Notes by David Holzman
Overture
My association with Stefan Wolpe began long before I had any interest in
20th Century music, let alone the ability to bring it to life. I was an
eleven-year-old student commuting from Queens to Manhattan to attend the
Chatham Square Music School and I found myself in Theory I facing an old
man named Mr. Wolpe. He appeared as reluctant a teacher as I was a
student; his eyes looked wistfully out the window and he talked more to
himself than to the class (I remember the muttered line "they took
everything away from me"). My fellow students would make fun of him,
but his whimsical expression and foreign accent haunted me. In retrospect
I feel much as Proust did when remembering Monsieur Swann. Neither Marcel
nor his family could or would recognize that he was a cherished member of
Europe's highest societies. No students, nor their parents, nor, likely,
the bulk of the faculty saw Mr. Wolpe as an esteemed member of New York's
most advanced music circles nor as the influential teacher of many of our
greatest composers, which he was.
Some of the advanced students performed early works of his such as Songs
from The Hebrew or excerpts from Zemach Suite. They were beyond
my ken, but even this experience of dissonance and complexity was an eye-opening
glimpse of a new world which intrigued me. Mr. Wolpe left the school
within a few years, and his name and music became a distant memory.
My interest and abilities in new music slowly evolved. West Side
Story, Bartok and Barber quartets at Washington Irving High School,
and Richter playing Prokofiev were my gentle guides. Soon, at the High
School of Music and Art, I discovered the satisfactions of performing new
works by student composers. My repertoire slowly broadened and, by the
time I auditioned for the Mannes College of Music, I knew that the 20th
Century was to be my musical life. Wolpe was still a hazy memory until my
audition with Paul Jacobs. I recall his daunting presence as he ushered me
in and told me brusquely "you have 15 minutes." Seeing the score
I had brought, his sparkling eyes flashed and, with a sardonic smile, he
commented "so you play Messiaen." That was enough to establish a
teacher-student relationship. Then he asked me about my other experiences
with 20th Century music. I mentioned my studies with Wolpe and suddenly
the sparkle left his eyes and a dreamy and utterly unguarded expression
took over his face. While the discussion about Wolpe as man and composer
was brief, the dramatic change of expression stayed with me as I wondered
what about Wolpe could cause such deep reverence from a man who, a moment
previously, seemed so impervious to this emotion.
Despite the ripening of my interest and abilities under Jacobs, Wolpe's
music was not yet part of my world. I recall seeing a few printed editions
of piano works at Patelson's but the thin writing (and perhaps bland
titles) never grabbed me as did Messiaen's effusions. Only upon entering
New York's music scene as ensemble pianist with the Light Fantastic
Players did Wolpe's music finally become a steady part of my musical diet.
The rhythmic complexities and the subtle interactions between players were
the central pleasures of the works. As with Paul Jacobs, there was a deep
respect and love among my colleagues when playing these masterworks, a
respect which was found for few other composers.
I began to look for Wolpe's scores, and was led to his widow, Irma, who
gave me a tattered manuscript of Toccata. This proved the first
step toward what has been a two-decade journey with Wolpe's solo keyboard
works, a journey not yet completed but one which has shaped my musical
personality, my pianism and my outlook on all of life.
Toccata provided me with a healthy introduction to Wolpe's
demands. First and foremost was the barely legible handwriting that
required a dedication of its own. Second was the clumsiness of the
passagework due to the vast skips and chromatic textures. Toccata
seems to have been inspired by the Busoni Toccata (the pervasive A-flat of
the Wolpe seems almost a dedication to the A-flat minor of his neo-Classic
mentor). While mastery came slowly and struggle was always present, I
apparently did well enough in my performances to be rewarded by the even
more tattered manuscript of Battle Piece.
Exposition
Of all the extra-musical titles which composers provide for their scores,
few are as close to the essence of the work as the two laconic words which
comprise Battle Piece. While the date tells all, there are other,
equally critical battles taking place.
As my black-and-blue fingers and shelf-shocked state at the end of each
recording session can attest, one is dealing with an all-too-human
performer facing an implacable keyboard. At times, one feels that
maintaining the struggle is perhaps the truest victory. With a few
ecstatic exceptions, one is faced with a brutal battle between the hands
(and, at times, even the fingers of each hand). Each pursues its own path
rhythmically, melodically and coloristically. Compromise is a moral
impossibility.
