Tabloid Tuesday: Ludwig van Beethoven

Many of you are well aware of the most reported-upon aspects of Beethoven’s private life. These include his deafness, and the “Immortal Beloved” letter to a mystery woman, supposedly written in the year 1812.

Since those bits have been over-discussed and over-publicized (if you don’t know much about them, look up pretty much any other biography on Beethoven), I have decided to write about something else concerning this early nineteenth-century musician.

As you’ve probably picked up on by now, I have a mild interest in literature. That’s why this week I am going to explain to you why Beethoven’s early adulthood strongly resembles the form of the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century novel.

Something that occupies the focus of most fictions written around the time that Beethoven was alive was money. The major anxiety for all women characters in Jane Austen novels for instance, while ostensibly love is actually about the annuity and estate tied to the men who these women fell for.

Money prevented marriages, condemned ill-suited connexions, and rarely allowed the perfect match to take place in the first 300 pages.

So back to our composer. When he was a young man, he had Great Expectations (see what I did there?) placed upon him.

His teacher, Gottlob Neffe said of Beethoven when he was only 11 years old that “he would surely become a second Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart if he were to continue as he has begun.”

As he grew a little older, Beethoven became part of a circle of aristocratic friends, and even had an older woman who seems to have acted as a pseudo mother figure (see Lady Russell from Jane Austen’s Persuasion). She prevented advances from ill suitors and gave advice to the young composer.

It was not long before Beethoven impressed Haydn with his musical prowess and became his pupil. Upon his leaving for further tutelage by this great composer, his friend Waldstein prophetically wrote “you shall receive Mozart’s spirit from Haydn’s hands.”

Unfortunately, Beethoven believed that Haydn was “not well minded towards him” and therefore did not show him much affection or trust. He also believed that Haydn may have been neglecting or even sabotaging his tuition. So he also enlisted a second tutor to supplement his education, without informing his primary teacher.

He said that although he had taken lessons with Haydn, the musician had never taught him anything, so he declined to publish “pupil of Haydn” as a byline to any of his compositions, despite the fact that it was the custom at the time to do so.

Even though he was receiving a healthy annuity, Beethoven found himself in a bit of debt around this time, and complained about his plight to his tutor, who got Beethoven in trouble with some of the governing bodies supplying him with money.

Luckily, a few years later, Beethoven, who was admired by the aristocracy, was patronized by a number of noblemen who offered him a salary to keep composing.

But after the year 1812, the war had decreased the value of the florin, and he found himself in even more difficulty. This was supplemented by the untimely death of a few of his patrons who had suddenly passed away before being able to leave instructions for further payment to the Beethoven. (The untimely deaths highly resemble the plot to more than one late-Romantic novel.)

Though he managed to stay out of crushing poverty, Beethoven struggled with money for his entire life. Relying upon the commissions from publications and donations from patrons are hardly stable, and even with a guaranteed annuity, difficulties can still arise.

The plight of being an artist in the time of Beethoven is that nothing is really sure when it comes to money. This is why so many novels centre on the anxiety of young women finding a good match. In this period, a woman - much like an artist -  was nearly unable to support herself without dependence upon an annuity from an external source, whether that was a husband, inheritance from a father, or an aristocratic patron.

Over the years Beethoven not only suffered financial stress, but various romantic disappointments as well. He was turned down by women he was fond of, and to be honest, just fell in love with women who were unavailable much too frequently.

In fact, after a major disappointment around 1812, Beethoven fell into such a depression that he suffered a slight creative slump.

This just shows how important literature is to understanding different cultures and periods of time – the reality of Beethoven’s life is aptly represented in the literature produced in this period. It reflects values, attitudes, and most importantly, social anxieties at the core of the issues each culture faces on a regular basis.

You can hear the music of Beethoven this season performed by the Kingston Symphony in our season opener: Beethoven & Brahms on September 29^th at 2:30 at the Grand Theatre and in Mozart & Beethoven on December 1^st, at 2:30 at the Grand Theatre.

Tabloid Tuesday: Carl Maria von Weber

In 1786, a fifty year old military man turned judge and nobleman, turned squanderer and minor council, and his sixteen year old wife had a baby boy. The baby was born with a hip disease which led to incurable partial lameness. The boy was not able to walk until he was four, though by this time he was proficient at both piano and singing. This boy was Carl Maria von Weber.

His mother died before he was twelve so that meant, like many other musical young children at the time, he was submitted to the will of his father who wanted to have a prodigy in the family like the famous Mozart. 

Fortunately for Weber, his father also gave him sufficient instruction in other subjects, though, of course, music was emphasised as the most important aspect of his education.

