“Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate… Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?” - Siegfried Sassoon

After 1945, those who performed, wrote or taught classical music worked in a culture scarred by omissions. These were not of their making, but were part of the legacy of atrocities committed by Nazi Germany. With its racist ideology and systematic suppression particularly, although not exclusively, of Jewish musicians, artists and writers, the Third Reich silenced two generations of composers and, with them, an entire musical heritage. Many, who perished in concentration camps, and others, whose freedom and productivity were curtailed, were fated to be forgotten after the war. Their music seemed to have passed with them, lost in endless silence.

However, more lost music has survived than was at first thought. It has taken decades of dedicated work to recover and publish it. We must now mitigate a great injustice by working to revive the music of those whose only “fault” was that they were Jewish, or that they were opposed to, or deemed offensive, by an authoritarian regime.

But that is not the only reason to restore these works. I believe that the spirit of this “lost generation” now needs to be heard. The creativity of the first half of the twentieth century is far richer than we think. Alongside Stravinsky, Strauss and other major and more fortunate figures, the varied voices of composers from Berlin, Vienna, Prague and Budapest, whether Jewish, dissident or immigrant, reveal much about the musical ferment of their time. Their music, I believe, is accessible and relevant. Further, our own American heritage owes an enormous debt to those who emigrated to Hollywood and Broadway, bringing their distinctive personalities with them, and creating a style that has since evolved into a distinctly American one.

The cliché that “there are no lost masterpieces” reveals our own ignorance. Entire civilizations, along with their masterpieces, have been destroyed by war since the beginning of human history. Various forms of censorship have repeatedly affected artists and works, and continue to do so.

The suppression of these composers and musicians caused the greatest single rupture in what had been a continuous seamless transmittal of German classical music. This centuries-old tradition, dating from before Johann Sebastian Bach, was passed on from one generation to the next. It was nourished by the free expression of an often contentious creative exchange between conservative traditional artistic expression and competing currents of innovation and iconoclasm. The policies of the Third Reich destroyed the environment in which this exchange could flourish, murdering an entire generation of its greatest talents, uprooting an entire garden, with its creative polemics and dialectics, forcing those who survived to scatter all over the world, where there were no comparable artistic milieus in which to live and create. This immense self-destructive act seriously damaged one of Germany’s most cherished traditions, killed its caretakers, and buried a “lost generation” along with its spirit.

There are three aspects to be taken into consideration when approaching this music: moral, historical and artistic. Undoing injustice, when one can, is a moral mandate for all citizens of a civilized world. We cannot restore to these composers their lost lives. We can, however, return the gift that would mean more to them than any other: to play their music.

Our perspectives on the history of twentieth-century classical music are incomplete because an enormous quantity of works has remained unplayed, and the lives of its composers largely ignored. History is not only made by its “big names,” its warrior kings, dictators and most famous artists, but also by the collective action of all of those artists who lived in a given era. The twentieth century needs to be re-scrutinized after we acquaint ourselves with the voluminous music cast out by the Nazi suppression.

Neither moral nor historical considerations would be reason enough for revival were it not for the artistic quality of what was lost. This cannot be judged by a single hearing of tokenistic or uncommitted performances. Judgments, if indeed they must be made, can only be made after those performing and listening over the course of years have given the spirit of that era sufficient time to be fully digested.

I now perform this music regularly, in the hope that it will find its place in the standard repertoire. I devote myself to programming works by this group of composers wherever possible. The list of names is long: Alexander Zemlinksy, Viktor Ullmann, Pavel Haas, Bohuslav Martinu, Erich Korngold, Karl-Amadeus Hartmann, Erwin Schulhoff, Franz Schreker, Walter Braunfels, Ernest Krenek, Hanns Eisler, Erich Zeisl and Kurt Weill, to name just a few.

By keeping alive their music and that of other victims of totalitarianism, we deny those past regimes a posthumous victory. The revival of this music can serve as a reminder for us to resist any contemporary or future impulse to define artistic standards on the basis of racist, political, sectarian or exclusionary ideologies.

The answer to Sassoon’s question is: it is we, now, who can begin to “absolve the foulness of their fate.”

Preface by James Conlon for THOMAS SCHIPPERS by Maurizio Modugno

Non è un compito facile scrivere una mia riflessione su Thomas Schippers a trent’anni dalla morte: credo che la prospettiva giusta sia scrivere non tanto da artista ad artista o da direttore d’orchestra a direttore d’orchestra, quanto, più specificamente, da direttore d’orchestra americano a un grande collega della generazione precedente. Credo inoltre che l’unicità di Thomas Schippers debba essere considerata avendo ben presenti sia l’epoca in cui è vissuto; sia il problema del ruolo storico del direttore d’orchestra americano di musica classica nella nostra cultura; sia che egli fu tra i primi ad affermarsi nel dopoguerra. Oggi nel nostro paese, è raro parlare di lui in una simile prospettiva. I trent’anni che ci separano dalla sua morte sono già ben più di quelli della sua breve carriera. Aveva cominciato a dirigere qualche anno dopo che Leonard Bernstein aveva raggiunto l’apice del successo nel firmamento della scena musicale americana. Ma sarebbe passato del tempo prima che l’America ammettesse a se stessa che uno dei suoi figli potesse meritare di salire sulla torre dei grandi direttori d’orchestra, fino ad allora dominio esclusivo dei giganti della cultura europea. Non era concepibile l’idea che un americano, attraverso il suo talento, fosse in grado di assorbire e integrare sufficientemente la cultura europea tanto da diventare un degno rappresentante della sua eredità musicale. Thomas Schippers era su una strada simile a quella di Bernstein: ma stava per essere oscurato da una stella ancora più brillante e colpito da una morte prematura, che gli ha impedito di crescere verso i “golden years” della sua arte direttoriale.

E’ molto significativo notare che il paese dove la sua memoria è onorata, più che in qualsiasi altro, sia l’Italia. C’è una giustizia in tutto questo. A differenza di Bernstein, Schippers si è dedicato molto all’opera lirica italiana. La sua devozione, la sua genialità nel regno del Belcanto gli ha fatto meritare un posto di spicco in un “pantheon operistico”. Anche se l’energia titanica di Bernstein comprendeva incursioni sporadiche nella musica italiana, il suo genio imponente, il suo vigore artistico si erano orientati altrove. Questo portò l’America (non si sa se per caso o di proposito) alla percezione (falsa) che un direttore d’orchestra dei nostri giorni potesse considerarsi completo anche senza avere un particolare interesse o una speciale maestria nella tradizione italiana.

