The Planets, Op. 32
Gustav Holst
b. Cheltenham, England / September 21, 1874
d. London, England / May 25, 1934
Together with his friend and fellow composer Ralph Vaughan Williams, Holst played a major role in re energizing English concert music by injecting it with the spirit, and at times the letter, of the country’s folk music. Both composers also created music in a more cosmopolitan style, such as this engaging, brilliantly scored suite for orchestra. It has always been Holst’s most popular composition.
When it came to outside interests, Holst usually concerned himself only with those that stimulated his creative imagination. During a tour of Spain in 1913, a fellow traveler, author Clifford Bax, introduced him to astrology. Soon afterwards, he wrote to a friend, “…recently the character of each planet suggested lots to me, and I have been studying astrology fairly closely.”
The large-scale orchestral suite that resulted from this interest depicts the astrological characters of seven planets in our solar system (he didn’t include the Earth, and Pluto had yet to be discovered). These characters differ from their mythological personalities, although Holst’s portrait of Venus manages to conjure both her mythological beauty and her astrological peacefulness.
He completed Mars, the opening movement, in a rural cottage during August 1914. He composed the remaining six movements over the next two years. One reason for his not completing it more quickly was his fear that no orchestra big enough to handle his lavish demands would be available during wartime. Sir Adrian Boult conducted the first performance, given before an invited audience of 300, in London on September 29, 1918.
Mars, the Bringer of War, portrays a world in the grip of cold, implacable brutality. Brass and percussion hold center stage throughout, pounding out harsh blocks of sound over an implacable, motor like rhythmic tread. After a grindingly dissonant climax, the death machine pauses desolately for a moment, only to power recklessly ahead to a devastating conclusion.
A solo horn summons Venus, the Bringer of Peace. Here is total contrast: a calm, tranquil reverie, set far from the scene of any conflict, scored in delicate pastels (only horns for brass, and celesta for percussion), and shot through with gorgeous solo passages.
Two contrasted scherzos follow. Mercury, the Winged Messenger, flits by on transparent, gossamer wings. Holst associated this character with the process of human thought. Something of that swift, quicksilver process may be heard in the chuckling woodwinds, darting strings, and tinkling celesta.
Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity, on the other hand, has both jovial feet planted firmly on the ground. Robustly scored Falstaffian tunes reflecting Holst’s study of English folk dances drive the opening and closing sections. In the central panel, the strings introduce a stately, hymn-like theme evoking a more ceremonial type of rejoicing.
Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age, Holst’s favorite movement, communicates the greatest emotional depth in the suite. This miniature tone poem sets forth his views on the stages of human life: the uncertain beginning (restless activity over slowly alternating chords in flutes and harps); the struggles and heartbreaks of maturation (a solemn march building slowly to a harsh climax); and finally, gratifyingly, the emergence in late years of wisdom, with its serene acceptance of imperfection and mortality.
Next comes the dynamic conjuring act of Uranus, the Magician. Brass cast the spell; as in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the bassoons are the first to respond. Holst puts his huge ensemble through many spectacular paces, dramatic and grotesquely humorous alike. A mad, merry dance tune repeatedly threatens to careen out of control, as the timpani and low brass cavort like spellbound elephants. A final incantation leads to a hushed, unsettled close.
The suite concludes with the diaphanous, disembodied meditations of Neptune, the Mystic. Set once again in the unsettling realm of five beats to the bar, they arrive as if having traveled across vast distances of outer and inner space. Mid-way through, the ethereal sound of a wordless female chorus floats in from offstage. In the final bars, the orchestra falls silent and the voices echo, over and over, until they fade into silent infinity.
Symphony No. 45 in F-sharp minor “Farewell”
Joseph Haydn
b. Rohrau, Lower Austria / March 31, 1732
d. Vienna, Austria / May 31, 1809
This dramatic and vividly theatrical work dates from a period when Haydn’s style was undergoing change. This reflected a widespread artistic trend of the period, which took its name, Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress), from a popular play. Founded upon an increase in individual expression, it nurtured the presentation of deeper, darker emotions, as a supplement to the courtly gentility characteristic of previous years’ art.
Haydn entered the service of the Esterházys, a noble Hungarian family, in 1761. Although their court orchestra was small – no more than 18 players during this period – its excellent quality proved a powerful stimulus to Haydn’s imagination. It also won his deep admiration and loyalty, nowhere more clearly and cleverly demonstrated than in this symphony.
Prince Nicolaus Esterházy owned a palace in Vienna and two grand estates, one at Eisenstadt, the other a summer residence at Esterháza. The Prince adored his summer retreat. It became his habit to spend more and more time there. In 1772, he stayed longer than ever, into November. This distressed the members of his orchestra, who had not been allowed to bring their families with them from Eisenstadt. They turned to Haydn for help. He composed this Symphony in such a way as to give the Prince a gentle hint that it was time to leave.
It is one of Haydn’s few symphonies (11 out of 104, to be exact) in a minor key. It also appears to be the first-ever symphony in F-sharp minor. There have been few later examples, such as Glazunov’s Second.
There are no preliminary gestures. Haydn flings us directly into a turbulent, dramatic world. There is only minimal respite in the opening movement, which is filled with many sudden shifts in dynamics and nervous string tremolos. Haydn follows it with a full scale Adagio. Opening with a march like tread, it strikes a pathetic mood, full of wistfulness and yearning. Could he have intended it is a portrait of his unhappy orchestra? Unusually, the Minuet begins quietly, almost hesitantly, a quick indoctrination into its nature, which is far removed from the dance floor. The central Trio section includes a quote from an ancient Gregorian chant melody, the original text drawn from the lamentations of the prophet Jeremiah.
The Finale returns to the minor key activity and storms of the first movement. But then Haydn calls an abrupt halt, switching to a serene, restful Adagio in the major. He gradually peels the orchestra away, singly or in pairs. At the first performance, the musicians (most of whom played standing up) snuffed out the candles on their music stands as they departed. Finally just two violinists remained to complete the pantomime: Haydn and concertmaster Luigi Tomasini.
Prince Nicolaus took the hint and gave orders to pack up and leave for Eisenstadt the next day. This episode did not anger the music-loving nobleman. In fact it served to endear Haydn to him more than ever.
© 2008 Don Anderson. All rights reserved.