So when he was still in his teens he began to direct an opera house, though he gave up this posting after a few years because of the growing resentment of the musicians who were over twice or three times his own age and didn’t take kindly to his firm instruction.

At 21, he was appointed to work under Duke Louis, King of Würtemburg. He and the king did not get along well at all. So one day, after a heated fight, Weber who had stormed out of the King’s chamber directed a woman who was looking for the washerwoman into the King’s chamber. The King was furious and soon discovered who was at fault for this audacious violation, and he had Weber thrown in jail. And yes, this does seem a tad extreme.

Not long after this, Weber discovered that his father had been misappropriating some of the King’s funds, and upon discovery by the royal court, they were both banished.

His father died a short two years later, and it is around this time that Weber really came into his own as a composer.

Even though his father had gotten him into a lot of trouble and pushed him perhaps more than a young child should be pushed, Weber still mourned with extreme passion over his father’s death.

While directing the opera in Dresden, he married a singer named Caroline Brandt, and the couple settled down in Dresden and became incredibly popular. He brought German opera to the stage where Italian opera had been establish and long preferred. In fact, many consider him to be the founder of German Romantic opera.

It was not long before Weber found himself attacked by the Prime Minister of the King, who took ill will towards the young German composer and his new German opera. However, eventually he had to submit to the will of the public and make Weber’s place in Dresden a permanent one. At this time Caroline left the stage and committed herself to being a wife and filling the Weber home with happiness.

Though Weber was publically popular, he was constantly under attack by the aristocracy. It really speaks to the personality of the composer that he did not bend under the violent abuse of the nobles.

Years later, Weber began to fall ill. He realized that he would not be able to leave his wife and children with enough money to live on after he passed away. Knowing this, and in a great deal of physical pain, Weber took it upon himself to compose a great masterpiece which would make enough money to ensure his family’s security. So he wrote what is his most famous and beautifully composed work: Oberon.

(Aside: Many disregard the opera as a whole and instead solely recognize "Overture to Oberon" as his greatest masterpiece.)

Though he became even weaker, Weber knew that to earn the money he needed for his family he would have to go to England for the premiere of Oberon. He longed for home but continued to attend performances of his work to raise more money.

He continued to attend concerts until nearly two months later he felt that he had raised enough to return home to his family. He made arrangements to return back to his wife and kids, set to depart on June 6, 1826. On the morning of June 5, his servant walked into the room and found his master peacefully asleep, never to wake again.

You can hear Weber’s “Overture to Oberon” performed by the Kingston Symphony this season in Cathedral Architecture on October 27^th at St. George’s Cathedral.

Tabloid Tuesday: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Even if you’re a new comer to the classical scene, I know you know who Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is. He has been called the most universal composer in the history of Western music. And with a name like that how could he not be destined for greatness?

His earliest compositions were written when he was five. It’s not like he wrote the requiem at this point (in fact the Requiem is the last piece he wrote), but that’s still an impressively young age for the short simple pieces he wrote at that time.

He was an eager and affectionate young man, but also very proud and ambitious. He only liked to play for people who took music seriously.

His father paraded him around Europe showing off his musical talents, much like the pageant mothers of the 21^st century but without the spray tan and wigs… well maybe the wigs. He toured to prestigious venues all over the continent at a young age and wowed nobles everywhere he went.

Though he didn’t have any formal schooling, he learned Latin at a young age, then Italian and later some French and English. He also had a fondness for arithmetic, demonstrated by his mathematical doodlings.

He married Constanze Weber in 1782. Their relationship appears to have been very affectionate and dedicated, though initially opposed by his father who wanted his son to focus solely on his music.

This brilliant man went on to write masterpiece after masterpiece. By the time of his death he had composed over 600 pieces, though the exact number is unknown due to misappropriations and some things which may have been lost, and some which were incomplete.

Alright. Have I made it sufficiently clear that Mozart was an absolutely genius composer who had the greatest of influence on generations to come?

Good. I don’t want any of that to be depreciated by what I tell you next. Because really, we all have our own quirks in our personal lives.

As many young people do, Mozart just loved silly, gross things. He commonly corresponded with his female cousin, Maria Anna Thekla, by letter in simple rhyming verse.

This was not the verse of children’s rhymes, or sonnet, ballad, or ode. Nope. These were bawdy rhymes featuring flatulence and defecation (on various body parts and items of furniture).

He also corresponded in a like manner with his mother, who thought it was a jolly old time and wrote back similarly. I won’t actually post the lyrics to the songs he wrote (sometimes in canon form) on the theme, nor snippets from the letters he wrote. However, if you don’t believe me or need a good laugh, please, Google it.

