Hello there, I'm Peter Schickele, and this is Schickele Mix, a program dedicated to the proposition that all musics are created equal, or as Duke Ellington put it, if it sounds good, it is good. And the bills for all this goodness are paid by the American Public Radio Program Fund, whose contributors include the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, by the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and also by this radio station right here surrounding me at this very moment.
When you were in junior high, did you sometimes sit at a piano with a friend and one of you would play
[music: keyboard demonstration]
while the other one improvised? Or the bottom player would do
[music: keyboard demonstration]
while the top player played Heart and Soul and improvised? If so, you were engaged in the most basic variation form of all. Not the most common form. That would be variations in which the melody and or the harmonic scheme remained constant. But the most basic form. The most, pun alert here, we're coming up to a pun, the most basic variation form uses the bass line as a unifying device.
Now, why do I say that, aside from the fact that I can't stop myself? I say it because in the more usual kinds of variations, the melody may be constant, but it often gets all gussied up, embellished to the point of unrecognizability. A mind-bending exception to that is Ravel's Bolero. As does the harmony. Get gussied up, I mean. With all sorts of in-between chords and substitute chords.
But in variations based on a bass line, the composer usually makes a point of keeping the bass line easily recognizable. As if to say, see how varied and interesting I can make things in spite of the fact that the bass line is repeating over and over and over again? And over again? Now when I contrast variations based on a melody and those based on a bass line, I'm aware that the bass line could be called a melody, too, but they're usually very different kinds of melodies.
Your typical theme and variations is based on a song-like theme with a certain amount of rhythmic variety,
[music: keyboard demonstration]
whereas the bass line is apt to be quite even rhythmically.
[music: keyboard demonstration]
In point of fact, the simpler the bass line is, the easier it is for the composer to prevent boredom, because the line can be absorbed into the texture more readily than a high-profile theme could be. Nevertheless, bassline variations often, and perhaps inherently, have a somewhat hypnotic or obsessive quality, because they're continuous.
No pause between one variation and the next, which is due to the fact that the basslines are very short compared to song-like tunes. The longest bassline theme I can think of off the top of my head takes about 20 seconds to play through once. It would be hard to think of a song that's that short. Even Chopsticks is longer than that. Yes, Virginia, there are published variations on chopsticks. Anyway, so the bass line is going to repeat at least two or three times a minute, and maybe as many as fifteen times.
Our first suite emphasizes the hypnotic quality of the form. That is, these pieces don't go for maximum variety. I call this the unmistakably bass-based suite, and it lasts about thirteen minutes.
[music: Purcell, "Ground in C Minor"; Gustav Leonhardt]
[music: Berry, "Louie, Louie" (The Best of 'Louie, Louie'); Richard Berry]
Unmistakably bass-based suite. Three pieces with bass lines that never say die. The first one was by Purcell, Ground in C Minor, also attributed to William Croft. And that was played by Gustav Leonhardt on the harpsichord. Next came Louie, Louie by Richard Berry.
And this is from a Rhino album that consists of nothing but versions of Louie Louie, starting with the Rice University Marching Owl Band and ending with the Hallelujah Chorus by The Impossibles. And then finally, the Balafon Marimba Band played Mashamba Nzou, an African number, beautiful haunting number. I'd like to read you what it says about that number in the liner notes.
This song tells a story of a special time of day. It is at 4.30 a.m. that the elephants go to bathe. A time when all is quiet, the sun is neither up nor down, there is no wind. A time which, in southern Africa, is called the Blue Hour. The world is awakening little by little. In Africa, it is felt to be the best time to play music. And although that bass line certainly did keep going throughout, there's a big bass marimba that came in even below the bass line at one point, which sort of doubled the bass line, but not always, did a few notes of its own, too.
Before we go on, I'd like to read from a memoir. You know, I got to know that delightful Purcell ground from a recording by Wanda Landowska. And I'd like to read a very touching little memoir that she wrote about that piece.
[music: Purcell, "Ground in C Minor"; Gustav Leonhardt]
One of the most colorful and revealing experiences I have had occurred while I was on a tour in Portugal, playing in Coimbra, that city of dreams, picturesquely situated on a hill above the River Mondego. The archaic university with its poetic atmosphere, its students in their black capes roaming through narrow and tortuous streets, while the strains of a fado accompanied by a guitar echoed constantly from the distance, all filled me with delight.
That evening I played a program which included Purcell's Ground in C Minor. The reaction of the audience to this composition was strangely intense and in turn had a curious effect upon me. In response to the demands of the audience, I played the Ground once more and I seemed to hear from somewhere beyond the concert hall the monotonous rhythm of muffled feet following the insistent beat of Purcell's dance.
Leaving the stage and entering the wings, I witnessed a striking scene. Four men in working clothes and espadrilles humming to themselves and going through the motions of a dance. I had the impression that my ground was still going on. The moment the men saw me, they stopped, obviously embarrassed. One of them came forward and spoke. We were told to be here at 11 o'clock, but the concert wasn't over, so we danced a little.