Io stesso sono stato coinvolto, con riverenza e con passione, dalla musica italiana. Per me, giovane studente di musica negli anni sessanta, Schippers era il modello d’artista e di uomo, nato e cresciuto in America, che poteva affermarsi con Verdi, il Verismo ed il Belcanto. Se era possibile per lui, pensavo, poteva esserlo anche per me. Se c’era posto per un direttore d’orchestra americano nato con “il desiderio dell’Europa”, ce n’era per un altro. Mi rendevo conto che anche un americano come me poteva, con lo studio e la sensibilità artistica, identificarsi con l’Europa della musica classica. Il suo sogno era anche il mio sogno. Confrontandomi con le mie energie artistiche, sono riuscito ad ottenerlo.

Come Bernstein, anche Schippers si era dedicato alla musica americana con zelo, pur difendendo il valore e l’onore della musica italiana. Ma la figura colossale di Bernstein ha offuscato quella di Schippers. La storia ed il destino avrebbero di nuovo offuscato la sua memoria. Mentre la sua stella si spegneva, un’altra nasceva. L’era straordinaria di James Levine era appena iniziata. Un americano moderno, affermatosi al Metropolitan, a New York ed alla nazione, nuotando, contemporaneamente in acque sia tedesche che italiane, avrebbe avuto ulteriori conseguenze, tra le quali oscurare ancor più la memoria di Schippers. Il cui prodigioso successo era dovuto tanto al suo carisma sul podio, quanto alla sua bellezza da Apollo. L’America, con il suo culto della giovinezza, ne era totalmente affascinata. Era destinato a morire giovane. Era difficile immaginarlo da ottantenne. Con il passare della sua vita, tra i suoi compatrioti, è passata anche la sua memoria. Tuttavia, resta il fatto che c’era molta più sostanza di quanto apparisse in superficie. Il suo carisma e la sua bellezza fisica tendevano ad oscurare il suo talento. Fortunatamente però questo talento e la sua sostanza rimangono nell’eredità delle sue registrazioni.

Era un maestro del colore con uno squisito senso estetico. In un ambiente sempre più dominato da un’ energia ritmica implacabile e talora ridondante, queste sue qualità venivano sottovalutate. Lui faceva cantare le orchestre. Trasmetteva il suo legame con la voce umana in tutto il suo stile interpretativo. Nei miei ricordi personali s’affollano esecuzioni eccezionali: lo Stabat Mater di Rossini, Il Giuramento di Mercadante, la Manon Lescaut di Puccini con la regia di Visconti. Il mio incontro personale con lui è collocato in un breve periodo, due anni. L’ho osservato preparare Il Giuramento al Festival di Spoleto del 1970. Nel 1971 invece, tra i miei compiti, avevo quello di assisterlo nella preparazione del Requiem di Verdi per il Concerto in Piazza. Suonavo sotto la sua direzione durante le prove al pianoforte con i solisti ed ho diretto la prova generale mentre lui si occupava della prova acustica.

Nel febbraio del 1972 venne alla Juilliard, dove ero all’ultimo anno di studio. Stava collaborando con Michael Cacoyannis ad una nuova produzione de La Bohéme. Osservavo le sue prove e l’ ho “ufficiosamente” sostituito nei giorni in cui era assente per malattia. Cancellò la sua partecipazione circa dieci giorni prima del debutto. Fui raccomandato da Maria Callas, che mi aveva tenuto d’occhio durante le prove, al Presidente della Juilliard, Peter Mennin, che mi chiese di dirigere la produzione. Fu il lancio della mia carriera professionale. L’ho visto dirigere molto altre volte dopo quell’occasione, ma non abbiamo più avuto contatti personali. Thomas Schippers, l’artista ed il musicista, hanno un posto importante nella storia dei direttori d’orchestra americani. Nel secolo scorso, la nostra straordinaria, complessa e spesso sconcertante terra è riuscita a crearsi un posto brillante nella storia della musica classica. Lo ha fatto attraverso il lavoro e l’intraprendenza. Ha importato la cultura, la tradizione ed il repertorio europeo. All’inizio ondate di immigrati componevano le file delle orchestre più importanti; poi la situazione ha iniziato gradualmente ad evolversi. Anche se gli americani facevano parte delle orchestre, dei teatri lirici e dei conservatori, l’ultima roccaforte riservata ai non americani era quella della direzione d’orchestra. Pur con alcune eccezioni, questa tendenza in America è valida ancora oggi.

Nello stesso periodo in cui morì Schippers, un mio vecchio e saggio amico mi disse: “Un direttore d’orchestra americano per avere successo deve ricordarsi di due cose: gli Americani preferiscono gli Europei e gli Europei preferiscono gli Europei. Devi lavorare il doppio…..” Non ho dovuto pensarci su più di tanto. Ho solo pensato a Thomas Schippers.

OPERA magazine, April 2009

The first half of the twentieth century was to see an explosion of creativity in all the arts, not least in classical music and opera. It was also an era of profound political and social upheaval, tumultuous transition, revolution and warfare. The art and music of the time reflect this and, like a cardiogram, tracked its movements. Out of the growing pains came new, formidable, innovative impulses. In the first third of the century, a vibrant, dynamic and liberal artistic culture nourished this even before the First World War. But in 1933, with the Nazi accession to power in Berlin, the German-speaking world was to experience the greatest rupture of the over two-century-old cultural milieu. It interrupted, at best, destroyed and uprooted at worst, one of the supreme and enduring cultural traditions in Western Civilization: German Classical Music. The loss cut across all genres, and included opera.. This article focuses only on a fraction of the music that was silenced, operas of several German, Austrian and Czech composers. The long silence has been tragic, but the good news is that most of this music is published and readily available. Better news will come the day that much more of it will have been re-integrated into the repertory, where most of it was born and still belongs. Of the two generations affected by the Nazi suppression, the older one was led by a pair of Vienna-trained composers, Alexander Zemlinsky (1871- 1942) and Franz Schreker (1878-1934). Both trained in the Brahmsian tradition and, fully versed in Wagner (together with the former’s student and brother-in-law Arnold Schoenberg), they would be the first to seek a new synthesis, born of the Brahms/Wagner polemic of their youths. In Vienna, and later in Berlin and Prague, they would teach and inspire a younger generation that would include Alban Berg (1885-1935), Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897-1957), Viktor Ullmann (1898-1944), Ernst Krenek (1900-1991) and Berthold Goldschmidt (1903-1996). Berg needs no introduction. Korngold’s precocious genius produced extravagant post-Romantic music under the influence of Zemlinsky. Krenek would display an extraordinary virtuosity and command of different styles and genres, including jazz and operetta. His 1933 dodecaphonic political tract, Karl V, was offered as a humanist antidote to the political wave of the moment. It was banned and not played until the 1980’s. Ullmann’s three operas all bear a sharp and often witty extension of Schoenberg and Zemlinsky. Der Kaiser von Atlantis, written in the concentration camp at Terezin, is a brilliant mixture of social satire and inspirational humanism. Goldschmidt, with the Magnificent Cuckold and Beatrice Cenci, through a dissonant lyricism, made his political points more subtly.