I want to reiterate that I no less respect Mozart as an artist and great mind. It just goes to show that even the most brilliant among us have oddities.

Actually, the things he wrote are quite funny, if in the most juvenile way possible. It just shows that this great artist still had a sense of humor about him after being showcased like a prize pig by his father, and furiously turning out one masterpiece after another.

You can hear the more professional music written by this great mind performed by the Kingston Symphony this season in Mozart & Beethoven (December 1^st), Brahms, Mozart & Elgar (March 2^nd), and Mozart’s Requiem (March 23^rd). 

Tabloid Tuesday: Antonin Dvorak

Today’s post is going to be on the theme of modesty, and personal pride in one’s origins.

I find Antonin Dvorak a fascinating composer because despite many professional conflicts regarding his nationality and his undying humility, he was incredibly successful in his own time. He is the perfect example of the claim that it doesn’t take superstar ego to be a super star.

A trend I’m sure you have noticed in a lot of the big names of Dvorak’s time is that many of them are German or Austrian. Dvorak, on the other hand, was Czech.

Johannes Brahms was indisputably a key factor in the success of Dvorak’s music. He sent some of Dvorak’s early works off to his publisher, Simrock, and also encouraged him to move into a more serious musical scene. Brahms’ connections were of infinite help to the young Czech composer who felt that his people were discriminated against by the German population.

The two composers had a great friendship which lasted through their lives. They supported one another, and Brahms’ influence in Dvorak’s music is evident.

To be honest, Dvorak’s personal life is quite tame compared to some of the other composers I’ve featured. Had he been alive today his modesty and docile home life surely would have kept him off the magazine rack. But I think that he deserves just the same spotlight as his slightly more dramatic contemporaries – perhaps even more as a reward for his good behaviour.

But I will give you this little tidbit:

He was in love with his pupil Jesofina Cermakova, though married her younger sister Anna in November 1873, whom he also taught. They remained happily married. The end. Though it may seem odd, this was actually a fairly common occurrence at the time.

Though his personal life was far from dramatic, this composer was fierce when it came to defending the honour of his home country.

He got into a fight with his publisher over his 7^th symphony. The publisher wanted Dvorak to print both his name and the title of the piece in German. The composer angrily replied: “But what have we two to do with politics; let us be glad that we can dedicate our services solely to the beautiful art!” After another rift over compensation for another of his larger pieces, Dvorak severed all ties with Simrock and sold his works to Novello instead.

His strong sense of Czech nationalism stuck with him through his travels to America – in many of the cities he visited the Czech populations threw banquets for him.

Ultimately, he wasn’t able to return to America to finish his term position in New York because his employer had gone bankrupt and was behind in paying him and there was little promise of future compensation.

Despite all of the professional problems he had over the years, Dvorak still managed to do very well for himself. This just goes to show that with his good connections (he was also friends with Tchaikovsky and Mahler) and talent he was able to make the best of difficult professional situations.

In the last years of his life he lived in his beloved home country, and was honoured with prizes and awards. He loved wandering in the woods and forests of his home country; he bred pigeons and enjoyed train spotting.

Essentially, this post aims to remind you (hopefully not too didactically) that genius does not always spring from drama; artistry comes not solely from the dusty streets of the impoverished, nor from beneath the “majestical roof fretted with golden fire” of aristocrats. Those who lead a humble life, and remain true to that humility can achieve greatness.

This season you can hear music written by Dvorak performed by the Kingston Symphony on February 2^nd, 2014 in Mahler, Ravel & Dvorak. 

Tabloid Tuesday: Franz Schubert

As one of the first major figures of Romantic era music, I want to discuss Franz Schubert as a markedly Romantic artistic figure.

Some of the characteristics he shared with Romanticism include his short life, and his death from illness. Ah the Romantic era, when the best artists died young and everyone had consumption.

I’m going to go a little off-track here, and talk about the artistic counterpart of music: poetry.

Poetry and music have long shared an important relationship. The reciprocal nature of the two art forms throughout history bring light to one another, and together they reveal societal attitudes and beliefs of a given era. And this is my justification for taking you down the road of the Romantic poets. Bear with me.

In the literary world, there is a generally recognized big six of the Romantic canon in England: William Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron (the namesake of my gorgeous new puppy). The first three compose the first generation Romantics, and the last three the second generation. What’s interesting about the second generation is that none of the three of them lived to see 30.

