The Symphony: Volume 2: Elgar to the Present Day

by Robert Simpson (Editor), David Cox (contributor), PETER JONA KORN (contributor)

This completely new work in two volumes provides a comprehensive introduction to the whole symphonic scene from Haydn to the present day.

Robert Simpson - himself a well-known symphonist - has done more than compile programme notes of the great symphonies: he has, in his two introductions, analysed the essence of symphonic form. By identifying the elements of rhythm, melody, harmony, and - vitally important - tonality as all being present in full measure in any successful symphony, he has provided a frame of reference which binds together symphonists from Haydn to Holmboe, from Mozart to Martinů.

His team of distinguished contributors, which includes Deryck Cooke, Hans Keller, and Hugh Ottoway, has thus been able to provide a connected, unified study of all major composers who have "attempted to achieve in an orchestral work the highest state of organization of which music is capable".

Genres: Music, Nonfiction

282 pages, paperback (pocket size)

First published January 1, 1966

About the author

Robert Simpson was an English composer and long-serving BBC producer and broadcaster.

He is best known for his orchestral and chamber music (particularly those in the key classical forms: 11 symphonies and 15 string quartets), and for his writings on the music of Beethoven, Bruckner, Nielsen and Sibelius. He studied composition under Herbert Howells. Remarkably for a living contemporary composer, a Robert Simpson Society was formed in 1980 by individuals concerned that Simpson's music had been unfairly neglected. The Society aims to bring Simpson's music to a wider public by sponsoring recordings and live performances of his work, by issuing a journal and other publications, and by maintaining an archive of material relating to the composer.

As a writer on music (he would have disavowed the title 'musicologist'), Simpson was guided by his deep admiration for Tovey's ability to discuss a composer's sophisticated treatment of forms and keys in a manner that was accurate and incisive without ever alienating the non-specialist reader. His earliest published writings were as a reviewer and critic; but before long his focus had shifted towards being an advocate for widely unappreciated or misunderstood composers like Anton Bruckner, Carl Nielsen and Jean Sibelius, as well as to the analysis of better-known figures (such as Beethoven) whenever he felt able to illuminate their work from a composer's perspective. His writings can usefully be divided into five categories: (i) books written by Simpson; (ii) books edited by Simpson; (iii) contributions to other books and collections; (iv) posthumous collections of articles; (v) individual articles, programme- and sleeve-notes, etc.

Reviews

[Andrew · Rating 3 out of 5]

When I recently discovered this pair of volumes on the symphony (and strangely a parallel one by Simpson, marked Mahler To The Present Day, which is exactly the same book under a different and erroneous title), I couldn't wait to get stuck in to such a rich seam of life, having just completed my (secondary) survey of the concerto. I got much from that, but I knew I would get so much more from the symphony, because I knew many of them well. And this would be my tertiary serious exploration of the symphony.

The symphony is, after all, the pinnacle of human achievement (and arguers would quote great novels and paintings, particle physics or astronomy, or simply the wonder of the modern gadget, like the mobile, headphones, modern HD TV and hi-fi, or even more simply the fridge, washing machine and microwave, I know). But the symphony, for me, is where my heart lies, because they evoke something deep within you that grows through your life.

This one begins (or resumes, after Haydn to Dvořák in the first volume) with Elgar, one whose symphonies I have never been able to get into, being only a relatively recent addition to the couple of hundred I own, the two discussed here, 1 and 2, leaving me feeling rather neutral - as I feel about much of the Enigma Variations, frankly, raised beyond its collective value by Nimrod into something ecstatic. Yet no such affecting theme seemed to be hidden within these two symphonies. However, with the introduction and the noted 'constraints' inherent within Elgar's personality and symphonic works, I listened anew, and admit to a greater appreciation, certainly of the 1st (1908). It now demands more time in the future.

I've not had such trouble with Mahler's symphonies, however, even coming to terms with his migrainous 6th, the often atonal 7th, and the initially unappealing gargantuan 8th (while certain sections are exquisite). For 50 years I loved the 1st, 4th and 5th more than the 2nd, 3rd and 9th, but time has evened it all out. I now happily thoroughly enjoy all of Mahler's symphonies, and note the transcendence which rises from the 9th into the incomplete 10th (hearing Cooke's version) which - apart from sublime periods through Sibelius's symphonies, and throughout Rachmaninov's 2nd - take me somewhere no other composer does.

