George Crumb completed the final revisions for Zeitgeist (Six Tableaux for Two Amplified Pianos, Book I) in 1989. The work is approximately twenty-eight minutes in duration. It was commissioned by the Degenhardt-Kent piano duet. The first performance took place at the Charles Ives Festival in Duisburg, Germany in 1988.

After that. the composer reworked the piece to his liking. Like the rest of the Crumb catalog, this work includes enigmatic sounds and titles for the movements, such as “The Realm of Morpheus (” … the inner eye of dreams”).” The extended techniques involves the players reaching into the piano to attack the strings directly in order to achieve specific timbres that would not otherwise be available from without.

Like many of the composer’s earlier works, elements of the work suggest a coherent and exotic belief system or world view in all its eccentricities. Like his Makrokosmos series for amplified piano(s) in the 1970s, the listener is often drawn to the poetic allusions as potential clues to unlocking the arcane secrets of the composer’s mind.

The sound suggests some very concrete ideology or mystic purpose behind his clear yet unique musical formations. Webern had his naturalist Catholicism; Crumb’s point of departure is anybody’s guess. Part of its enduring interest is its lack of posturing. Scriabin, for example, reveled in the role of the eccentric, mystic genius, and played it up. Satie did something similar, though in a more modern and self-stylized way that was grounded in the Rosicrucians. It was less of a romantic cliché than was the hackneyed persona of his Russian peer.

Crumb has all the interior components of a similarly mystical artistic personality but none of the mannerisms or apparent affiliations. He is the anchor of his own spirit, and nothing else resembles his art, with the exception of a plethora of imitators.

When listening to a work such as Zeitgeist, being a world famous artist does not sound preoccupying to the composer. There is compassion to his music that does reflect back upon him as a leader of any wounded aesthetic congregation, as if he does not regard himself as the vital part of an equation consisting of listener, performer, and composer.

Above all, Crumb’s music is American. More precisely, it is nocturnal, pastoral Americana of the highest caliber, revealing a deeply compassionate, inquisitive, and independent imagination. A work such as Zeitgeist does not have more in common with the work of most composers from the United States than it does with the Europeans, with the exception of Charles Ives.

There is little in the scores themselves that verify this connection, but both demonstrate a relationship to the land that is difficult to pin down but easily recognized. Crumb uses fewer indigenous references than Ives, though the Zeitgeist’s fifth movement contains bits of an Appalachian folk song. It could be said that both composers felt less bound to music history than other composers; neither man sounds determined to either break with tradition or serve it.

The music simply is, and that is a rare quality. Even if the listener accepts these rather speculative conjectures, questions remain. Why Zeitgeist? What is the deeper meaning of its movements’ individual titles? It is the apparent importance of these questions that proves that the music is engaging. Many listeners are rarely satisfied to know a piece works. The rigor of Boulez’s syntax has everything to do with why the music works, and one can detect what is working by recognizing its nature, if not its particulars. Crumb’s music remains a mystery, a beautiful one, even with repeated listening.
[All Music Guide]

Excerpts: I have already published a post about the 3rd mov. (Monochord) here. Now go listen to the 4th and 6th.

George Crumb – Zeitgeist (Six Tableaux for Two Amplified Pianos, Book I)

• IV: Day of the comet
• VI: Reverberations

George Crumb – Eleven Echoes of Autumn (1966) for violin, alto flute, clarinet, and piano.

Eleven Echoes of Autumn was composed during the spring of 1966 for the Aeolian Chamber Players (on commission from Bowdoin College). The eleven pieces constituting the work are performed without interruption:

1. Echo 1. Fantastico
2. Echo 2. Languidamente, quasi lontano (“hauntingly”)
3. Echo 3. Prestissimo
4. Echo 4. Con bravura
5. Echo 5. Cadenza I (for Alto Flute)
6. Echo 6. Cadenza II (for Violin)
7. Echo 7. Cadenza III (for Clarinet)
8. Echo 8. Feroce, violento
9. Echo 9. Serenamente, quasi lontano (“hauntingly”)
10. Echo 10. Senza misura (“gently undulating”)
11. Echo 11. Adagio (“like a prayer”)

Each of the echoes exploits certain timbral possibilities of the instruments. For example, echo 1 (for piano alone) is based entirely on the 5th partial harmonic, ehco 2 on violin harmonics in combination with 7th partial harmonics produced on the piano (by drawing a piece of hard rubber along the strings). A delicate aura of sympathetic vibrations emerges in echoes 3 and 4, produced in the latter case by alto flute and clarinet playing into the piano (close to the strings). At the conclusion of the work the violinist achieves a mournful, fragile timbre by playing with the bow hair completely slack.