Shelley died in a boating accident (though there is much discussion and conspiracy theory around the “accidental” nature of his death) less than a month before his 30^th birthday. Byron died from illness while fighting in the civil war in Greece at 25. And young Keats died of tuberculosis at 25 in Rome. Actually, the entire second generation of Romantic poets was survived by the entire first generation, who all lived to ripe old ages, and much like a peach, some of them (ahem, Wordsworth) softened with their ripeness.

Alright, I need to put this Schubert thing on hold for a second, and you need to hear THE BEST story about Lord Byron. He was a little out there to say the least. He had a pet Newfoundland dog named Boatswain whom he adored and who was the subject of one of Byron's most well-known poems, Epitaph to a Dog. When he went to Cambridge University he was prohibited from keeping his dog with him in his chambers. So what did Byron do? He brought a bear to campus to live in his room with him. Yes, an actual bear. He even suggested that he would apply for a college fellowship for the animal, and was often seen walking his tame bear around town.

Anyway!

Like these young poets, Schubert also died young and of illness, though he did live past 30 (just to 31 though). It was believed for a long time that he died of typhoid. But now it is almost conclusively recognized that he suffered from syphilis.

Evidence for this claim includes the symptoms of mercury poisoning. Mercury was often used to treat syphilis, though clearly it was not a very effective treatment for Schubert.

Like Lord Byron, this composer found that the medical treatments of the day were of no help to his cause. When Byron was sick and suffering in Greece, he was prescribed bloodletting. This actually weakened him and helped the disease progress further and faster.

But while Schubert was alive, he created some wonderful masterpieces. He wrote around 600 lieder (or art songs) and nine symphonies, some operas, a large body of chamber and solo piano music just to name some of his accomplishments.

Much like Keats, Schubert wasted no time while he was alive. Both artists created a massive and well-developed mature body of work, considering how young they both were when they died.

You can hear Schubert’s Symphony No. 8, or as it is more commonly known, the mysterious and beautiful “Unfinished Symphony,” performed by the Kingston Symphony this season on October 27^th at St. George’s Cathedral in Cathedral Architecture.

Tabloid Tuesday: Gustav Mahler

Today I am going to tell you all about Gustav Mahler, the passionate and dramatic composer of the nineteenth century.

One of the many things Mahler is known for is his passion. These characteristics are evident in his music; he is famous for his big crashes, and loud brass sections. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I've met a single brass player who doesn't just adore playing Mahler, because they are encouraged to get as loud as possible.

This passion, however, led to some melodrama in the composer’s life and the loss of some postings he had over the years. On a few occasions, he resigned from positions in a fit of rage – luckily not all of these resignations were accepted. Another time because of “artistic differences” he was fired.

As much as his extreme emotions led to a lot of rage, he was also a passionate lover. He once fell in love with a singer and consequentially wrote his first masterpiece, inspired by his love for her.

Next he fell in love with Carl von Wagner’s wife while he was working alongside Wagner conducting some of his operas. Because of his love for his colleague’s wife he had a fierce creative period about this time.

But he didn’t always fall for unattainable women. In spring 1902, Mahler married young Alma Schindler, who was an intellectual young woman studying composition. However, because Mahler demanded their relationship work around his schedule, and that she give up composing, there were obviously issues in the marriage.

Many people take the option of marriage counseling when there are difficulties at home. Mahler also went this route. But instead of talking to any old councilor, he went to the father of psychoanalysis: Sigmund Freud. Yeah, because apparently that was a thing you could just do. The doctor himself was impressed with Mahler’s deep understanding of psychoanalytic theory, and helped Mahler rediscover his love for Alma.

I want to add an aside here about Freud and psychoanalysis: Though many people think of Freud as an old crackpot who was misogynistic (the misogyny bit is unfortunately true) and kind of insane, he actually had some really important ideas. He initiated the discourse of modern psychology, and without his radical and fundamental ideas, we would not be where we are today.

On a somewhat related note, it’s fascinating to me that Mahler was so tied up with important thinkers of his time. Mahler was a scholar of philosophy and a great reader of Nietzsche’s early work, which is ironic, because Mahler’s pieces themselves are philosophically light-years away from nihilism!

Whew, now that I have that off my chest, let’s carry on, shall we?

Mahler’s passion for music led him to do some pretty extraordinary things. Upon realizing that he would not be able to get a posting in Vienna because of his Jewish heritage, he accepted baptism as a Catholic in 1897, and was appointed Kapellmeister at Vienna after a few months.

However, even though he had converted to Catholicism, there were still intolerant people in Vienna. There was an anti-Mahler campaign launched which came to a head in 1907, at which time Mahler agreed to give his resignation.

He eventually died of a bacterial infection after various other medical difficulties in Vienna on May 12, 1911.