Two young German composers developed far away from Viennese influence: Walter Braunfels (1882-1954), a strong advocate of neo-Romanticism, and Paul Hindemith (1895-1963), who, after his early years in the avant-garde, came to embrace neo-classicism. Like Krenek, his most significant political opera and masterpiece, Mathis der Maler, ran afoul of the Nazis.

Czech by birth and German by culture, Erwin Schulhoff (1894-1942), outsider and maverick iconoclast, wrote a single opera, Flammen. Even today, this psychodrama would be considered “out of the box.” Also Czech, but French “by adoption,” Bohuslav Martinu (1890 -1959) wrote prolifically during a life of exile. Kurt Weill (1900-1950) moved from Berlin to Paris to New York, from early dodecaphonic music, to tonal social criticism to, finally, reinventing himself in the popular theater. All of these men made significant contributions to the world of twentieth-century opera. Yet, with the exception of Berg, and to a lesser degree Schoenberg and Hindemith, they lost their rightful places in twentieth-century opera houses. Why and how that came about merits some comment. After the end of the Second World War, our knowledge of the broad repertory of the generation that immediately preceded, and had lived and died in, the era of Nazi Germany was significantly limited. The lacunae were part of the legacy of the atrocities committed between 1933 and 1945. The Third Reich effectively silenced these two generations and, with them, important links in the chain of music history.

The first of these generations was transforming Late Romanticism into twentieth-century idioms. The younger, post-War generation moved from the extravagant emotionality of that world into an intense period of experimentation. Nothing was excluded as a starting point for a new art after 1920. High and low, beauty and ugliness, Dada and Marx, Freud and Picasso, jazz and neo-classicism--all were to be stirred in a broth of polemics. Hitler removed these artists from public view and, with them, a vibrant artistic document of the times. Though some of this music is lost, an enormous amount of it has survived and is published and available. Insofar as it is physically preserved, one could argue that it has survived. But music “lives” only if it is performed and heard, and in this respect, it remains to be discovered by our music-loving public.

Since 1945, the classical music world has enjoyed enormous creativity. At the same time it has been impoverished by the disappearance of part of an entire musical era. On a moral level alone, this is unacceptable. In the Western world, our common patrimony of literature, music, architecture and dance is among our most prized possessions. We cannot allow a part of it to remain permanently excised by the actions of a repressive authoritarian regime.

The spirit of these “lost generations” needs to be heard in its entirety. The twentieth century is now behind us, and the community of classical musicians, musicologists and historians are re-writing its history. Seemingly authoritative judgments already have been proffered, without serious consideration of a great quantity of music. One of the moral mandates of the historian is to revisit any past era as new information is available. Whether it is Ancient China or Persia, Greece or Rome, nineteenth-century Europe or twentieth-century America, or revelations from last week’s newspaper, the historian must place the past in an informed context.

No detail is too small to be taken into consideration. French historian Fernand Braudel maintained it is not in the recounting of great battles, kings and warriors that the essence of history is to be found, but in the minutiae of everyday life. Without the complete picture, we have a distorted picture. Far from suggesting that these composers and musicians are “minutiae” (quite the contrary), I am advocating their resuscitation as genuinely significant creators. The fact that they were on the unfortunate side of history and destiny does not invalidate their work; conversely, neither should their status as victims give them rank for their fates rather than for their accomplishments. Musical creativity of the first half of the twentieth century is far richer and pluralistic than we think. We, today, also live in a time when compositional styles are highly varied, inventive, open-minded, searching and fluid. The orthodoxies of post-war classical music are now history. The accepted authority of those orthodoxies impeded the revival of all that was not itself, sweeping away the musical ferment of this earlier, era, as well as those musicians who composed in competing and contradictory styles. As monumental as the accomplishments of the disciples of dodecaphonic, electronic music and the post-war avant-garde were, they nevertheless did not have the authority to stake an exclusive claim on the twentieth century. In their way, these composers and critics perpetuated some of the very consequences of the policies of their Nazi nemesis, albeit with a commitment to the tenets of artistic prerogatives and legitimate rights to their own beliefs. No one doubts the fact that they were qualified to prefer their own music; but many who were less qualified were inspired to promote an overzealous condemnation of all in the past, that had a relationship to Late Romanticism, or trafficked in tonality, lyricism, cabaret and jazz. It was proclaimed, and accepted, that tonality was dead. From today’s perspective we know it clearly did not die, but migrated to the popular world, sometimes to the impoverishment of the world of “high art.” The cliché “there are no lost masterpieces” reveals our own ignorance. Entire civilizations, along with their masterpieces, have been destroyed by war since the beginning of human history. It would be ludicrous to suggest that every piece of art from ancient Greece and Egypt, Pre-Columbian civilization and Dynastic China has been recovered. This cliché suggests that Art’s past is already complete. It implies that no unknown art or music can be good art. Furthermore, and more perfidious, it suggests that things are unknown because they are not good. It presumes that sound artistic judgment is the only factor in the gradual selection of that art which has value and is worth preserving. The history of the 1930’s and 40’s clearly contradicts that premise. Throughout history, the ravages of war, politics, and autocratic suppression of art have also “selected out” what we know and admire. Various forms of censorship have repeatedly affected artists and their works However, the suppression of certain composers and musicians during the Nazi era caused the greatest single rupture in what had been a continuous seamless transmittal of German classical music. The policies of the Third Reich destroyed the environment in which this music could flourish, murdering an entire generation of its greatest talents, uprooting a tradition with its creative polemics and dialectics, forcing those who survived to scatter to places where there was no comparable artistic milieu in which to live and create. This immense—ultimately self-destructive—act seriously damaged a most cherished tradition, killed its caretakers, and buried much of two “lost generations” and the spirit living within them. In reviving this music, there are three aspects to take into consideration: moral, historical and artistic. Undoing injustice, when one can, is a moral mandate for all citizens of a civilized world. We cannot restore to these composers their lost lives. We can, however, do the one thing that would mean more to them than any other: play their music. Historically, our perspectives on twentieth-century classical music are incomplete because an enormous quantity of works has remained unperformed, and the lives of its composers largely ignored. The twentieth century needs to be re-scrutinized after we acquaint ourselves with the voluminous music cast out during the Nazi suppression. Neither moral nor historical considerations would be reason enough for revival were it not for the artistic quality of what was lost. That quality is manifest, and, I believe, demonstrable. But, for the quality of this music to be more clearly apparent, it must be played so that musicians and music lovers can experience its live performance. Its value cannot be judged by a single hearing or the occasional tokenistic performance. Judgments, if indeed they must be made, can only be so after those performing and listening to this body of work over the course of years have given the spirit of the era sufficient time to be fully digested. A fully valid argument maintains that some of this music has gained and kept a place in the repertory after the bans of the 1930’s and the composers’ deaths and this is, arguably, a testament to its quality. The inverse argument--namely, that music that does not currently enjoy such status is due to a lack of quality--is, in my opinion, invalid. Such false arguments are, unfortunately, sometimes made on the basis of hearsay about, if not total ignorance of, the actual works themselves.