That tune you played was very nice, we know it very well. Can we go ahead now? These men were the movers who had come to pack my harpsichord and take it to the station. What could have led these men to break into a delicate dance by a 17th century English composer in such a natural and spontaneous way? Was it the monotony of Purcell's rhythm, the strange melancholy of the melodic line, The broken syncopated chords, the lute stop with its resemblance to the twang of a guitar, any of those characteristics equally typical of the Portuguese fado, the dance so beloved by the people of Lisbon, who shall ever know?
Isn't that a delightful little reminiscence? By the way, just in case some of you harpsichord aficionados are wondering, Gustav Leonhardt, whom we heard playing this piece, did not use a lute stop. The lute stop sounds very guitar-y, like muted strings on a guitar. Unfortunately, my old Landowska recording is just about unplayable now, it's so old. My name is Peter Schickele, and the show is Schickele Mix on APR.
Today's program is called Bass-Based Variations, and deals with a technique almost completely ignored during the classical Romantic era, say, from Haydn and Mozart through Brahms and Wagner.
We'll have more to say about that later, but now we're going to hear one of the few exceptions, the finale of Brahms' Variations on a Theme by Haydn. After eight variations dealing with various melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic aspects of the theme, Brahms uses a five-bar bass line as the unifying device in most of the last section. I'll play it on the authentic instrument here.
[music]
Now, where does he get that bass line? It's not the bass line of the theme.
[music]
No, what he did was take the first couple of notes of the bass line, then the next few notes of the melody itself, and then the next few notes of the bass line again.
[music]
He did change one note. Instead of... He went...
So, here's what you get.
[music]
Now, unlike the pieces in the first suite, this finale uses the bassline primarily, but not exclusively, in the bass. Sometimes it moves up into higher instruments. Also unlike the earlier pieces, the bassline repeats, but not the harmonies. In fact, Brahms makes a point of different harmonies that are nevertheless compatible with that five-bar theme. At the very end, he goes back to the theme in its original state. Okay, here we go. Listen to the cellos and basses at the beginning.
[music: Brahms, "Variations of a Theme by Haydn, Finale"; Ulster Orchestra/Handley]
The finale, from the Variations on a Theme by Haydn, by Brahms. And that was the Ulster Orchestra, conducted by Vernon Handley. And I really love this recording, you know? When I was figuring out which recording to use, I was ending up here with this recording and one by one of the top five U.S. orchestras with one of the superstar conductors, and you can tell sometimes these players aren't the superstar players that are in that other orchestra, a couple of funny attacks in the strings and, but this thing really has pizzazz. The other one was slick, but I don't know, this one has the energy. I really like it. Ulster Orchestra, Vernon Handley. Now, that's a beautiful piece, actually. It's probably my favorite among Brahms' orchestral works.
But I must say that he, well, he doesn't get everything out of that bass theme that he could. It took another composer, one with a broader vision, to pick up where he left off.
[music excerpt: Professor Peter Schickele, "Quodlibet for Small Orchestra" (An Evening with P. D. Q. Bach); Chamber Orchestra/Mester]
That was the last section from the Quodlibet by Professor Peter Schickele. Hey, don't look at me like that. He's no relative of mine. I never even met the guy. The Nameless Chamber Orchestra was under the direction of Jorge Mester. Now we come to one of the pinnacles of ground bass variation, the Passacaglia in C Minor for Organ by Johann Sebastian Bach.
The theme is stated loud and clear at the beginning, and as in the Brahms, it is usually but not always in the bass. About eight minutes from now, you will have heard a tremendous amount and a tremendous variety of music spun around these first fifteen notes.
[music: J. S. Bach, "Passacaglia & Fugue (BWV 582), Passacaglia"; Lionel Rogg]
Passacaglia in C Minor on the historic Silbermann Organ in Arlesheim, Switzerland.
The Passacaglia, by the way, is followed by a fugue that we didn't hear, which explains why the last chord is only two or three seconds long. Usually, organists hold the last chord of a piece until you start wondering if they've put weights on the keys and gone home for lunch. I love it actually, especially live in a big church. The organist holds the chord forever and then lets it go and it echoes around the church for another forever.
I do think, however, that sometimes they hold that last chord so long because they're looking around and thinking about what comes next in the service and what stops they'll have to change on the organ. Organs are like babies. They're constantly in need of changing. Not me. I'm Peter Schickele and the program is Schickele Mix on APR. Bass-based variations is our subject, and we're in the midst of some passacaglias here.
The name Passacaglia goes back to the early 17th century, reached the form with which most of us who associate it with anything now associated by the 18th century, became virtually extinct during the 19th century, and enjoyed a robust revival in the 20th century. Which is the century our last two examples come from.
And there are odd bedfellows. The first one is moody and atonal, no feeling of a key or home base. It's about as short as a passacaglia can be, and it's also somewhat obscure. That is, an untrained ear has difficulty in following the theme throughout.