In a purely formal sense, one is confronted with primeval rhythmic and
harmonic forces which evolve over a monumental panorama. Three tonal
centers with Mozartean overtones pervade the score - a demoniac D minor, a
warm E-flat Major, and a desolate E minor. A Webernesque pattern of
tritone-perfect fourth (A-D-G#) provides a serial cell which can expand
for pages at a time. Rhythmic motives abound. There is a two-upbeat
pattern present in the near chaotic triple-time movements (I and 7); a
three-upbeat motive is central to the march-like movements (2 and 6); and
there is an inexorable 3+3+2 which pervades the work. The conflict will at
times put one element in a dominant position, but no harmonic pole or
rhythmic pattern is ever vanquished and, by the end, the bleakness of the
musical landscape shows perhaps most of all the mutual self-annihilation
of these seemingly invincible powers.
The five years which Wolpe took to complete the work indicates that the
battle was Wolpe's own. The youthful nihilism of Stehendemusik, the
satire of Tango, the avant-garde serial pursuits of Passacaglia,
the hunger for ethnic roots of Zemach Suite and other works of the
years in Palestine, the political involvement of Good Spirit of' a
Right Cause are all to be found in Battle Piece. What is unique
is the effort to wrap all these disparate elements together in the
creation of massive fresco in which one's human fears, hopes and
(occasionally) mundane satisfactions are transcended and a vast sculpture
is left, to be pondered, and feared.
The conflict is not always earthshaking. Movement 5 seems a gentle
yiddish hak mir nit kain tsheinek rebuke to the almost Iberian
lament of movement 2 (inspired by Picasso's Guernica) and the
martial rhythms of Movement III. Wolpe himself gave the work a more
personal foundation with his subtitle "battles, hopes, problems ...
new battles, new hopes, no problems." Movement 7 is described as
"crisis and lysis - summation" and it was difficult to
comprehend precisely what the "summation" meant to Wolpe and
what he wanted it to mean for the listener. In the contemporaneous Quartet
for the End of Time by Messiaen, the final movement is a second Louange
a L'eternite de Jesus. Messiaen asks, in the preface, "pourquoi
le deuxieme louange-" His answer is that it refers to Jesus the human
rather than Jesus the god, and the sensuous harmonies and voluptuous
melody are surely of the flesh.
For me, Wolpe's summation is not so much a "victory," as a
surrender to his own mortality and a recognition of the vanity of human
pretensions. The confident march rhythms and massively delineated sections
of the earlier movements here grow more c6mpressed and the thrilling five-page
ascent in the tenor creates a frightening chaos as frantic motives hover
above. The climactic gestures in E-flat Major are surrounded by almost
desperately short ghosts of past lines and patterns. The harmonic descent
of the final page -- again with memories of movement 1 -- leads to a
barren 'E-G'-- the only thing left of the vast sculpture, rather like
Shelly's Ozymandias.
Wolpe would never again write "encouragements." All the
personal and" musical ingredients would remain but would become more
and more interior. He was no longer writing for the people, nor for the
larger musical public, but only for his small, intact world and,
ultimately, only for himself. I am reminded of Philip Roth's I Married
A Communist, which focuses upon the political and social world of the
40's and beyond in America. It ends with the narrator living on a mountain
and contemplating the inexorable patterns of the stars, beyond human
control. He has seen people of fierce belief and moral strength cause as
much damage as good, and he can no longer even pretend to hold on to firm
beliefs, Wolpe, after decades of fierce ideological, ethnic and aesthetic
pursuits, seems to be throwing up his hands and allowing the universe to
take its own course. His only path is to cultivate the garden of his own
creative genius.
Development
From Battle Piece I proceeded chronologically to Displaced
Spaces (1946), a set of miniatures which were studies in Wolpe's
oncoming abstract expressionist style. Music For A Dancer (1950)
was a throwback to earlier times in its greater metrical regularity and
its largely tonal reference. The irony is gentle by Wolpe's standards and
ranges from the bumptious German dance of the opening to the hyper-elegance
of the Minuet to the stylized pas-de-deux ala Tchaikovsky of the third
movement. Only in the Finale is the present allowed its place, as one
hears avant-garde jazz in the sparkling fughetta.
