About the Composer

In the course of researching (read: obsessing over) Bartók’s one-act opera Bluebeard’s Castle, I came across a Hungarian film adaptation of the piece on YouTube. It’s annoyingly divided into fourteen segments, but anyone familiar with the piece or interested should take a look.

Here’s the segment containing my favorite part, known to people familiar with the piece as “The Seventh Door”. It’s basically the denouement, where we find out what Bluebeard’s been trying to prevent Judit from discovering. Below is the corresponding excerpt from my own translation of the libretto, mentioned in the previous post.

		BLUEBEARD
See them.
There are all of my late wives.
See my former wives.
See whom I loved.

		JUDIT
They’re alive.  They’re alive in here!

	(The three former wives enter through the seventh door,
	glorious and laden with crowns and jewels. One after
	the other, their faces pale, they proudly take their
	places opposite Bluebeard, who dips to his knees.)

		BLUEBEARD
	(With his arms outstretched as if he were dreaming.)
They’re beautiful. Beautiful.
Beautiful flowers.
They always were, and they still live.
It was they who collected my many treasures.
It was they who tended my garden.
It was they who made my empire grow.
All of it belongs to them.
All of it. All of it.

		JUDIT
	(Standing among the former wives as the fourth,
	doubled over and afraid.)
How beautiful they are. How magnificent.
I am bedraggled and worn.

		BLUEBEARD
	(Stands. Whispering.)
The first one I found at dawn,
In the beautiful, red-smelling dawn.
Every dawn belongs to her now.
Hers is the fine, red robe.
Hers is the silver crown.
Every dawn belongs to her now.

		JUDIT
Oh, she’s more beautiful than I.  More splendid than I.

	(The first wife goes back.)

		BLUEBEARD
The second one I found at noon.
Speechless, flaming, golden noon.
Every noon belongs to her now.
Hers is the heavy robe of fire.
Hers is the golden crown.
Every noon belongs to her now.

		JUDIT
Oh, she’s more beautiful than I.  More splendid than I.

	(The second wife goes back.)

		BLUEBEARD
The third one I found at evening.
Peaceful, languid, dusky evening.
Every evening belongs to her now.
Hers is the brown robe of sorrow.
Every evening belongs to her now.

		JUDIT
Oh, she’s more beautiful than I.  More splendid than I.

	(The third wife goes back.  Bluebeard stops in front of
	Judit, and they face each other for a long time.  The
	fourth door slowly closes.)

		BLUEBEARD
The fourth I found at night.

		JUDIT
Bluebeard, stop! Stop!

		BLUEBEARD
Starlit, black night.

		JUDIT
Stop.  Stop. I’m here still!

The rest of the segments can be viewed here. I have no connection to the person who’s posted this, nor do I know if he or she has any connection to the filmmakers. Note that the segments appear in reverse order.

I’d like to alert Bay Area readers to the upcoming performances by Berkeley Opera of my two favorite one-acts, Bartók’s Bluebeard’s Castle and Ravel’s L’Enfant et les Sortilèges. These two composers are not particularly known for their dramatic works, but each work reveals the composer’s complete mastery of music for the stage. An evening consisting of both of these works is not to be missed.

For the Bartók, I have the privilege of working with the cast of two singers on the nuts and bolts of Hungarian pronunciation, and I’m particularly pleased that Berkeley Opera is using my translation of the libretto for the English supertitles.

I began working on the translation recently after seeing a production that used an old singing translation that was at times incomprehensible, and at times just plain silly. My goal was to stick to the exact meanings line for line in the libretto by Béla Balázs, without sacrificing natural, comprehensible English. It is, in fact, a very tight libretto in a strict eight-syllable-per-line form borrowed from Hungarian folk poetry, and the translations I’ve seen are inappropriately verbose and formal. I hope that audiences will be able to follow the meanings of the words without being distracted by the words themselves.

This Bluebeard will feature the use of a unique, projected image background by Naomie Kremer. It’s difficult to describe here, but it’s very effective, to say nothing of just plain beautiful.