There aren’t too many gossipy things about Mahler that I came across in my searches, however, there are some fun little rumours of which I doubt the veracity, but perhaps speak to the kind of man he was anyway.

I was told that he used to walk around in different cadences, and then use one of those odd walking patterns for the rhythm for whichever piece he was working on.

I also read that he was once composing in the countryside at the foot of the Alps, and demanded absolute silence. So he had all of the surrounding farmers lock up their animals so that he could write in peace.

You can hear music composed by Mahler performed by the Kingston Symphony on February 2^nd, 2014 in Mahler, Ravel & Dvorak.

Tabloid Tuesday: Tchaikovsky

It’s that day again! This week is Tchaikovsky’s Tabloid Tuesday. I’m extra excited about this week for three reasons: 1. Tchaikovsky is one of my favourite composers; 2. He had a radical and fascinating life; and 3. I love alliteration!

As many people know, it is widely recognized that Tchaikovsky was homosexual. As a public figure in the nineteenth century, this makes his story especially fascinating and dramatic.

Of course his sexual orientation didn’t keep Tchaikovsky from attempting to fit in with the rest of his heteronormative society. But after failing to marry singer Desiree Artot when she suddenly married a Spanish baritone in 1869, it might have seemed a good time to stop trying to be something he wasn’t, but society demanded he be.

Yet Tchaikovsky was not completely deterred from the idea of a heterosexual marriage. In 1877, a woman named Antonina Milyukova wrote to him, and in subsequent letters threatened to kill herself if he would not meet her. A week after their meeting, Tchaikovsky proposed to her on the terms that there could be no physical component to their relationship.

Disclaimer: this method of flirtation is not always as effective as it was for Antonina; use at your own discretion.

As soon as they were engaged then married, Tchaikovsky promptly ran off to compose a few more masterpieces elsewhere – far away from his new wife. That September, Tchaikovsky was forced to return to his Antonina, which proved to be too much stress for our composer. So a few days later he made a feeble attempt at suicide.

He arranged to go back to St. Petersburg for October 7^th, and consulted a specialist who suggested he never see his wife again. His brother then arranged a separation.

For years Antonina made poor Tchaikovsky’s life unbearable by alternatively accepting then refusing a divorce.

At one point Antonina actually moved into the apartment above Tchaikovsky, just to make his life miserable, and for ease of tormenting. I can just imagine it now – wake up, have breakfast, go downstairs to harass her estranged husband. The situation almost seems to be perfectly inspired by the drama from which Tchaikovsky drew from for many of his compositions, which included Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and Lord Byron’s Manfred.

Luckily this all worked out in the end for our favourite Russian composer: in 1881 it was discovered that Antonina had birthed an illegitimate child, which gave Tchaikovsky legitimate grounds for divorce. I know, this sounds suspiciously like a Shakespearean comedy. It has movement from imperfect social order, to absolute disaster with both excessive and funny elements (see Act IV, scene V of Taming of the Shrew), finally settling on a renewed and balanced order in which wrongs are righted. Though this comedy, instead of ending in marriage, ended in a happy divorce.

But still, Antonina could reveal at any time Tchaikovsky’s refusal to engage in sexual acts with women. He worried that it may become public at any moment, and so spent a great deal of time out in seclusion in the countryside.

And here is where the comedy switches to tragedy; the ghosts take the place of the wood nymphs.

Ultimately, in 1893, he committed suicide. It seems that the reason is because of an affair the composer had with an aristocrat’s nephew. There was a court of honour to decide how to dispel the scandal, and it was decided that the composer should kill himself.

Even though Michel Foucault, renowned theorist and critic says in his History of Sexuality that the Victorian Era (roughly 1837-1901) is the time that “the homosexual became a species,” it is clear that though distinct, this minority group was far from accepted in Tchaikovsky’s time.

Tchaikovsky struggled his entire life with what his society believed were unnatural desires. There are many rumours and bits of information, none of which I am completely convinced, that I’ve come across regarding the composer’s personal life.

Some sources say that he was surrounded by a close community of men who supported his differences.

Some even say that he was fairly open about his sexuality and frequently engaged in sexual acts with men, but felt shameful about it.

Whatever the truth was about his personal life, it is completely indisputable that Tchaikovsky was a musical genius. And, as some critics suggest, much of the wonderful passion in his music came from his inability to fully express himself in his personal life. So ultimately, his misery led to some of the greatest musical masterpieces we know today.

This season you can hear music by Tchaikovsky performed by the Kingston Symphony on April 13^th, 2014 in Brahms, Schumann & Tchaikovsky.