Zemlinsky and Schreker Theodor Adorno described Zemlinsky as a “seismograph of his time.” This is a very apt observation. If one could listen to all of his music chronologically, one would feel his development step by step with that of the musical world around him. Some see this as a weakness, a lack of identity. Others see it as measure of his genius of adaptability and immense craftsmanship. To my ears, he has a voice and, above all, a character of his own, which reveals itself throughout to those who know his music in its breadth and entirety. With his sometimes stubborn determination to follow his own path, he alienated both the avant-garde (by his rejection of dodecaphonic techniques) and the conservatives (who found him too threatening). It is this lack of a convenient label that hurt his place in a century often characterized by reductionism, dependency on labeling, and discomfort with that which does not fall into tidy categories. Zemlinsky’s early period, which is late-Romantic Viennese in character, produced music of great lyricism, grace and charm. Sarema (1893-5) Es war einmal (1897-99; conducted by Mahler) and Kleider machen Leute (1908-09) comprise the early period. Der Traumgörge (1904-06; commissioned by Mahler for Vienna, but cancelled during rehearsals when Mahler was forced to resign) is a transitional work that, despite a confusing story, contains a great deal of powerful music. It also reflects more of Mahler’s influence than the previous works. The middle-period masterpieces (if I may) are both one-act operas based on Oscar Wilde. Zemlinsky, having conducted the Viennese premiere of Salome, had thoroughly digested and assimilated its compositional and orchestral techniques. This is reflected strongly in Eine florentinische Tragödie (1915-16). Like Salome, it is a word-for-word translation of the original Wilde, with a prelude of pre-curtain eroticism (Der Rosenkavalier) and polytonal shock at the finale. But by now, he has brought Mahler clearly into the mix and organized it all into an over-arching and subtle symphonic form. (Aside from some small details to be found ten years later in Wozzeck, the seminal idea of organizing an opera and its scenes on baroque and classical structures embodied in this work clearly was not lost on the young Berg, who attended one of the premieres the Tragödie and admired and knew the score intimately.)

Der Zwerg (1920-21) was premiered at the Cologne opera under the direction of Otto Klemperer. It is a free adaptation of Wilde, based on the short story, “A Birthday for the Infanta.” Its protagonist, a misshapen dwarf with a poetic and generous soul, is rejected in love by the unattainable and coldly mischievous young daughter of King Phillip II of Spain. It is a deeply personal and confessional work.

This opera had a long gestation. A decade earlier, Zemlinsky had commissioned his friend Franz Schreker to write him a “tragedy of an ugly man.” Schreker complied, and became so enthralled with his own story that he asked to withdraw from the commission and keep it for himself. That is what happened, and the result was one of Schreker’s great achievements, Die Gezeichneten. Zemlinsky, who was the first of the long line of geniuses to have been passionately involved with Alma Schindler, was, by her assessment, small in stature and ugly. She referred to him as a “gnome.” The unceremonious and abrupt end of their frustrating and tantalizing relationship in 1902 left the composer deeply scarred. Twenty years after, he was still exorcising its ghost. Tastes, of course, are very personal, but I believe Der Zwerg stands not only at the summit of the composer’s power, alongside its contemporaneous Lyric Symphony, but is one of the great operas of the twentieth century. Having learned what he needed from Strauss and Mahler, Zemlinsky integrated the former’s theatrical genius with the latter’s paradoxical melding of the metaphysical and the personal, injecting his own brand of searing eroticism. The entire work is a tour de force. Subsequent to his move to Berlin, where he collaborated with Klemperer, Zemlinsky conducted, among many works, the Berlin premiere of Kurt Weill’s The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny. Fascinated with the neue Sachlichkeit and his new surroundings, he produced a Brechtian work of his own, complete with alternating dialogue, Der Kreidekreis (1930-2). It was this work that was specifically banned and led directly to Zemlinsky’s flight from the Nazis, first from Berlin to Vienna in 1933, and a second time, from Vienna to the United States, in 1938. His final opera Der König Kandaules, which he did not live to complete, features dark, tortured harmonies, demonstrating that in his maturity, the man who had taught and influenced Berg had also learned from him, and the posthumous completion and orchestration of this work by Anthony Beaumont shows this clearly. Franz Schreker was perhaps the most successful opera composer of his time. He was considered in some quarters to be the worthy successor to Wagner and Strauss. Though this assessment was clearly over-inflated, it shows the measure of the admiration and success he enjoyed for a period between 1912 (Der Ferne Klang) and his first significant set back (Irrelohe) in 1924. Die Gezeichneten (1913-15, premiered in1918) and Der Schatzgräber (1915-18, premiered 1920), exemplify and demonstrate the best of Schreker. Among his debts to Wagner (and all of these composers had them) is reflected in his choice to write his own stories and libretti. Though not mythical in subject matter, they are far removed from contemporary life. But under the surface, they reflect the moving tectonic plates of fin de siècle Vienna: the gradual dissolution of the Empire, the world of Freud and the subconscious, Klimt and Schiele. If not exactly autobiographical, the protagonist is clearly the young striving artist. The subject is Art, and the search for, and value of, Beauty in a world of ugliness and despair. His musical style, immediately lauded for its evocative use of orchestral timbres, is tonal in base with a strong admixture of poly- and atonality. The composer conducted the world premiere of Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder, and the coloristic possibilities of that immense orchestra were not lost on him. Schreker’s style is Romantic Expressionism, strongly seasoned with morbid eroticism and its whiff of decadence. By nature and early experience more in contact with greater Europe than some of his contemporaries in Vienna, Schreker submitted also to the influences of Impressionism. Schreker scholar Christopher Hailey sees him also as the missing link between Mahler and Puccini. The attraction to Italy, demonstrated in the scenarios of Die Gezeichneten and Der Ferne Klang, is reflected in tinges of Verismo opera.