Music For A Dancer led directly to another choreographed work, Waltz
for Merle (1952). To my surprise, this short work pr6ved as great a
challenge as Battle Piece and, to my great pleasure, provided equal
satisfaction as well.
One feels almost from the opening hemiola that the battle has been
fought and won, and that the losers (ie. Viennese culture) are being
dragged before a court to meet their just desserts. Wolpe's avant-garde
techniques provide the torture. Each waltz cliché is quickly contradicted
by a viciously disruptive pattern, either rhythmic or contrapuntal. After
ten measures of good-humored triple-time, the happy dancers are suddenly
transplanted to a Greenwich Village nightclub where a jazz-like 5/8 takes
over and various patterns seem suspended in mid-air, rather like puppets.
Wolpe presents the obligatory Straussian trio, here a fragrant line
with lounging accompanying figures. Boredom quickly sets in and, after a
dissipation of all direction, Wolpe yanks the bourgeois partners into the
new world, where elegance is no longer tolerated. One hears an angry
explosion, even disdaining triple time, as an Ellington-like fughetta
provides - violent 'canon-fodder.' This climax is followed by an almost
imperceptible recapitulation -- recognizable only by the pervasive six-note
row that appears out of nowhere. Here, rather as in the finale of Battle
Piece, all the earlier motives are hung out to dry - in viciously
distorted shapes and with steady beats a mere memory. The quiet ending is
not all these disparate elements, together in the creation of a massive
fresco in which one's reconciliation, merely a recognition of the end of
European cultural hegemony.
Within its five minutes, Waltz is at least as daunting as Battle
Piece. Conflicts are here nuances, and dramatic gestures are here
turned to imperceptible tonal and rhythmic transitions. The polyphonic
conflicts, spacious leaps and thick chords are still present and are even
more fearsome owing to the speed and grace with which they must be
accomplished. Maintaining the struggle is no longer sufficient and,
overcoming this challenge after years of work, I realized that it was not
enough in Battle Piece either -- indeed, never enough!
Upon completion of Waltz, I gave myself a respite by perusing
delicacies such as Gesang (one of five Adagios from 1920), Tango
(an example of the dadaism which Wolpe always retained), Lied Anrede
Hymnus Strophe (a birthday offering to Irma), Palestinian Notebook
which consists largely of folk transcriptions, and The Good Spirit of a
Right Cause, the proletarian prelude to Battle Piece. All are
"tonal" but they exhibit vastly different aspects of tonality
which make the word as nebulous as "atonality."
When Austin Clarkson suggested I look at Sonata No. 1, I was
thrilled, as I had not known of its existence. It turned out to be a three-movement
work whose first and second movements had been published separately by
Josef Marx (the unfinished third movement had never been published). The
work stems from a legendary concert by the Novembergruppe in Berlin in
1927. The title of this concert was "Stehendemusik" (music of
stasis) and caused a riot among those present. It is not hard to
understand why, as the violence of the Wolpe (and works by Stuckenschmidt
and Dammert as well) was quite extraordinary even for those turbulent
days.
The term "music of stasis" implies a stationary or motionless
quality somewhat akin to the recent Minimalism. Wolpe's Sonata is
in no sense minimal, but is rather maximal in its volume and rhythmic
turbulence. This work was inspired less by the post-War nihilism of Berlin
than by the new theories of such scientists as Einstein and Heisenberg.
Time was now a fourth dimension and the sense of infinitely large and
small units was palpable. This massive and impervious temporal dimension
is present from the start. Harsh chords, rather like the ostinati of
Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, repeat themselves in seemingly random
patterns and all direction is lost. Movement III is unfinished, but one
would not know it, as it is a vast repetition of chordal clashes with no
trace of either beginning or end. Movement 11 is, remarkably, for me the
most intimate confession in all Wolpe's piano works. A clearly tonal work,
this movement presents two lines, each of which is an understated lament.
As the work progresses, each line goes its own way seemingly unaware of
the other. Only at the end of the opening and closing sections is there a
halting unity as a cadence is attempted, with less than complete success.
Recapitulation
Re-encountering Zemach Suite after 40 years provided a touching
conclusion to this way-station in my journey through Wolpe's creations. No
longer were the harmonies strange and frightening, but rather warm and
friendly. I now hear symmetrical phrases, and even the occasional shift in
meter and displacement of a chord brings a smile to my face and seems a
natural part of the musical language.