The most important generative element of Eleven Echoes is the “bell motif” — a quintuplet figure based on the whole-tone interval — which is heard at the beginning of the work. This diatonic figure appears in a variety of rhythmic guises, and frequently in a highly chromatic context.

Each of the eleven pieces has its own expressive character, at times overlaid by quasi-obbligato music of contrasting character, e.g., the “wind music” of the alto flute and clarinet in echo 2 or the “distant mandolin music” of the violin in echo 3. The larger expressive curve of the work is arch-like: a gradual growth of intensity to a climactic point (echo 8), followed by a gradual collapse.

Although Eleven Echoes has certain programmatic implications for the composer, it is enough for the listener to infer the significance of the motto-quote from Federico García Lorca: “… y los arcos rotos donde sufre el tiempo” (“… and the broken arches where time suffers”). These words are softly intoned as a preface to each of the three cadenza (echoes 5-7) and the image “broken arches” is represented visually in the notation of the music which underlies the cadenzas.

• George Crumb – Eleven Echoes of Autumn (1966) for violin, alto flute, clarinet, and piano.

Le ultime due parti di Echoes of Time and the River (Echoes II), di George Crumb ripulite, per quanto possibile, dalle impurità del vecchio vinile. Si intitolano Collapse of Time e Last Echoes of Time.

The most free and fantastic movement is the portentous Collapse of Time. Like the celebrated amphibians of Aristophanes, the string players croak out the nonsense syllables “Krek-tu-dai! Krek-tu-dai!” while the xylophone taps out the name of the composer in Morse code. As the movement proceeds and the underlying pulse falls away, the music heads off into a wide range of special effects – quasi-improvised fragments passed around among the various soloists, notated in circular patterns in the score. The descent into the solitude of the finale, Last Echoes of Time, comes at first as a relief and relaxation from all the foregoing; once the listener is convinced of the retrospective nature of these last pages, he can begin to explore more securely the implications in these echoes of all that has gone before. [Robert McMahan]

George Crumb – from Echoes of Time and the River, Collapse of Time / Last Echoes of Time

La seconda parte di Echoes of Time and the River (Echoes II), di George Crumb. Anche questa “ripulita” dalle impurità del vecchio vinile.

The second movement, Remembrance of Time, begins with the most distant and delicate sounds imaginable (piano, percussion, harp), echoed by a phrase from García Lorca (“the broken arches where time suffers”). Fragments of joyful music erupt from various wind and brass players on stage and off, and the commotion eventually gives way to a kind of Ivesian reminiscence, evoked by serene string harmonics: “Were You There When They Crucified the Lord?”

George Crumb – from Echoes of Time and the River, Remembrance of Time

Monochord è una parte di Zeitgeist di George Crumb, una suite per due pianoforti amplificati composta nel 1988, quindi 10 anni dopo l’ultimo libro del Makrokosmos da cui eredita la ricerca sonora fatta di suoni delicati prodotti manipolando direttamente le corde del pianoforte e ascoltabili grazie all’amplificazione.

Registrazione effettuata a Lecce nel 2007. Esecutori Andrea Rebaudengo, Carlo Palese.

Natale si avvicina e per me le feste comandate sono periodi nefandi e depressi, così cerco di addolcirle con un po’ di musica, magari a tema, ma diversa dal solito.

George Crumb ha scritto questa Little Suite for Christmas per piano solo nel 1980.

Si tratta di un brano dolce e silenzioso, ma nello stesso tempo molto energico, giocato su un dialogo fra suono e silenzio, con eruzioni sonore, lunghe pause e frasi esitanti.
Qui Crumb rinuncia all’amplificazione e agli oggetti inseriti su/fra le corde che usava nel Makrokosmos, ma si concentra sul suono dello strumento, con corde lasciate vibrare, pedali, armonici, risonanze e pizzicati.

Il risultato è contemplativo e affascinante. Un pezzo che mostra come si possa scrivere musica contemporanea ma accessibile e godibile nello stesso tempo.