Walter Braunfels and Die Vögel

Considering all that was going on around him, it is difficult to situate Braunfels amongst his contemporaries. His music inhabits a very different world, both geographically and aesthetically, nurtured far from Vienna’s charged, multi-cultural atmosphere., Deeply rooted in German Classicism and Romanticism, he conceals none of his admiration for the inherited past and sees himself as building on its fundamentals. By almost any standard, he was a conservative. Like Schreker, Krenek and Hindemith, he followed Wagner’s example in writing most of his own libretti. Almost diametrically opposed to Schreker’s highly coloristic, polytonal eclecticism, his music is tonal, polyphonic, lyrical and formal. Equally at odds with Zemlinsky and Schreker, his choices of subject matter show a penchant for Classical Antiquity, German Romantic literature and Christian mysticism. In Braunfels’ best-known opera, Die Vögel, his admiration for Bruckner and Mozart and Mendelssohn is reflected throughout. Some contemporary critics saw this work as a rejection of Wagner and Schreker, under the banner “forward to Mozart.” This seems partially mistaken to me, as this work owes debts to both Die Meistersinger and Parsifal. This view held that the music was stepping out of its role as the servant to drama: the music is the narrative.

Braunfels himself related that he simultaneously wrote text and music. Very telling is the composer’s decision not to “recount” Aristophanes, but to recast him for his own purposes and, in so doing, show us where his soul and sensibilities lay. The subject is Sehnsucht (yearning), the omnipresent dynamo of nineteenth-century German music. It is no longer only comedic social and political satire; it is a spiritual testament wrapped in fantasy. It is in this sense that a deeper relationship to the The Magic Flute becomes apparent.

Two young men Hoffegut and Ratefreund set out on an adventure to escape disappointment with human affairs in Athens, determined to find a new life amongst the birds. Like Tamino and Papageno, one will come home changed from a mystical experience, the other, chastened and resigned, if not exactly wiser. Mozart’s flute is magic, charms humans and animals alike. Braunfels’ Nightingale, with her plaintive song, strikes the deepest chord of Sehnsucht imaginable. The enchantment scene of the second act symbolically re-creates the trials, not of fire, water and silence, but of the mystical realm of Parsifal’s Karfreitagzauber. Hoffegut, having fled rejection by the city girls, will discover cosmic yearning and transcendence through his erotic “encounter” with the Nightingale, as Parsifal will eventually find the grail through his confrontation with Kundry.

The juxtaposition of Ratefreund’s buffo chatter to Hoffegut’s spiritual transformation captures the Mozartian model with finesse. Ratefreund pushes the narrative forward, much like dialogue in Singspiel and recitative in opera buffa. Hoffegut dreams and reflects in Schumannesque reverie. All this, in the lunar, nocturnal forest described by another contemporary writer as “kunstheiliges Land;” holy land, made so by art, made so by the composer peering into the depths of his own soul and transforming this into the sound world.

This is stuff of high Romanticism, clearly not what we associate with post-World War I Germany. Yet even Strauss did not disdain to return to the past, and there is no question that Die Vögel has also been influenced by Der Rosenkavalier and Ariadne auf Naxos. The purposeful use of musical anachronism to evoke the past is one of the key departure points for Strauss. In a very different context, and less as a “technique” than the expression of the state of his soul, Strauss will return to it at the end of his life with Capriccio, Metamorphosen and the Vier Letzte Lieder. The classical/Romantic juxtaposition of Ancient Greece and the Commedia dell’arte in the latter are direct role models for Braunfels, as exemplified by the Nightingale’s Zerbinetta-like prologue.

One of the great charms of Die Vögel is just this anachronistic (neo-Romantic) atmosphere. It is not so much a Straussian “use” of the musical means, but a concordance of the essence of Braunfels’ musical language with that aspect of the subject matter. It perfectly evokes a non-existent world, a garden of paradise imagined, only to be found beyond the limits of urban life and reality. Its choice of setting from Classical Antiquity lends itself well to a genus of “non sectarian spirituality.” Later, Braunfels will immerse himself in Catholicism and, large works will reflect this (the Te Deum, Verkündigung (1935), Die Heilige Johanna (1943) being the most significant of that genre.

It is not hard to imagine why the composer was marginalized after the war. On the aesthetic spectrum he was a life-long conservative, a category that was regarded with total disdain in the post-war milieu. Those who had opposed the progressive and avant-garde currents of the pre-war years were considered by definition, reactionary, and invited to join their confreres in the dustbin of history. The notion that only composers who were progressive, pioneering ground-breakers in their eras are worthy of our attention, had, and still has, great currency. The fact that, in a majority of cases, these “progressives” did happen to be the same persons, however, is more a corollary than a causal relationship.