It is of course nigh-on impossible to select favourite passages from all those immensely moving symphonies, worlds in themselves, but it is the final movements of the 2nd and 3rd, and the adagio of the 4th, which produce the greatest emotional response. And it is that phenomenal portfolio which proves Mahler to be the best symphonist we have ever known; even while I place Sibelius alongside him as as great a mover of souls, with not quite the same volume of output. But how can you dissimulate between the way Sibelius or Mahler or Beethoven or Rachmaninov moves you? Yet, on balance, the intellect must choose simplistically, despite, in the experience, being inside those symphonies when listening to and watching them, you reach a similar place, common to them all. But I have cried more times to Mahler's emotions, in ecstasy and grief.

Truscott's piece on Mahler provides a reasonably long introduction to an overview of Mahler's symphonies which sprang from his song cycles, and the central problems both of structure and philosophy: Mahler's symphonies query both the good and evil in humanity, and the only possible hope of atonement through salvation after death. This is evident from its hero in the First through the Second to the happy Fourth, and the same cycle repeats from the Fifth through to the Eighth. The Ninth brings us to somewhere new, not naturally indicated through the previous host, necessarily different.

Truscott briefly whips through the First to discuss the Second, skips past the immense and immensely wonderful Third with little comment (a symphony which amounts to two or three symphonies of mortals), touches on the Fourth, uses the Fifth to place the Sixth in context of the second 'cycle', which he discusses in more length. The Seventh and Eighth are used to demonstrate the centrality of the Sixth. He does, however, give credit to Cooke's construction of the Tenth, which again is a reach beyond the Ninth. While a decent length, a chapter on Mahler's massive symphonic oeuvre cannot do these awesome symphonies justice.

Hugh Ottaway, while championing Nielsen as a symphonic composer with his own individual stamp on the form, in a somewhat technical overview, nonetheless only grants Nielsen's First with but one paragraph. It is clear why: essentially Brahmsian in tone, it is incorrigibly conservative, and not a single theme stands out as memorable nor aesthetically pleasing. It is, to me, merely the beginnings of a young composer. I replayed it, yet to no effect. I also replayed the 3rd, and to good effect. I admit to not having tried the 2nd, 4th and 6th yet - but I shall not give up on Nielsen, just yet. Ottaway's analysis concentrates on the latter two.

And so we come to a lifelong love: Sibelius. The very name is poetry. The nature of his symphonies, tending towards great abstraction yet deliciously melodic, with stunning rhythms, found a way into the core of me at 17, and I have loved many and greatly explored most of his works by now - the last being the remaining tone poems recently and the hardly-known choral Kullervo in Paavo Berglund's 2001 box set - and I have heard all of his works now with a last handful of incidental pieces. This was the first time, only recently, that I heard Kullervo, his earliest choral symphonic work of the same period as En Saga (1892), which Truscott uses to introduce Sibelius's idiosyncratic development of themes. He wrote many such tone poems, and most are new to me only now.

But my love for Sibelius is his symphonies, particularly the First and Second, and especially the Fifth. Oh, the Fifth! It is not only unique yet uniquely belongs to a space within you that was imbued as a lad and grown as part of me. I do love the First and Second too, and have been to a couple of concerts of them, and have lately been brought round to the Sixth and the Seventh by Rattle and the BPO in their 2015 cycle (sonically superb on blu-ray and CD) - both of which can be seen as part of one greater work. And I have given the 3rd and 4th their due over the past 10 years also. But the Fifth is mine, and mine alone; you know that feeling. It is special.

Yet Truscott, having covered the First and Second - somewhat disparaging the dynamic slow movement of the First as 'scrappy'! (p.89), and the glorious and moving finale as 'patchy'! (p.90); with repeated disparagement of the imperfection of the finale in the Second (which totally belies the emotional response to both these beautiful symphonies) - gives the Fifth, as the Sixth and Seventh, only a little time. He is more interested in the coming to the Third, as the springboard to the depressive Fourth, and gives most analysis to this, his favourite. Well, each to their own. But he does include a couple of tone poems in his referencing. The tone poems, for me, are occasional delights, but the symphonies are the real deal. I have spent a life living in them, and they have enriched my inner world unquantifiably.

Albert Roussel is not someone I have heard of, nor Franz Schmidt, Havergal Brian, nor Edmund Rubbra. Are these an esoteric inclusion, up against some of the greats? I can only think that they were prominently played in the early part of the Twentieth Century, and saw their demise in the second half, since I never remember seeing them or hearing of them when I roamed the extensive record library at 17. In fact, Manduell notes that French composers largely shunned the symphony, keeping to pictorial music (Debussy, Ravel), or failed in the symphonic exercise, and that Berlioz's symphonies are really tone poems. Well, it is all academic unless included here.

