong, split into 21 songs, or “messages,” the longest of which clocks in at around three minutes. Hungary was occupied by Russia for a long time, and it us under this strain that the piece was composed. “To be an artist in those conditions,” writes critic John Keillor, “can be unhealthy, and a vigorous discretion haunts the sensibilities of those who are courageous and have a talent worth preserving. It can also impart a sadness that is heightened by a clarity, which comes with the loss of the illusions erected by implicit safety, comfort, and easy access to consumer goods.
Messages of the Late Miss R. V. Troussova displays what can happen to persecuted or denied people, in an extended diminuendo.”
Splinters, Op. 6c
Splinters is scored for the traditional Hungarian instrument the cimbalom, which is similar to a hammered dulcimer but more often used in a concert—as opposed to a folk—setting. “In the generation of post–World War II Hungarian composers,” writes composer Zoltán Farkas
, “György Kurtág
was the first to rediscover the cimbalom. His choice was obviously no longer motivated by the national character of the instrument, but by musical considerations such as its sound, rich in overtones, the wide range of techniques, and the direct contact between performer and musical instrument, as well as the traditional character of the cimbalom and a certain lack of restraint associated with it.
“The title,” continues Farkas, “refers to a volume of poems by János Pilinszky. Similarly to Pilinszky's poems, Kurtág's four movements are exceptionally compact and aphoristic; every gesture condenses musical thoughts that fill an entire formal section. The pronounced rhythm and forceful motifs of the first movement (Molto agitato) address the audience in the “imperative.” The second movement searches for the gravitational center of sounds through a process based on the opposition of minor and major seconds. The dynamic third movement (Vivo) exploits to the utmost the many tone-shades of the cimbalom and the innumerable ways of playing the instrument. The closing movement of Kurtág’s cycle commemorates Stefan Romascanu, a good friend from his student days. The motif evolving from the rustle-like repetitions of notes separates the fragments of a highly stylized but still clearly recognizable folk-music-like melody. Kurtág here evokes the mood of instrumental folk lamentation, and imitates popular violin-playing. The work ends on a highly poetic note, with the comments of the accompaniment constantly throwing new light on the deepest d note that is repeated for a long time before it finally dies away.”
Songs to Poems by Anna Akhmatova, Op. 41GYÖRGY LIGETI (1923–2006) Melodien
Cast in a single movement, this orchestral work from 1971 is heavy on the high-pitched percussion (celesta, glockenspiel, crotales). The work is vintage Ligeti, employing his “blurred transitions,” a sound world in which things pass one to the other with a graceful crossfade. This is music one might over generalize as “atmospheric,” but this misses its inherent drama. Ligeti, as evidenced by the title, was composing in a more melodic way, which seemed, to many in the high-modernist camp, anathema. Though in these capable hands, this is not so much a resurrection of melody as a vivisection, an examination not of a melody but of the
idea of melody, then considered by many to be dead.
Cello Concerto
This two-movement work from 1966 shows Ligeti beginning to break ties with his 12-tone, high modernist roots, and explores a rich melodic tapestry. The composer eschews the typical concerto drama of competition between soloist and orchestra, opting instead for a melding of forces above long, languorous lines. The opening says it all, with its single held tone for the soloist around which timbres enter, shift, and exit, creating a kind of musical swirl over a solid, consistent drone.
This is the very notion Ligeti develops throughout, almost as if to ask, “what happens to a single tone that is held too long?” In its lack of conventional drama of contrasts, the piece relishes in its own internal and intimate—and at times terrifying—emotional drama.
—Daniel Felsenfeld
© 2009 by The Carnegie Hall Corporation
Sippal, dobbal nadihegeduvel (With Pipes, Drums, Fiddles)
Síppal, dobbal, nádihegedûvel (
With Pipes, Drums, Fiddles), composed in 2000, is a cycle of seven Hungarian songs for low mezzo-soprano and four percussionists, whose diverse instrumentarium includes non-percussive instruments such as slide whistles and chromatic harmonicas. As so often in my life, I have put to music poems of the great twentieth-century Hungarian poet Sándoe Weöres. He was a unique virtuoso of the Hungarian language and his poetic subjects are sometimes trivial or obscene, occasionally sarcastic or humorous, tragic or desperate, and even include artifical myths and legends. Some of his works are large-scale frescoes, which are worlds within themselves. It is, however, to the countless, equally profound and playful short poems that I have always turned for my composition.
In the first song “Fabula”
(Fable), a pack of wolves shudder with fear as two mountains approach each other, crushing them without pity in their wake. The text of
Táncdal (Dance Song) may sound meaningful, but actually the words are imaginary, having only rhythm and no meaning. In
Kínai templom (Chinese Temple) Weöres succeeds in conveying the contentment of the Buddhist view of life by using only monosyllabic Hungarian words.
Kuli (Coolie) is a poetic portrayal of an Asian pariah’s monotonous hopelessness and pent-up aggressiveness. In
Alma álma (Dream) I have embedded the voice into the sound of four harmonicas, creating a strange, surreal atmosphere. The poem describes how the branches of an apple tree gently sway in the wind and an apple dreams of journeys in distant, enchanted lands.
Keserédes (Bitter-sweet) is like a “fake” Hungarian folk song. I sought to express this rift by combining artificial folk music with a pop-like melody and an artificially sweetened accompaniment. Even if the text of
Szajkó (Parakeet) does have a meaning, the poem is in effect a nonsensial play on words, but one which produces a rhythmic swing.
The title of this cycle is not from Weöres: it is a line from a Hungarian children’s verse (a kind of counting rhyme), which dates from the time of the Turkish occupation of Hungary.
—György Ligeti
(Translation by Louise Duchesneau)