To scrutinize compositions from the past on the basis of their location on the progressive/conservative divide is to prefer categorization based on anterior knowledge to the immediacy of non-prejudicial listening. The earth has shifted below many of the questions that divided aesthetic viewpoints from the past. The importance of knowing who was part of the avant-garde and who was not, fades with time. It is the essence of the music, in my opinion, not its historical/musicological placement, that matters. Had Die Vögel been written in 1875, would we listen to it differently because, at that time, it would have been progressive? Should we continue to ignore a work such as this because we consider it old fashioned? In their way, Bach and Brahms were so considered in their own times, and it would be absurd to discard their music on that basis.

The premiere of Die Vögel in Munich in 1920, under the direction of Bruno Walter (who still lauded the work as late as 1950), was a huge public and critical success. The number of productions and performances in the following years was staggering. However, in the post-World War II years of his “rehabilitation,” Braunfel never regained a foothold. Die Vögel was not produced until 1971 in Karlsruhe and 1994 in Berlin. The beautiful Decca recording gave it new life after 1996.

Had some major recording company believed in it in the 1950’s or 60’s, this opera might have regained its past popularity in no time at all. A recording with, say, Dame Joan Sutherland, Fritz Wunderlich and George London, might have assured its future on the stage.

There is a striking irony within Braunfels’ history with the Nazis. He embodied everything that represented the best of the German Romantic legacy. Had the Nazis wished to see him as a model of all of their professed ideas about Germany and Art, he would have seemed an ideal choice. He was versed in Goethe and Antiquity, Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. He clearly emulated the Wagner of Die Meistersinger (the work most misappropriated and abused by Hitler) and shared certain esthetic viewpoints with Pfitzner (who also subsequently fell under Nazi opprobrium). He resisted almost all of the trends and movements the Nazis professed to despise. Their hatred of him resided not so much in the fact that he was a “Halbjude,” as they defined him, but because he had openly opposed and criticized them already in the 1920’s, refusing to write an anthem for their movement.

Braunfels, like the vast majority of assimilated German Jewish artists and writers of the time, viewed himself first and foremost as German and secondarily, if at all, as Jewish (he converted to Catholicism in 1917). His immediate dismissal in 1933 and subsequent disappearance from public life simultaneously reveal the utter depth of the Nazis’ intellectual ignorance of their own professed belief in “pure” German Art, as well as their vindictiveness in overlooking an obvious ‘cultural model.” There was no one more quintessentially “Deutsch” than Braunfels, who embodied the very best of inherited German art, and who honored the tradition (in the best sense of the word), of its great culture.

GRAMOPHONE November 2007

Introducing new evidence in an old case can reawaken the judiciary process in legal matters. In musicological circles, a newly written, succinct and coherent presentation of “old” facts can throw performing artists into mini crises. Exactly that is what happened to me after reading Jerry Bruck’s essay “Undoing a ‘Tragic’ Mistake”, recently published by the Kaplan Foundation. I suddenly found myself confronted with the type of musical challenge that “doth murder sleep” – one that has cost me tortured hours. The prospect of facing myself in the mirror, denying the evidence, became a waking nightmare.

The order of the inner movements of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony has been a knotty problem for many decades. Having written the symphony with the Scherzo (S) as the second movement and the Andante (A) as the third, Mahler then switched the order, and never reverted to the original order again. All subsequent performances until 1919 were in the order A/S. Then Willem Mengelberg, on the “authority” of Mahler’s widow Alma, changed to S/A. He was the only one, however. There would have been no ambiguity, except for the 1963 publication by the International Gustav Mahler Gesellschaft of a critical edition by Erwin Ratz. Ratz posited that the order, as originally conceived, should be respected. Consequently, in the past 40 years, the symphony has been performed more often than not S/A, contrary to Mahler’s own practice. Ratz based his entire “historical argument” on Alma’s 1919 telegram to Mengelberg – “First Scherzo, then Andante”. But, as revealed in his own correspondence, he already doubted Alma’s credibility, as have many others.

British scholarship and musicians were way in front on this issue and got it right from the beginning. Deryck Cooke, Norman Del Mar, Colin and David Matthews and Sir Simon Rattle all took the A/S route.

I first conducted the Sixth in 1975 and have since performed it (in the context of hundreds of performances of Mahler symphonies) probably more that any other symphony. I return to it over and over, because its view of life and death closely reflects my own predisposition. And instead of proposing a more hopeful alternative, it evokes in me a profound visceral wrestle with man’s search for meaning. The prospect that it is all for naught ignites an incendiary 80-minute fire, which consumes and exhausts itself and me – and lays to rest, at least for the rest of that day, those torments.

Until this summer I have always performed it in the order Scherzo/Andante. If I have had it wrong for 30 years, at least I feel I am in excellent company: Bernstein, Boulez, Haitink, Levine, Solti and Tennstedt to name a few. More than a decade ago, troubled by this question, I spoke with Henry Louis de la Grange, the author of the great three-volume biography of Mahler. At the time he felt that, given the degree of ambiguity, I should continue to follow my instincts.

After reading Jerry Bruck’s essay, I became convinced that there is no longer any historical defence for Rat’s position. This summer, after 30 years of conducting the Sixth in the order S/A, I switched to A/S for a performance at a Mahler/Freud Symposium at the Aspen Institute and Music Festival. Two weeks later I repeated the experience with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at the Ravinia Festival as a part of a multi-year complete Mahler cycle. This experience has provoked a dramatic challenge to the performer in me: what to do when your brain is convinced of one thing, and the “habits of a lifetime” as well as your heart tell you something else.

To change positions on the weight of historical evidence is easier for the historian or musicologist than it is for the performing artist or the avid music lover. The moral imperative for a historian is to view history dispassionately. The musicologist studies music without necessarily directing that study towards performance. The performing artist, however, can be weighed down by emotion, and by the deep subjectivity of his perceptions, however objective he might strive to become. The greatest difficulty is in changing the view and relationship to a work which the artist has loved and admired, and with which he has communed and identified in one form. The challenge is to surrender an older view of the proportions, chemistry and implications for a newer one.

The first moral mandate for a performing artist is, in my opinion, to render a work as closely as possible to the perceived intentions of the composer. Following that premise, even while loving the work in its “wrong form”, I feel obliged to retrain my feelings until I can “feel” the new form. There should be no further question once the composer’s intentions are plain. The history is clear and there are also strong musical arguments for the A/S order. The Sixth is in many ways the most “classical” symphony, with its overall sonata-form structure, first-movement repeat and in the A/S version, the key relationships (first, second and fourth movements in A minor and third in E flat). This last is in sharp distinction to Mahler’s characteristic progressive tonality.