• George Crumb – A Little Suite for Christmas for piano – Aleksandra Listova

George Crumb – An Idyll for the Misbegotten (1986)
per flauto amplificato e 3 percussioni
Kristen Halay flauto, Brian Scott, W. Sean Wagoner, Tracy Freeze percussioni

I feel that ‘misbegotten’ [trad: figlio illegittimo, bastardo] well describes the fateful and melancholy predicament of the species homo sapiens at the present moment in time. Mankind has become ever more ‘illegitimate’ in the natural world of plants and animals. The ancient sense of brotherhood with all life-forms (so poignantly expressed in the poetry of St. Francis of Assisi) has gradually and relentlessly eroded, and consequently we find ourselves monarchs of a dying world. We share the fervent hope that humankind will embrace anew nature’s ‘moral imperative.’
[George Crumb]

Crumb suggests, “impractically,” that the music be “heard from afar, over a lake, on a moonlit evening in August.” (Crumb) Over a slow bass drum tremolo, the flute begins its haunting melody, which over the course of the piece includes quotations of Claude Debussy’s solo flute piece Syrinx and spoken verse by the eighth-century Chinese poet Ssu-K’ung Shu: “The moon goes down. There are shivering birds and withering grasses.” Far from a traditionally peaceful idyll, the music’s energy and dynamics gradually rise and fall, with a sense of desolation throughout.

Black Angels (Images I), quartetto d’archi amplificati di George Crumb, probabilmente l’unico quartetto ispirato alla guerra in Vietnam. È una bella partitura, anche graficamente. I titoli dei movimenti, poi, sono fantastici (mi piace molto il 2.3 “Sarabanda de la Muerte Oscura”).

Movements
I. DEPARTURE

1. Threnody I: Night of the Electric Insects
2. Sounds of Bones and Flutes
3. Lost Bells
4. Devil-music
5. Danse Macabre

II. ABSENCE

1. Pavana Lachrymae
2. Threnody II: Black Angels!
3. Sarabanda de la Muerte Oscura
4. Lost Bells (Echo)

III. RETURN

1. God-music
2. Ancient Voices
3. Ancient Voices (Echo)
4. Threnody III: Night of the Electric Insects

Program Notes (from the author’s site)

Black Angels (Images I)
Thirteen images from the dark land

Things were turned upside down. There were terifying things in the air … they found their way into Black Angels. – George Crumb, 1990

Black Angels is probably the only quartet to have been inspired by the Vietnam War. The work draws from an arsenal of sounds including shouting, chanting, whistling, whispering, gongs, maracas, and crystal glasses. The score bears two inscriptions: in tempore belli (in time of war) and “Finished on Friday the Thirteenth, March, 1970”.

Black Angels was conceived as a kind of parable on our troubled contemporary world. The numerous quasi-programmatic allusions in the work are therefore symbolic, although the essential polarity — God versus Devil — implies more than a purely metaphysical reality. The image of the “black angel” was a conventional device used by early painters to symbolize the fallen angel.

The underlying structure of Black Angels is a huge arch-like design which is suspended from the three “Threnody” pieces. The work portrays a voyage of the soul. The three stages of this voyage are Departure (fall from grace), Absence (spiritual annihilation) and Return (redemption).

The numerological symbolism of Black Angels, while perhaps not immediately perceptible to the ear, is nonetheless quite faithfully reflected in the musical structure. These “magical” relationships are variously expressed; e.g., in terms of length, groupings of single tones, durations, patterns of repetition, etc. An important pitch element in the work — descending E, A, and D-sharp — also symbolizes the fateful numbers 7-13. At certain points in the score there occurs a kind of ritualistic counting in various languages, including German, French, Russian, Hungarian, Japanese and Swahili.

There are several allusions to tonal music in Black Angels: a quotation from Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden” quartet (in the Pavana Lachrymae and also faintly echoed on the last page of the work); an original Sarabanda, which is stylistically synthetic; the sustained B-major tonality of God-Music; and several references to the Latin sequence Dies Irae (“Day of Wrath”). The work abounds in conventional musical symbolisms such as the Diabolus in Musica (the interval of the tritone) and the Trillo Di Diavolo (the “Devil’s Trill”, after Tartini).

