12 Works of Christmas - 8. Josef Matthias Hauer's Zwölftonspiell (Weihnachten 1946)

More than two years ago I wrote about the much-wished-we-heard-more-of-his-stuff Josef Matthias Hauer, a uniquely charming figure in the Second Viennese School, and his zwölftonspiele, or "twelve-tone games".  After tinkering with various methods of writing dodecaphonically without sacrificing natural musical logic, Hauer found his favorite form, the zwölftonspiel, wherein an ordered twelve-tone row is ruminated upon in all its various permutations without worrying about themes, dramatic structure or most other constraints of normal composition.  These pieces were usually no more than a few minutes long and as such Hauer wrote about a thousand of them for various instrumental combinations including solo piano, bringing us to Christmas.  My favorite of these zwölftonspiel is the Zwölftonspiel (Weihnachten 1946), one of the most touching of all serialist pieces and so precious as to melt on your earlobe when it lands.

The form couldn't be simpler, or rather more nonexistent: the row is introduced and Hauer riffs on it in five variations.  The variations have no arc within themselves but rather allow the arc present within an otherwise static sequence of notes emerge, a feat in itself.  What's so remarkable is how memorable each of the variations is and how each of them equally compliments the row in such different ways, as well as evoke such a great sequence of moods (dread, wonderment, focus, frustration, release) - the mark of an expert tone jeweller.  It's also notable for being exactly as long as it needs to be, and you don't need any writer to tell you how much of a problem that can become.  It's the one piece of Hauer's I'lll remember until I die and should be included in every pianists' Christmas rep, if only to add a strange interlude to any concert in need of one - which could be every Christmas concert, come to think of it.  And like much of the most assured of experimental pieces it isn't afraid to end on a smile.

~PNK

Visual Music - Grotesken-Album

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I leaped for joy last night (or rather leaped internally as I remained sitting in my bed), because arguably the seminal document of Expressionist music has finally been uploaded to IMSLP in full.  Universal-Edition's Grotesken-Album, though mostly compiled from single movements of larger works as a marketing ploy, encapsulates a rich and striking moment in Classical history when horror, madness and mockery were the soups du jour.  Expressionism gained traction in music after WWI, and the freedom of dissonant architecture that works like Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunaire and The Book of the Hanging Gardens introduced made a huge impression on younger composers.  Much like Impressionism, Ultra-Modernism and Scriabinisim, the fecundity of Expressionism was ultimately swallowed by movements defined by regularized architecture and reduced individuality.  That isn't to say that Expressionism didn't have its mediocre moments, and viewers of the Grotesken-Album may experience varied mileage with its mix of still-established (Béla Bartók, Ernst Krenek) and now-obscure (Felix Petyrek, Rudolph Réti) artists working in a volatile new language.  A fine example of the language in the book by a lesser-known composer is the Burleske movement of Eklogen, op. 11 by Egon Wellesz - just skip to 5:31.

Universal-Edition was unstoppable at the time, a new music juggernaut and bastion for all things exciting and Germanic (Durand had the French stuff).  What's so great about the collection isn't even how creative its works were at the time, but rather that it owes its existence to good old fashioned advertising tricks**.  And with such an inventive product to sell Universal-Edition felt compelled to market it inventively.  Thank God for inter-war irreverence.

A better grotesk cover couldn't have come to be even if Leviathan coughed up Behemoth onto your Thanksgiving dinner table to sing bawdy drinking songs.  The jester, Europe's longtime symbol of the Id's cruel laughter at everything sacred, is deformed into a skeletal, superhuman frame, head spinning like an Art Nouveau Regan MacNeil.  His clothes, along with the backdrop, are drenched in browns and grays, subverting any hope for a symbol of glory by presenting its messenger resplendent in mud.  The superimposition of fuschia and sky blue against charcoal is bizarre, almost beckoning the viewer to a demented carnival.  Much like Edwin Roxburgh's Labyrinth the title gains power by reaching past the frame, but instead of that cover's overwhelming font mass Grotesken's letters remain nimble and spidery, their overreach more a quirky mistake than anything else.  The grasp of exotic humorror*** on display is almost impossible to describe in words, so I'll let the inevitable realization by the viewer that the jester's left leg isn't attach to anything sink in.  It's too good for the music it's promoting, and while that may be a recurring theme in this series that shouldn't keep you from gobbling this anthology with as much speed as you can muster on a mid-November Sunday.  I can't guarantee you'll finish it with your head right side up, though.

~PNK

*Isn't that font just fantastic?

**Is Scorewife an acceptable term?  Either way I'm using it.

***Humor-horror, but you can chuck that word into the dustbin if you like.  The jester got to me.