On a purely subjective level, I found the contrast between the first movement and the beginning of the Andante much more satisfying than once again hearing the repeated thumping of the timpani immediately after the first movement. Its reappearance at the beginning of the third movement is far more effective. Yet, to my mind, the emotional climax of the entire symphony, Mahler’s most personal self-revelation, is to be found towards the end of the Andante. In the A/S order I feel it occurs prematurely. The connection from Scherzo to Finale seems weakened.

Even on a more objective level, I still cannot completely accept the argument that there is no musical defence for the order S/A. It is more complicated than simply rendering a definitive judgement on the basis of performance practice alone, especially, as de la Grange suggested to me, Mahler’s own objectivity might have been much clouded at the time. Historical and musical evidence must be considered together. As a patently absurd comparison, little is known of the history surrounding the writing and performance of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony. Let us say that a letter was found indicating that Mozart had chosen to reverse the order of the middle movements, or an even sillier idea, that the Finale should be placed in the middle. The letter might be authenticated, but its content would fly in the face of everything we know of the period, and hence a performance following these indications would and should be rejected as ridiculous.

For me, by far the strongest musical argument for S/A is not to be found in the Sixth alone but by study of all the symphonies. From the beginning, following the model of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Mahler showed a predilection for placing the slowest movement in penultimate position preceded by a scherzo. On several significant occasions, (No. 3, No. 9 and Das Lied von der Erde) the slowest movement would actually be the last. The deeply emotional slowest movement is always to be found towards the end of the symphony.

Whether grotesque and ironic (Symphony No. 1), meditative or spiritual (Nos. 2 and 4), sentimental and confessional (Nos. 5 and 6) or nocturnal and lyric (No. 7), the slow movements usually open the way to a vast dramatic last movement or in the case of the Fourth, a mystical space. In turn, these last movements chart a course from a human confrontation with the gods and eventual triumph (the First Symphony), and apocalyptic/spiritual finale (the Second), a child’s vision of Paradise (the Fourth) and a joyous life affirmation (No. 5), to a musical romp (No. 7). Symphony No. 9 defies comparison by placing the faster movements between two slower movements, and the Tenth Symphony would seem to follow suit.

In all of these cases the slow penultimate movement is directly preceded by the movement in 3/4 or 3/8. These movements, combinations of Ländler, scherzi and songs, usually have strong satiric or ironic content, and precede those powerful slow movements. Dad Lied von der Erde alone has two examples of S/A (first to second movement and fifth – although in 4/4 – to sixth).

This would all point to an obvious conclusion. The order Scherzo/Andante is not the exception to Mahler’s practice. It is the rule! There is not a single other example of interior movements in the order A/S. One could argue that the second movement of Symphony No. 2 is slow followed by a scherzo but, I would argue back, it is not the slowest movement and it falls in the category of the 3/8 Ländler. This symphony simply has two inner movements in three and they both precede the slow movement. And even the Third Symphony, with its six movements, parallels the Second with a 3/4 movement in second place, followed by another scherzo in 2/4, both preceding a slow nocturnal movement, and then again a luminous angelic allegro (not a scherzo but at least light and joyous in character), that precedes the final Adagio.

None of this proves that Mahler was wrong to want to change the order of the inner movements of the Sixth. By definition, he cannot be wrong: the composer’s wish is our command. But for me, it boils down to this – should the order be S/A because it is a fundamental Mahlerian characteristic, or A/S, precisely because it is the exception and that its unique status makes it special?

The formal debate argues A/S. The emotional and dramatic debate is simply put: do you prefer or not to have the Andante (with its meditative beauty passing to personal confession and ending with anguished outcry) precede the Scherzo (which is, in turn, acerbic, ironic, charming and humorous, then crepuscular)? Do you want the soul-searching first and the op-ed page second, or vice versa?

The paradox to all of this is, though it matters terribly what Mahler wanted, that the cataclysmic effect of the Finale obliterates all that preceded it. When the last crash comes, nothing, including the order, seems to matter at all.

Juilliard Opera Center November 2008

Opera theaters have long been criticized for conservatism and a museum-like mentality. To revitalize the art form, solutions have been proposed such as: the need for fresh creations, contemporary and relevant to our times as well as new, bold, theatrical approaches to remove the cobwebs.

In this short article, I don’t wish to address the ongoing and important debate about the relative merits of either the criticisms or the proposed solutions, but I enthusiastically support the idea that, to challenge routine, we need new experiences in opera theaters. To ensure that the suggested solutions themselves do not become routine or cliché ridden, I suggest another initiative. Unknown or rarely heard works, drawn from existing material, imaginatively juxtaposed, can be an abundant source of innovation. Works from different eras, musical styles, and national origins, with all their latent potential, can be combined in provocative and stimulating ways. I have decided to experiment with this idea.

The art of the piano or violin recital is based on the coherent construction of a program of contrasting styles. The same can be said of any prototypical orchestral concert, not to mention many other contemporary forms that explore sound in distinct instrumental ensembles and acoustical spaces.

I have never understood why, in general, we have not availed ourselves more of the recital model and allowed it to migrate to operatic theater. We certainly have not exhausted the exploration of short operas that can be presented in interesting combinations. Such an approach could give a hearing to works that otherwise might not see the light of day. The art of the miniature (if indeed one-act operas should be so designated) also has its place. The sketches of Rembrandt or Picasso are not less artistic because they lack the monumentality of, say The Night Watch or Guernica.

Opera developed on the premise that a single work filled an entire evening. One-act opera20gained currency in the late 19th century in Italy, and, after Richard Strauss, in the German-speaking countries. The 20th century has fully accepted it. With the exception of certain pairings (the most famous being that of Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci) that have insinuated their presence into the canon, the art of combining two or more works in an evening has run behind its own artistic potential.

