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Beethoven ate
Dec. 17th, 2006 08:59 amYesterday was Beethoven's birthday, so I listened to a symphony. His Eighth, to be specific, as played at Stanford by the Palo Alto Chamber Orchestra, a local youth group. PACO is a string orchestra, so adult ringers played the winds, brass, timpani.
The Eighth, like most of Beethoven's even-numbered symphonies, is actually an odd work. Often described as his lightest and most charming symphony, it's actually inflamingly violent within its small dimensions, the Yosemite Sam of Beethoven symphonies. (Let's see: Bugs Bunny is the First, Elmer Fudd is the Sixth, Daffy Duck is the Seventh. Oh, shoot me now, shoot me now!) Would Beethoven have written differently had he not been deaf? I was asked. Sure: he wouldn't have been jumping up and down so much trying to be heard.
After completing eight symphonies in twelve years, by the way, Beethoven took another twelve years off before completing another one. So for all that time of his growing fame, he was known as the composer of eight symphonies, not nine.
Also on the program, a concerto by Louis Spohr, a younger contemporary of Beethoven's who was more popular and more famous than he and who lived until 1859. The soloists in this concerto are an entire string quartet. When Spohr can figure out how to write for his strange ensemble instead of against it, it's pretty interesting, a latter-day reinvention of the Baroque multiple-soloist concerto.
And a newly composed piece by a local, an intricately-scored contemplative musing for strings in the tradition of the Tallis Fantasia and Hovhaness and de Kenessey. I've been reading Alan Rich (more on him later), and he'd probably dribble scorn all over its severely diatonic harmonies, but I really liked it. Too bad that the orchestra, pretty satisfactory for a youth group in the rest of the concert, couldn't play this one worth beans, which the composer ought to have known since he coaches them.
I'm reviewing this one - wrote the whole thing this morning, fast for me - and the publicity person who fetched my tickets was eagerly attentive. I figured out why when she introduced me to other publicity people as the reviewer for the San Francisco Chronicle. "SF Classical Voice," I kept inserting whenever she said that, but I guess she didn't hear me; and when intermission came I approached her to ask a couple legitimate questions and then said, "I'm not sure if you got the name of my publication correct. It's San Francisco Classical Voice." "Oh," she said, "I thought you were with the Chronicle."
The Eighth, like most of Beethoven's even-numbered symphonies, is actually an odd work. Often described as his lightest and most charming symphony, it's actually inflamingly violent within its small dimensions, the Yosemite Sam of Beethoven symphonies. (Let's see: Bugs Bunny is the First, Elmer Fudd is the Sixth, Daffy Duck is the Seventh. Oh, shoot me now, shoot me now!) Would Beethoven have written differently had he not been deaf? I was asked. Sure: he wouldn't have been jumping up and down so much trying to be heard.
After completing eight symphonies in twelve years, by the way, Beethoven took another twelve years off before completing another one. So for all that time of his growing fame, he was known as the composer of eight symphonies, not nine.
Also on the program, a concerto by Louis Spohr, a younger contemporary of Beethoven's who was more popular and more famous than he and who lived until 1859. The soloists in this concerto are an entire string quartet. When Spohr can figure out how to write for his strange ensemble instead of against it, it's pretty interesting, a latter-day reinvention of the Baroque multiple-soloist concerto.
And a newly composed piece by a local, an intricately-scored contemplative musing for strings in the tradition of the Tallis Fantasia and Hovhaness and de Kenessey. I've been reading Alan Rich (more on him later), and he'd probably dribble scorn all over its severely diatonic harmonies, but I really liked it. Too bad that the orchestra, pretty satisfactory for a youth group in the rest of the concert, couldn't play this one worth beans, which the composer ought to have known since he coaches them.
I'm reviewing this one - wrote the whole thing this morning, fast for me - and the publicity person who fetched my tickets was eagerly attentive. I figured out why when she introduced me to other publicity people as the reviewer for the San Francisco Chronicle. "SF Classical Voice," I kept inserting whenever she said that, but I guess she didn't hear me; and when intermission came I approached her to ask a couple legitimate questions and then said, "I'm not sure if you got the name of my publication correct. It's San Francisco Classical Voice." "Oh," she said, "I thought you were with the Chronicle."