Zemach Suite presents a strange mirror-image to my original
experience of Battle Piece. While making use of many of the same
polyphonic techniques and emotional range as Battle Piece, Wolpe is
here content to dwell upon the same color and mood for complete movements.
The polyphonic divergences and harmonic ambiguities here seem to amplify
the largely sunny terrain. Technical difficulties abound, as usual
(especially in the Finale where one's feet are required to play the role
of virtuosi). In Zemach Suite, however, they seem meant to be
overcome by the pianist with a human amount of effort.
Zemach Suite is Wolpe at his most comfortable. All the works
from the Palestinian years betray a happiness and security which was
inspired by his presence in a new land, far away from Berlin, and not yet
in New York, where economic and professional turmoil would return.
"Mediterranean" (Wolpe's own word) elements abound. The melodic
leitmotif is a traditional Jewish mode and the finale is a virtuoso hora.
Busoni's neo-Classic influence is present in the Baroque structures, but
an almost innocent effusion of communicative spirit is never lost. It
should be noted that Complaint does not imply a petty problem,
rather a spiritual illness. This is overcome by the dizzying energetic
dance that follows.
Coda
Well before Zemach Suite I had been pondering another link to the
past. While working with Paul Jacobs on composers such as Schoenberg or
Copland, I recall his frequent use of the word "gesture." Given
his self-contained personality and disciplined pianism, I took the word to
imply a somewhat artificial means of creating emotion.
It was Wolpe who taught me what a "gesture" implies. Pianism
is like choreography or even athletics at its best. One cannot separate
physical truth from aesthetic or emotional truth and one can only
communicate this truth through one's body, after all the mental rigor of
practicing. The very opening of Battle Piece provides a clear
example - one which took years of thought and effort to fully understand.
The performer is faced with violent lines which lead irresistibly to
single pitches, creating striking shapes and colors. One can only achieve
this effect with strong arm attacks, finger articulation and a
choreographed gesture which takes one directly to the climax and then
continues onward without pause to take a breath. The challenge lies in the
vast leaps and clumsy chords which one encounters. Any effort to mitigate
the difficulty by "preparing" (a term I remember from an early
teacher) the crucial note or by looking for a more comfortable hand
position will create a loss in either rhythmic momentum or tonal strength,
I gave myself the excuse of having thick fingers in order not to face the
frightening thought of hitting wrong notes. I finally realized that, thick
or not, I had no choice but to do Wolpe's bidding. Surprisingly, once I
made this decision, the wrong notes ceased to appear.
Magnifying this problem is the independence of lines. While my fight
hand reached its climax on a downbeat, the left hand reached its climax on
a different beat and its own shape included a two-note phrase before
moving forward. Thus, my left hands gesture was utterly opposed to that of
my right hand. My arms would move in different directions and my
choreographed gestures would create a dizzying sense of two beings in
conflict -- the essence of the work. Countless hours of work on these two
measures finally allowed for a fearless and utterly unself-conscious
perfon-nance of this violent opening. As pianist Moritz Rosenthal said,
"take chances." One cannot look in two places at once, let alone
stare at the score. One must dive in bravely, only concerned with color
and shape, i.e. expression.
The trio of Waltz is an even more challenging dilemma. One needs
a luscious tone for thick chordal melodies, while surrounding it with
cello pizzicati and high woodwinds. Again, one has no time to prepare
these widely spaced chords and the beauty of tone must come from a relaxed
arm and shoulder, not from close-to-the-keys finger or even wrist strokes.
The courage required consists in keeping one's ears open, one's eyes
closed and letting oneself feel that one has three hands, all independent.
If I need to conclude with a sermon, I can only say I have heard the good
news. Faith in oneself and in the reality of striving after perfection is
a vital part of life. Endeavoring to live a good life musically requires
the same qualities as living a morally good life: Self-honesty, effort,
confidence in the ultimate success of such effort, and gratitude for the
gift of music itself - an everlasting boon in an ephemeral and painful
world. Wolpe's works provided a long and arduous path out of the
wilderness, but this is perhaps the only way to reach one's goal. For this
also, my deepest thanks to Stefan.
This recording is dedicated with love to Agnes.
--David Holzman
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