(a)Allegretti(b)Pistachio(c)Chianti(d)Risotto, con aglio
II.LarghettoCulmbacher
III.Aria from"Il Campanile"Gondola
(Signorina Elefantine)
(The Hardwood Piano is used)
CRITICAL COMMENTS ON THE NUMBERS
I.Gastronomic Symphony. It is not certain when Ptior Kovik-Bordunov was born. His parents, being thrifty peasants, put him in a basket and left him on the steppes of Russia. Adopted by a Russian Princess, named CaviarVodka, he was raised as if he had been her own dog. His early musical inclination was so pronounced that he was sent to the Warsaw Conservatory, where he served three terms. Soon after being released from this institution he wrote "Samovar," the opera that made him famous. "Samovar" so pleased the Czar that young Bordunov was given a pension and a bath. But alas! either his sudden success or the bath so affected his mind, that from that time on the authorities were obliged to keep him in confinement. The above symphony was written on the walls of his cell, from which it was transcribed after his suicide. It depicts the blight of all his hopes, the sorrows of Russia, the drowning of his fiancée, the height of the steppes, and the agonies of indigestion.
The Allegretti opens with an arabesque tone-poem of somber sweetness, under which strange and varied delights are hidden. Then comes the minor Pistachio, weirdly oriental in color. This is followed by the tempestuous and maddening Chianti. Last of all comes the terrible Risotto, con aglio. Here we have an example of the insight of genius! By itself,the Risotto con aglio would be almost mild; but coming as it does on top of the Allegretti, the Pistachio, and the Chianti, it is bound to produce a truly tragic finale.
II.Larghetto. This étude is by the conductor. (He thought this would be a good place to work it in, the orchestra and audience being powerless to restrain him.)
Herr Otto Fédor Ivan Culmbacher was born of noble parents in Hofbräu, Silesia. He was discovered and imported to America by the brilliant patronesses of the Metropolitan Symphony Society.
A larghetto is a little largo—one without a handel. A composer writes a larghetto when he feels something like writing a largo but isn't, on the whole, quite up to it.
III.Aria from "Il Campanile".This opera, though well known in Budapest and South America, is practically unknown in the United States. The aria, "O belli spaghetti," is so vocally exacting that to sing its bird-like notes a prima donna should diet for weeks on bird seed. Here are the words—which are repeated fourteen times in the course of the aria.
THE ITALIANTHE TRANSLATIONO belli spaghetti,Had I the wings of a dove,O bianchi confetti.I would fly, I would fly to my love.Bananni, bananni,I would fly, I would fly,E tutti frutti—Through the sky, through the sky,O bianchi confetti!I would fly, I would fly to my love!
(She waddles off)
(Editor's Note.—The following observations, if carefully studied, will enable the intelligent concertgoer to tell the difference between an orchestra and a dress circle.)
(Editor's Note.—The following observations, if carefully studied, will enable the intelligent concertgoer to tell the difference between an orchestra and a dress circle.)
The principal instrument in music is the violin. This instrument is held fast under the performer's double chin and then tickled in the gut with a strand of horse hair until it cries out. Which cruel treatment reacts on its disposition, so that, as the little violin grows up into a 'cello, it becomes gloomy and morose; and when, after a life of nagging, it reaches old age as a crabbed double bass and is relegated to the back of the orchestra, it spends its resentment in querulous grumbling.
Further from the conductor than the violins, and, consequently, more intermittent in their playing, are the Tootle family. Grandfather Tootle, the bassoon, spends his time in dozing: all you can hear from him is an occasional snore. Mrs. Tootle, the flute, is of a romantic turn of mind, doting on moonlight and warbling birds and babbling brooks. She prides herself on her limpid utterance, andadmonishes her little son Piccolo not to talk through his nose like Cousin Oboe Tootle. Her husband, the bass clarinet, takes himself very seriously—and no wonder, for to him falls the unpleasant duty of announcing bad news, such as that the hero has just died, or that the act is only half over.
Quite remote from the conductor are the mysterious somethings that live in kettle-drums. What they are no one knows; but a watchful keeper bends over and listens to them, and whenever, despite his constant cork-screwing, they show signs of aggressiveness, he beats them into submission with a brace of bottle-mops. If this is not sufficient, he calls in an assistant, who cows them with the roar of a whanging Chinese stewpan.
Somewhat nearer the conductor, but yet far enough away to be able to resist his authority until threatened with his stick, are the horns, the most vehement members of the orchestra. A blast from them, besides waking up the audience, always means something. For example, the martial sound of a trumpet heralds the approach of a conqueror or a scissors-grinder.
The old-fashioned hunting horn, from which the modern orchestral horn is descended, was very simple indeed. In those days every one was supposed to wind his horn, instead of buying it already wound, as we do now.
Yet the modern pretzelized horn is still adapted for hunting purposes. Take as large a horn as you can conveniently carry (a 42-centimetre tuba is preferable) and stand under a tree, with the muzzle pointing up at the bird you desire to hunt. Then play "Silver Threads Among the Gold" for two hours and ten minutes, and the bird will fall lifeless into the horn.
Frenetic piano player.