Operatic triple bills have gained even less traction. Puccini’s Trittico, a masterwork and daring innovation in its time, was met with strong opposition from the composer’s publisher (delaying its realization for a decade) and the refusal of the composer’s greatest advocate, Arturo Toscanini to conduct it. But why shouldn’t “three in one” be an interesting and vital alternative from time to time? (The Metropolitan Opera’s Hockney/Levine Parade at the Met was an excellent example.) To give remarkable works too short to stand on their own a committed hearing, why not adopt an approach that is standard for piano recitals, chamber music concerts, or orchestral programs?

THE GENESIS This union of Mussorgsky, Krenek, and Fleischmann owes its genesis to my lifelong desire to see on stage the former’s sketch for an uncompleted opera called The Marriage. By extraordinary happenstance, in my high school years a recording of this work by Mussorgsky fell into my hands at the Donnel Library. Already overcome with a passion for Boris Godunov, I jumped at the opportunity to hear it. I read the liner notes and understood that this short sketch paved the way for the work I loved so much. No score being available, I wore out my needle on the scratchy New York Library copy until it had to be returned.

In the midst of a run of Khovanschina at the MET in 1988, I came across the score of The Marriage and resolved to perform it. After decades of conducting Mussorgsky’s large-scale works, as well as those of J anáèek, Stravinsky, Shostakovich, Debussy, and Poulenc, the link became clear. Mussorgsky’s theories proposing the spoken Russian language as the cornerstone to a new musical language not only transformed Russian music; they deeply affected Western European music as well. I came to see The Marriage as Mussorgsky’s seminal work.

I needed a work or works to accompany it. Ten years ago, in Paris, I received a copy of Benjamin Fleischmann’s Rothschild’s Violin. A spiritual grandson to Mussorgsky through his teacher Dmitri Shostakovich, Fleischmann also attracted my attention as yet another victim of the Nazi Regime (he was killed in the Siege of Leningrad at age 25). But the program still wasn’t right.

From the beginning I imagined a non-stop, concise, and tautly constructed presentation without intermission. It was meant to be less than ninety minutes, no longer than Wozzeck, Salome, or a Mahler symphony. The bookends were there. Now it needed a center piece. I finally landed on the works of Ernst Krenek who himself had written a trilogy of one-act operas.

I played with the cubes until they seemed to fit. I saw the musical links (Mussorgsky and Fleischman) and the historic (Krenek and Fleischmann, both victims of the Third Reich). I had a work of social satire (Gogol) and inspirational hard realism (Chekhov). The tripartite symphony had a humorous first movement and an expansive apotheosis for the finale. There were several Krenek works from which to choose.

But then the dramaturgical link revealed itself. Marriage: before, during, and at its end; the preparation, the early years, and then the last. Three genres of social criticism are represented (comedy, farce, and short story) and three pictures of class stratification (petit bourgeois, nouveau riche, and poor). Krenek’s Heavyweight went into the center. In terms of length, the first half was comic, and the second half dramatic.

In the spirit of Mussorgsky, I put forward this approach, three one-act operas in one, as a research experiment in the laboratory of our opera theaters. Part of the mission of universities and conservatories is to stimulate questions and propose new ideas. They are at their best when they do so. I am grateful to the Juilliard School for providing such a forum.

Out of the depths I cry to Thee, O Lord. Hear my Prayer - Psalm 130

Where there is sorrow, there is holy ground. - De Profundis, Oscar Wilde

There is no greater sorrow than thinking back upon a happy time in misery. - Inferno, Canto V (the story of Francesca da Rimini ), Dante Alighieri

De Profundis ad Lucem: From the Depths to the Light by James Conlon

The Garden of Eden is a paradise lost. The preconscious memory of a perfect existence plays a strong role, I believe, in our need for music. Yearning, nostalgia, sorrow-all are heightened by the often unconscious sense of a bygone and better existence. Our subject in this festival is not the fall from grace, but the cry from the metaphorical depths and, through cathartic music, the healing of the spirit.

Each piece of music in this festival is inspired by a great literary source. Literature and music have made strange bedfellows throughout history. At times locked in passionate embrace, at others they turn their backs on each other like disappointed lovers. They are governed by different laws. Music has inspired poetry, novels, critical analyses, and essays. Literature has been the point of departure for oratorios, operas, lieder, symphonies, ballets, and even chamber music. Music starts where words stop, goes the saying, and I believe it is easier to transform the written word into music than to express the musical in even the most brilliant collection of words.

That said, the music we are listening to is not a translation or a reduction of the literature but a free association and muse for each composer's fancy. Ideas are difficult to translate into music. But the feelings engendered by any of these abstractions can find their place alongside the more accessible materials of drama or poetry. The need to have our feelings mirrored-our feelings of loss, exaltation, alienation-has stimulated artists throughout Western civilization. And the nineteenth century flung itself at the expression of feelings with a fervor and genius unparalleled the history of music. This rich and enriching process of distilling the essence of feeling from literature led right to the gate of the twentieth century and beyond, to our own day.

Another unifying factor in the conception of this festival is Florence, the city of the Renaissance. With the exception of Oscar Wilde's Birthday of the Infanta and Salome, every work and artist on our programs in some way relates back to the city of the rebirth of classical antiquity, the city that gave birth to the modern era of classical music and, specifically, to opera.

The works we explore are also works of homage. As Verdi in his Requiem pays homage to the great writer Alessandro Manzoni, who defined and unified modern Italian just as Dante had legitimized spoken Italian as the literary language of the future, wresting Latin from its monopoly on written expression, so Tchaikovsky and Liszt pay homage to Dante himself. And so do we pay homage to Oscar Wilde, Alexander von Zemlinsky, and Franz Schreker. Wilde's influence on classical music has received little attention. Three one-act operas (Richard Strauss's Salome, and Zemlinsky's The Dwarf and A Florentine Tragedy) were created within two decades of his death. Wilde's aesthetic outside the Anglo-Saxon world, where his works were unjustly suppressed, found more sympathetic appreciation in German-speaking countries. Yet both Zemlinsky and Schreker suffered under Nazi anti-Semitism and were suppressed politically, as Wilde was silenced on the grounds that he threatened public morals.

The correspondences among the works we will hear are many. In its essence, this is all music of genuine and powerful feeling, music that exemplifies the best in art from another time and place, and that in its enduring impact-its power to cry out, to mirror our own emotions, and to heal-challenges our inclination to measure other eras and cultures from the perspective of our own.

© 2007 by James Conlon. All rights reserved.