Performances are:

• Saturday, May 3, 8:00 p.m.
• Wednesday, May 7, 7:30 p.m.
• Friday, May 9, 8:00 p.m.
• Sunday, May 11, 2:00 p.m.

At Julia Morgan Theatre, 2640 College Avenue (at Derby), Berkeley.

More details are on Berkeley Opera’s web site.

			BLUEBEARD
Well, we’re here.  This is my castle.

			JUDIT
This is your castle?  Kinda creepy.

			BLUEBEARD
Yeah.  You sure you want to come in here?

			JUDIT
Yeah.

			BLUEBEARD
Well, okay then.

			JUDIT
So, like, what’s with the seven doors?

			BLUEBEARD
You don't want to know.

			JUDIT
Open them up.

			BLUEBEARD
Um, I don't think so.

			JUDIT
Aw, come on.  Just one?

			BLUEBEARD
Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you.

More to come.

NPR has a great interview with conductor Marin Alsop and accompanying article about Bartók’s music, where she touches on folk influences and discusses The Miraculous Mandarin, Romanian Dances, Bluebeard’s Castle and more.

Béla Bartók had a breakthrough moment in his early 20s, when he heard a peasant woman singing folk songs. From that point on, he collected, recorded (on an Edison phonograph) and notated hundreds of songs from small villages in rural Hungary and Romania. His work preserving the music of those cultures had a profound influence on his own compositions.

One of the first Hungarian folksongs I learned happens to be one of the first ones that Bartók recorded in 1906. Elindultam szép hazámból, or “I set out from my homeland” (roughly) went on to be one of the most well-known folksongs in Hungary, and was included among Bartók’s 1906 collection of ten art song settings of folksongs called Hungarian Folksongs for Solo Voice and Piano. Kodály also published a set of ten of his own folksong settings the same year. There’s a lovely Hungaroton recording of both of these sets, plus one by László Lajtha.

The Bartók Album, by the folk ensemble Muzsikás, is a must-have for any Bartók fan. It’s a collection of original source material used by Bartók for various pieces, including a real treat. Here’s the actual phonograph recording made by Bartók in 1906 of the folksong mentioned above, Elindultam szép hazámból, sung by András Borek of Békésgyula.

And finally, an anecdote from the the liner notes of The Bartók Album that goes a long way to help us understand Bartók’s connection to Hungarian folk music, and the effect that he had on his country. This is from Klára Huszár, who was present at Bartók’s final concert in Hungary before leaving for exile in the U.S.

When Bartók set off for the exit during the applause, someone started singing this melody “I set off from my homeland”. Within a second, the whole audience had taken up the song, and sang it with strength and passion. Bartók stopped for a moment, and took a few steps backwards. Then he left quietly, leaving the stage of the Music Academy forever.

Don’t miss this item on NPR.org and a whole web of other related material there. Many thanks to Lisa Hirsch for calling this to my attention.

About a year and a half ago, I posted a little something about my son’s taste in orchestral music. He was about to turn three then, and now he’s four and a half. Since that time, my ability to play music for him has been limited for various boring technical and life reasons.

A few weeks ago, I got a new mobile phone that functions as a music player (not an iPhone, but I love it anyway). I’m still in the wide-eyed amusement phase over the fact that I can copy music files to it from my computer via Bluetooth, so just for the heck of it I copied a few favorite pieces over to see how that worked.

The first thing I had copied to my phone was a recording of Kodály’s brilliant little choral gem Esti Dal (”Evening Song”, pronounced ESHtee dawl), which I’ve been intimate with for over 20 years. In fact, it’s known to Philo too, as I’ve been singing it to him at bedtime for a long time now. So, one night I thought it would be interesting for Philo to hear the song in its true choral form. He was absolutely captivated, and I was encouraged to load some more choral music onto my phone for him.