David Cox's chapter on Vaughan Williams can be seen as a companion to his earlier one on Elgar, in part considering the nature and rejuvenation of the English symphony. It pays clear respect to Vaughan Williams while noting the unevenness of the symphonies, covering all nine. I listened to the 6th, which hitherto I have got little out of since the '90s - and no wonder, it is utterly bleak, and until the thankful calm of the Epilogue (final movement), grows increasingly raucous and cacophonic from a crashing start; it is quite awful.

The chapter on Rachmaninov is criminally brief, and Simpson calls his sublime Second 'diffuse' but with some 'fine things' in it. This symphony is as great as any of Beethoven's, Mahler's or Sibelius's, or any other, because - like the 2nd Piano Concerto - it elicits emotional and aesthetic response throughout; it dances in the mind and sears through the heart, its spirit, while venturing towards the tragic, remaining positive nonetheless. It is one of the most soulful of all symphonies, equalling Mahler's Ninth. It is beautifully constructed, movement to movement and in its development: listen to the first third of the long opening movement, to the gorgeous falling away of the strings before the brief violin and clarinet solos, and tell me this alone - of hundreds of sublime moments and the eternally soulful stirrings this symphony creates throughout, in its every expression - is not a masterful symphonic soul still living in us. Then tell me that the Adagio is not the most beautiful thing you have ever heard. If Simpson's reprehensible short piece did anything but incense, it did enliven a renewed interest in the furious First.

To add a cursory note on Rachmaninov as a symphonist in this work is a huge oversight and ludicrous underestimation, and is not reprieved by the inclusion of a few dismissive jots. Should anyone have written the Second symphony alone, they would merit a significant place in this book. It is absurd that Roussel gets 10 pages analysing two symphonies where Rachmaninov gets 3½!

Twice as much is devoted to the Austrian Franz Schmidt and his four symphonies and the English Havergal Brian and his 32(!), neither of whom I have heard of, let alone heard. Truscott concentrates on Schmidt's Fourth, and covers Havergal's first 4 to demonstrate his scope and approaches, analysing the 8th, 9th and 10th, such groups being related. I enjoyed the chapter on Brian, and intend to give those early symphonies a listen.

Bax too is a composer I've not heard anything of, though I have heard of him, and he appears (briefly) in Ralph Hill's companion The Concerto (Pelican, 1952). Cox briefly discusses the First and Second, then concentrates on the Third, and briefly covers the rest of his seven symphonies. I again enjoyed this essay on Bax's symphonies, and am inspired to give them a listen - if I can find them on a second-hand CD.

I have been very well acquainted with Prokofiev's First and Seventh since the age of 17, the former being a superb rendition of the classical form, the latter being one of the most elvin pieces of music I've heard, ethereal and evocative of a faery land. I am not conversant with the Sixth (1947), which I find too dark, am moderately conversant with the more lyrical Fifth (1944), and less so back through the Fourth to the Second. I find his 'middle' symphonies harsh and discordant, the Fifth a relief with its balletic lilts redolent of his superlative Romeo And Juliet (1940) ballet score, a dance of which (the gavotte) originates from his Classical Symphony. The sprightliness of the First and the Seventh feel like quantum entanglements spanning Prokofiev's symphonic œuvre, with a series of catastrophic explosions thrown in between them, reprieved only by the Fifth. The opening movement (of 2) in the Second fair screams at you - incessantly. It is truly awful!

Layton covers all 7 of the symphonies, but his cursory disparagement of the Seventh is simply unforgivable. 'Philistinism' is mentioned, unsurprisingly. I gave the 5th and 6th a good couple of listens, and welled with love when I came to that gorgeous 7th - which, of course, I had to hear again. It is special.

Truscott's piece on Rubbra and Tippett notes their common influence from Renaissance choral music, and how it particularly colours Rubbra's early symphonies. He notes the Fourth (of 7) as a masterpiece, concentrating briefly on the Third and Fourth. Tippett gets a couple of pages, looking at the First (of 2, by then). If I find the time, I may look these up - but only after a much more demanding queue.

I have nothing by Walton, whose film scores (e.g. Olivier's Hamlet [1948]) tended to put me off when I came across them. They smacked of that over-sensational film music (all orchestral, of course), of the first half of the century, and thus I am averse to because of this and so ignorant of. Perhaps this is unfair, since I give Elgar's and Vaughan Williams's symphonies a decent chance. But I heard Walton's Symphony No. 1 in 2012 with Semyon Bychkov and the Berliner Philharmoniker in the digital concert hall, and was not inspired to hear more.

The piece on Shostakovich is long, taking in as it does some of the context of Russian history through which he lived and covering 12 of the (then 13) symphonies, two of which, the Eleventh '1905' (1957) and the Twelfth '1917 October Revolution' (1961) are clearly programmatic. Layton remarks on the astonishing maturity and genius of the First (1925), written at the age of 19, and the Tenth (1953) as his masterpiece.