The amplification of the stringed instruments in Black Angels is intended to produce a highly surrealistic effect. This surrealism is heightened by the use of certain unusual string effects, e.g., pedal tones (the intensely obscene sounds of the Devil-Music); bowing on the “wrong” side of the strings (to produce the viol-consort effect); trilling on the strings with thimble-capped fingers. The performers also play maracas, tam-tams and water-tuned crystal goblets, the latter played with the bow for the “glass-harmonica” effect in God-Music.

George Crumb – Black Angels (Images I) performed by the Miró Quartet Daniel Ching (violin), Sandy Yamamoto (violin), John Largess (viola), Joshua Gindele (cello)

Un lavoro importante di Crumb sono i quattro libri del Makrokosmos (1972-1974). I primi due libri sono per pianoforte solo (amplificato), mentre il terzo (chiamato anche Music for a Summer Evening) è per due pianoforti e percussioni ed il quarto (noto anche con il titolo Celestial Mechanics) per pianoforte a quattro mani.
Il nome di questo ciclo allude ai sei libri pianistici del Microcosmos di Béla Bartók; come il lavoro di Bartók, il Makrokosmos è costituito da una serie di brevi pezzi dal carattere differenziato. Oltre a quella di Bartók, George Crumb ha riconosciuto in questo ciclo influenze di Claude Debussy, sebbene le tecniche compositive utilizzate siano molto differenti da quelle di entrambi gli autori citati. Il pianoforte viene amplificato e preparato sistemando vari oggetti sulle sue corde; in alcuni momenti il pianista deve cantare o gridare alcune parole mentre sta suonando.

Note di programma dell’autore / Author’s program notes:

The title and format of my Makrokosmos reflect my admiration for two great 20th-century composers of piano music — Béla Bartók and Claude Debussy. I was thinking, of course, of Bartók’s Mikrokosmos and Debussy’s 24 Preludes (a second zodiacal set, Makrokosmos, Volume II, was completed in 1973, thus forming a sequence of 24 “fantasy-pieces”). However, these are purely external associations, and I suspect that the “spiritual impulse” of my music is more akin to the darker side of Chopin, and even to the child-like fantasy of early Schumann.

And then there is always the question of the “larger world” of concepts and ideas which influence the evolution of a composer’s language. While composing Makrokosmos, I was aware of certain recurrent haunting images. At times quite vivid, at times vague and almost subliminal, these images seemed to coalesce around the following several ideas (given in no logical sequence, since there is none): the “magical properties” of music; the problem of the origin of evil; the “timelessness” of time; a sense of the profound ironies of life (so beautifully expressed in the music of Mozart and Mahler); the haunting words of Pascal: “Le silence éternel des espaces infinis m’effraie” (“The eternal silence of infinite space terrifies me”); and these few lines of Rilke: “Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit. Wir alle fallen. Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen unendlich sanft in seinen Händen hält” (“And in the nights the heavy earth is falling from all the stars down into loneliness. We are all falling. And yet there is One who holds this falling endlessly gently in his hands”).

Each of the twelve “fantasy-pieces” is associated with a different sign of the zodiac and with the initials of a person born under that sign. I had whimsically wanted to pose an “enigma” with these subscript initials; however, my perspicacious friends quickly identified the Aries of Spring-Fire as David Burge, and the Scorpio of The Phantom Gondolier as myself.

Il primo libro, del 1972, ha come sottotitolo “Twelve fantasy pieces after the Zodiac” e infatti i movimenti sono ispirati ai segni zodiacali.

Potete ascoltarlo tutto o selezionare i singoli movimenti riportati sotto:

Part 1: 00:09 – Primeval Sounds (Genesis 1), Cancer 04:26 – Proteus, Pisces 05:44 – Pastorale (From the Kingdom of Atlantis, сa. 10,000 B.C.), Taurus 07:51 – Crucifixus [Symbol], Capricorn

Part 2: 10:25 – The Phantom Gondolier, Scorpio 13:12 – Night-Spell 1, Sagittarius 17:00 – Music of Shadows (for Aeolian Harp), Libra 19:50 – The Magic Circle of Infinity [Symbol], Leo

Part 3: 21:16 – The Abyss of Time, Virgo 23:46 – Spring Fire, Aries 25:31 – Dream Images (Love-Death Music), Gemini 29:40 – Spiral Galaxy [Symbol], Aquarius