Esti Dal is a very short and simple piece that offers its lovely melody three times. The first and third statements are given by the sopranos, accompanied by sustained humming from the lower parts. The middle statement blossoms with majestic counterpoint, and during this part Philo moves his hands expressively, much as a conductor does, and visibly moved by the slight ritard at the end of the verse. I, of course, am thrilled.

Here’s what that middle section sounds like:

Other choral music on my phone for Philo includes “Trois Beaux Oiseaux du Paradis” from Ravel’s Trois Chansons, which has to be some of the most beautiful music on the planet. Philo doesn’t say much about this one, but he listens to it very quietly and I can tell he is fascinated. I was lucky enough to learn this piece in my choral singing days, and it’s been a favorite ever since. In case you don’t know it, have a listen. You’ll plotz.

Another piece I’m lucky enough to have performed is Hindemith’s luminous Six Chansons, which is disappointingly not as well known as it should be. These songs offer lyricism and beauty not typically associated with old Paul, whom I feel is widely misunderstood. I gravitated to his music when I discovered it as a college freshman transitioning from Sondheim wannabe to, well, whatever I am now, and I’m still very fond particularly of his vocal music. Here’s a bit of the first of the Six Chansons.

Finally, and inevitably, there’s Bartók. Philo has been treated to several excerpts from Bartók’s Twenty-seven Choruses for women’s or children’s voices. I blogged about this piece around two years ago. It almost hurts to have to choose one of the 27 pieces, but here’s Ne Menj El (Don’t Go Away).

Here’s a pathetic case of inertia combined with bad planning.

I managed to live in Budapest for three years without ever visiting the Bartók Museum, which is housed in the composer’s final residence before leaving Hungary for the U.S. When I was back in 2005 for the Letter To Hungary performance, there simply wasn’t time. This time it was an important agenda item, but I still managed to put it off until the second-to-last day.

Well, lunch with an old, long-lost friend got away from me that day and I got to the gate of the house at exactly 5:00. Guess what time the museum closes.

Not that I can report first-hand, but many of the rooms in the house are restored to the way Bartók left them, including his study, where he wrote the last two string quartets, Mikrokosmos and 27 Choruses, as well as many other favorites. I’d still love to get in there sometime.

As if this weren’t bad enough, I also found out that Kodály’s apartment, coincindentally in the neighborhood where I was staying, had also been turned into a museum in 1990 (exactly when I was living in Budapest). No one told me at the time. Didn’t manage to get there either.

How lame. Szégyelem magam!

Today I found myself thinking about one of Bartók’s lesser-known works, the “Twenty Seven Choruses”.

My friend M., over on Music in a Suburban Scene, has expressed disappointment in the Bartók String Quartets, making the valid point that a lot of relentless dissonance can be boring. In defending the Quartets, I found myself referring to the Choruses, because they reveal the same genius as the quartets, only in a more accessible environment.

While I agree with M. in general that dissonance for its own sake makes pretty uninteresting music, it must be said that the dissonance in the Quartets comes about through a very sensible system of voice leading and a sound harmonic framework. By building upon tiny melodic fragments, and simply letting the harmonies fall out naturally, Bartók enters an expressive sound world where it’s worth meeting him halfway. After a few listenings, you realize that it’s more about what he’s doing with his melodic material and rhythm than harmony. Yes, you’ll be disappointed if you’re insisting upon predictable resolutions and goose-bumpy chords (although, they’re there if you’re listening). If you can join Bartók in this place, you’ll find the Quartets very satisfying.

Anyone who is Bartók Quartet-curious might consider first getting to know the Twenty-seven Choruses, for women’s or children’s voices. These are in a much more lyrical style than most of his instrumental work, but display the same contrapuntal and expressive proclivities that make the Quartets great. These very attractive and entertaining little pieces, which use Hungarian folk texts but entirely original music, were written in the mid-Thirties, around the same time as Quartet #5.

Incidentally, these make great teaching pieces for choral conductors. Some of them are deceptively complicated, and an example of just about any conducting problem can be found here.