I know little else of his symphonies; I started listening to Shostakovich's Fifth and Eighth in 2011, and his 11th in 2017, all by Rostropovich and the LSO, and while I still have to give them their due, and gain exposure to the others (of 15), they are fine, but as yet have not created a lasting impression; except the long opening movement of the Eighth, for its drama of conflict, and the hushed, deceptive tranquillity of the opening of the 11th. Perhaps Shostakovich is a composer I will never 'get', not like a Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov nor Prokofiev, despite the latter's influence. I replayed the Fifth and got little from it; but the Eighth had more impact, and while the Eleventh is still very new to me, it is the clear candidate for more plays. Perhaps I need to look at that Tenth next?

The penultimate three chapters look at symphonists who at the time were generally of niche or esoteric knowledge, and the same remains today. We may have only heard of Janáček because of Murakami or a Star Wars usage, but little of any of the others, except perhaps Copland, of whom only occasional pieces make the repertoire as main feature support. Of the few Czech composers Layton discusses, Martinů, Suk and Foerster, I have only heard a single piece by Suk, and that not a symphony. Of the six Martinů symphonies, he covers them all briefly, and points us at the last three of interest.

Of the Scandinavians, Layton concentrates largely on the Danish Vagn Holmboe's Fifth, Sixth, Seventh and Chamber symphonies, Swedish Hilding Rosenberg's Third and Fourth, with a brief look at Swedish Dag Wirén, and a mention of Norwegian Harald Saeverud. None of these were known to me before.

The long chapter on the American symphony spends a few pages evaluating - and denouncing - Charles Ive's part in it, with a concentration on the uneven Second. It covers a series of composers, only three of which are known to me, and none of their works. Perhaps this is an oversight, which this chapter partially corrects, but my having little or no exposure to them must generally reflect their merit amidst the modern repertoire, even while I would not necessarily turn to them if offered in, say, the Berliner Philharmoniker's digital concert hall, which between that and the Prom, are my main exposure to all composers new to me - and few Americans make those programmes. John Adams was the most often invited by the BPO, and his perhaps best-known piece, Dharma at Big Sur (2003), is a two-movement concerto.

The symphony in crisis is Hugh Ottaway's theme in 'Prospect and Perspective', and he spends more time looking back than he does forward, seemingly into a wasteland of what has been humanism's greatest achievement. He marks the development of the symphony from the Age of Enlightenment as symbolic of the advance of humanism, and knows that there can be no breaking-off from the past musically, despite not knowing what the future holds in terms of symphonic development. Since those late '60s, has there been any advance in the symphony beyond greater abstraction? He cannot, of course, say, and I do not know.

What I do know is that the symphony is not dead, as evidenced by Tangerine Dream's Rubycon of 1975 - it is, essentially, a two-movement symphonic work of electronic brilliance and beauty, as moving and enrapturing as any classical, romantic, or atonal symphonic work in the 250 years of symphonic development (even while others might see it is a concerto for synthesizers).

Perhaps this organic electronic development is the 'present' of the symphony, the future that Ottaway could not foresee - primarily because, even while new contraptions were developed as make-shift 'instruments' not found within the standard classical orchestra to play the then new abstractions that passed for symphonies, there had not yet been that sonic/electronic revolution of the '70s which revolutionised the music scene, and which TD championed in early, abstract works (which then were not symphonic, if impressive in scope), and which came to fruition in that gorgeous symphonic work, in what was the most creative decade in music history.

The symphony is not dead, but it feels, as the decades progress without significant works coming to public attention, as though it must forever be viewed of in the past tense. At least we of this later generation have seen that it can be perpetuated in some form, and a stunningly beautiful one at that. It was certainly a 'genuine re-engagement with the humanist tradition' (p. 275), because it stirred the soul while transporting the listener on waves of coloured tonality and thematic development - was 'dynamic, constructive, expansive' (p.277), if that is one definition of the symphony - but instead of looking inward, as the romantic symphony increasing did, culminating in Mahler's and Sibelius's and Rachmaninov's beautiful renderings - it looked outward - to the stars, the galaxies, in all their chromatic splendour - to the cosmos. This, after all, is where we now live, in a new and beautifully resplendent context, 'the common experience of our age' (p.276).

[Brian · Rating 4 out of 5]

Someone who could write "The history of the symphony in France is quickly told, for there are remarkably few notable symphonies by French men" might not have been the best choice to contribute articles on César Franck and Albert Roussel. The contributor on the symphony in America attaches greater significance to Ernest Toch's than Henry Cowell's and Charles Ives's. On the other hand, David Cox's essays on Elgar, Vaughan Williams, Bax, and Walton are better-informed.