By the way, now in Berg's opera, Wozzeck, there's a scene that is identified in the score as a passacaglia, I'd be willing to bet my set of composer trading cards that even the most highly trained musician in the world wouldn't guess that from just hearing it. Even if you knew it, you couldn't follow it, unless you've got a musical megamind, and I'm not sure even then. As with many other techniques in the 20th century, it becomes a tool for the composer that is not necessarily meant to be consciously perceived by the listener.
The second piece of this last set is the opposite of the first in every way. It's more than twice as long, it's tonal, it's bold and positive, and it's as easy to follow as the Bach. I call this a peculiar pair of pretty potent Passacaglias. See you in about eight minutes.
[music: Schoenberg, “Pierrot lunaire,” Opus 21, “Nacht”; Jan DeGaetani/The Contemporary Chamber Ensemble/Weisberg]
Pretty potent Passacaglia. Music of Schoenberg and Hindemith. First we heard from Schoenberg's Pierrot lunaire, number 8.
And the words for that in English would be: Sinister giant black butterflies eclipse the blazing disk of sun. Like a sealed-up book of wizard spells sleeps the horizon, secret, silent. From dark forgotten depths of Lethe a scent floats up to murder memory. Sinister giant black butterflies eclipse the blazing disk of sun. And from heaven downward dropping to the earth in leaden circles, invisible, the monstrous swarm descends upon the hearts of men. Sinister giant black butterflies.
Perhaps the idea of having a repetitive form like the Passacaglia was suggested to Schoenberg by the repetitions in the poem. And then Paul Hindemith from the suite, the ballet suite, he wrote Nobilissima Visione, the third movement, Passacaglia, which is probably one of the easiest to follow Passacaglias there is in terms of following the theme through. That was Otto Klemperer with the Philharmonia Orchestra.
Two 20th century examples of what I have called the most basic variation form. Well, I guess not the most basic.
I suppose the most basic thing would be to have the bass line and the harmony repeating over and over again, I mean, with no melody at all. Just the bass and the harmony repeating over and over and over again. I mean, hardly any variation at all, you know. I mean, but that would be stupid. I mean, I can't imagine that anybody would want to be...
[music excerpt: Lennon/McCARTNEY, "I Want You (She’s So Heavy)" (Abbey Road); The Beatles]
What is that? What the heck is going on here? Let me... I can't believe this!
I can't get it off! Turned the cassette player off, the CD player, the turntable, where is that coming from?
It's driving me up the wall! Okay, Peter, just calm down. Where is that coming from?
It's coming from the air vent!
Maybe if I put my coat up there.
Okay, there's a chair. I'm going to get my coat up in here on this chair and see if I can hook the coat over the edges of the grate. Here's one side. Other side.
Well, that's better anyway. Get down here.
Let me just try this again.
I can't believe it. I can't get it off. I can't even get it softer. Well, I guess we have to live with it. What I was going to do is to read a little bit from the article in the Grove's Dictionary about passacaglia, which I think makes a very interesting question. There's a point about the passacaglia thing here. And that is on page 270 here. It says, "A number of other 20th-century works use the same method of composition without bearing the name passacaglia.
Indeed, the intense interest by modern composers in this method of composition is part of a larger emphasis during this century, an emphasis shared by the composers of the Baroque period, on the organization of single melodic lines.
This attitude has resulted in melodic ostinato figures and grounds of all kinds. The Classical-Romantic period, with its primarily homophonic concern with the way voices function together rather than separately, produced almost no passacaglias. The finale of Brahms' Fourth Symphony, however, is often cited as embodying passacaglia characteristics." And I think that that's an interesting point because it...
Oh, no! Man, the coat fell off! Oh, brother. Well, I guess I'll just have to put it up again. Is this chair up? Get up on the chair. See if I can get... Okay. There's one edge. He... Wham! Whoa, man! Whoa! Oh! Oh! Whoa, man! That does it.
I am out of here. I am not listening to this anymore. Listen, folks, you can listen to this as long as you want, but you gotta do it without me. I'm leaving here. Somebody else will shut the studio off at the end of the program.
[music excerpt: Lennon/McCARTNEY, "I Want You (She’s So Heavy)" (Abbey Road); The Beatles]
Wait a minute. It stopped. As suddenly as it began, it has stopped. Well, all's well that ends.
[theme: Mozart, Symphony No. 24]
That's Schickele Mix for this week, and not a moment too soon. Our program is made possible with funds provided by the American Public Radio Program Fund, whose contributors include the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, by the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and also by this radio station and its members. We'll tell you in a moment how you can get an official playlist of all the music on today's program with record numbers and everything.
Just refer to the program number. This is program number 59. And this is Peter Schickele saying goodbye and reminding you that it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that certain je ne sais quoi. You're looking good. See you next week.
[theme: Mozart, Symphony No. 24]
If you'd like a copy of that playlist I mentioned, send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to Schickele Mix. That's Schickele, Schickele Mix. Care of American Public Radio, 100 North 6th Street, Suite 900A, Minneapolis, Minnesota, 55403.