Un lavoro importante di Crumb sono i quattro libri del Makrokosmos (1972-1974). I primi due libri sono per pianoforte solo, mentre il terzo (chiamato anche Music for a Summer Evening, parte del quale ascoltiamo qui) è per due pianoforti e percussioni ed il quarto (noto anche con il titolo Celestial Mechanics) per pianoforte a quattro mani. Il nome di questo ciclo allude ai sei libri pianistici del Microcosmos di Béla Bartók; come il lavoro di Bartók, il Makrokosmos è costituito da una serie di brevi pezzi dal carattere differenziato. Oltre a quella di Bartók, George Crumb ha riconosciuto in questo ciclo influenze di Claude Debussy, sebbene le tecniche compositive utilizzate siano molto differenti da quelle di entrambi gli autori citati. Il pianoforte viene amplificato e preparato sistemando vari oggetti sulle sue corde; in alcuni momenti il pianista deve cantare o gridare alcune parole mentre sta suonando.

Crumb – from Music for a Summer Evening (Makrokosmos III), 5 – Music of the Starry Night (1974), for 2 pianos and 2 percussionists

Author’s program notes (excerpt):

As in several of my other works, the musical fabric of Summer Evening results largely from the elaboration of tiny cells into a sort of mosaic design. This time-hallowed technique seems to function in much new music, irrespective of style, as a primary structural modus. In its overall style, Summer Evening might be described as either more or less atonal, or more or less tonal. The more overtly tonal passages can be defined in terms of the basic polarity F#-D# minor (or, enharmonically, Gb-Eb minor). This (most traditional) polarity is twice stated in “The Advent” — in the opening crescendo passages (“majestic, like a larger rhythm of nature”), and in the concluding “Hymn for the Nativity of the Star-Child”. It is stated once again in “Music of the Starry Night”, with the quotation of passages from Bach’s D# minor fugue (Well-tempered Clavier, Book II) and a concluding “Song of Reconciliation” in Gb (overlaid by an intermittently resounding “Fivefold Galactic Bells” in F#). One other structural device which the astute listener may perceive is the isorhythmic construction of “Myth”, which consists of simultaneously performed taleas of 13, 7, and 11 bars.

 

Un brano acquatico ed evocativo questo Vox Balenae composto nel 1971 da George Crumb per flauto, violoncello e piano, tutti amplificati (non c’è trattamento audio; ci si limita all’amplificazione).
Ispirato a una registrazione di canti delle balene, il brano imita e trasfigura i suoni della natura, che divantano materiale da elaborare musicalmente.
C’è anche un aspetto teatrale: i musicisti devono indossare una maschera intesa a cancellare la loro umanità per portarli a impersonare le forze della natura. Inoltre, l’esecuzione dovrebbe avvenire in luce blu.
Di questa composizione Crumb dice:

The form of Vox Balenae (Voice of the Whale) is a simple three-part design, consisting of a prologue, a set of variations named after the geological eras, and an epilogue.
The opening Vocalise (marked in the score: “wildly fantastic, grotesque”) is a kind of cadenza for the flutist, who simultaneously plays his instrument and sings into it. This combination of instrumental and vocal sound produces an eerie, surreal timbre, not unlike the sounds of the humpback whale. The conclusion of the cadenza is announced by a parody of the opening measures of Strauss’ Also sprach Zarathustra.
The Sea-Theme (“solemn, with calm majesty”) is presented by the cello (in harmonics), accompanied by dark, fateful chords of strummed piano strings. The following sequence of variations begins with the haunting sea-gull cries of the Archezoic (“timeless, inchoate”) and, gradually increasing in intensity, reaches a strident climax in the Cenozoic (“dramatic, with a feeling of destiny”). The emergence of man in the Cenozoic era is symbolized by a partial restatement of the Zarathustra reference.
The concluding Sea-Nocturne (“serene, pure, transfigured”) is an elaboration of the Sea-Theme. The piece is couched in the “luminous” tonality of B major and there are shimmering sounds of antique cymbals (played alternately by the cellist and flutist). In composing the Sea-Nocturne I wanted to suggest “a larger rhythm of nature” and a sense of suspension in time. The concluding gesture of the work is a gradually dying series of repetitions of a 10-note figure. In concert performance, the last figure is to be played “in pantomime” (to suggest a diminuendo beyond the threshold of hearing!); for recorded performances, the figure is played as a “fade-out”.