A piano is an instrument with eighty-eight keys and twenty installments. You play on the keys and pay on the installments—the latter being by far the more difficult performance. If you do not play in time, you are called down by your critics; if you do not pay on time, you are called on by your collectors.
The keys are arranged in two rows—short, fat blondes in front, and tall, skinny brunettes behind. There are three pedals (one for each foot, and one for good measure): the damper pedal (or muffler cut-out), which puts an end to conversation; the sostenuto pedal, whichhelps the piano sustain what it has to sustain; and the soft pedal, which is seldom used, and then only by request.
There are two kinds of pianos—uprights and prostrates. Uprights are used in homes where there is standing room only. Prostrates are used in concert halls—virtuosi prefer them, because they can hit a piano much harder when it is down. The upright piano is frequently pitched in A flat. It remains there till pitched out by the neighbors.
An advantage that this piano possesses is that it keeps the player's back turned to his hearers, which is a great saving to his feelings. Another advantage is that the top serves as a mantelpiece annex; bric-a-brac that won't stand heat but will stand noise is put there. Anything is appropriate—cupids, shepherdesses, brass bowls, painted vases. The only requirement for a place on this repository is that the object be able to make some buzzing, twanging, wheezing, or humming sound when the strings are struck.
Prostrates are built for endurance. Their black finish bespeaks the hard life they lead.
A conflict between one of these indestructible pianos and an irresistible pianist is called a recital. A non-combatant lifts the lid, and the fight begins. FIRST ROUND:Nocturne. (Merely warming up.) SECOND ROUND:Etude. (Livelier, but not much heavy hitting.) THIRD ROUND:Scherzo. (Considerably hotter; fighting in close.) FOURTH ROUND:Appassionato. (Real slugging.) FIFTH ROUND:Rhapsodie. (Piano receives fearful punishment. Knocked out in final cadenza, but pianist sprains wrist.)
In learning to play the piano, the first thing to acquire is a good touch, or tread (as it is properly called). Unfortunately, there is a divergence of opinion among authorities as to what a good tread consists in; the famous dictum of Prof. Biffski, of Moscow Conservatory, that you should hammer the hammers, being offset by the equally famous assertion of Hieronimus Dudelsack, the noted Viennese pedagogue, that you should not strike the ivories at all, but massage, or knead them. Herr Dudelsack and his eminent pupils maintain that his tread is the only normal one, that ithas the naturalness of a cat's walking on the keyboard. But the astute Russian insinuates that it produces tangled chords and scales that are short-weight.
But these methods have been rendered obsolete by the heel-and-toe technique of the playerpiano. This wonderful instrument, impregnating the feet with melody and rhythm, has given rise to the modern dances. For a person who makes a habit of playing the pianola simplyhasto toddle the music out of his ankles.
Even more remarkable is the way in which the piano-footy has simplified musical composition. The masters of the past had to toil away painfully with pen and ink; whereas the composer of today can attain the same results with a roll of paper and a ticket-punch. Judging from the progress we have made and are still making, it is safe to predict that the composer of the future will use a shotgun.
IN FOUR CLIPPINGS
I. ADOLESCENCE
From the Centerville "Clarion":
LOCAL TALENT MAKES SPLENDID SHOWING
The concert held last evening in Masonic Hall was a great success. It certainly showed what Centerville could do in a musical line. From the opening duet, played by Miss Violet and Miss Nancy Stubbs, to the very end of the program, the audience seemed to thoroughly enjoy every number. But the feature of the evening was the singing by Mr. Harry Bowers of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep". This noble song gave the popular young druggist an opportunity to display his remarkable low notes. Another person deserving of special mention was Miss Helen Smith, who, attractively dressed in pink and carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers, rendered"The Rosary" with great effect. All in all, the concert was a great event, and a considerable amount of money was raised toward the new fire-engine.
Abraham Lincoln Simpson,Music and Art Critic.
Man and woman singing.
II. EFFERVESCENCE
From the "New York Chronicle":
GOTHAM ORCHESTRA PLAYS SCHNITZEL
Warmth of Oriental Color
Adolf Schnitzel's symphonic poem "Aus Bengalien," which was admirably performed last evening by the Gotham Symphony Orchestra, shows a masterly understanding of the folk-music of India. The Bengalese have from the earliest times been noted for their proficience in the arts. Their principal instrument is thebimbam, an elongated drum, played upon with any convenient article, such as an elephant's tusk or the bone of an ancestor. When struck at one end, it emits the soundbim; when struck at the other, a clear-tonedbamis produced: hence its curious name. The following melody, known as the "War-Song of Prince Brahmadan," gives one an idea of the capacity of this instrument:
Bim-bim-bam, bim-bam-bim.
The chorus is also characteristic:
Bim, bim!
At the religious ceremonies of the Bengalese, the Futrib, or high priest, plays upon a peculiar one-toned flute, producing an effect of awe and mystery, as this hymn to the sun-god aptly illustrates:
Too—oo—t!Toot, toot-a-toot, toot-a-toot, toot;Too—oo—t!
Too—oo—t!
Toot, toot-a-toot, toot-a-toot, toot;
Too—oo—t!
With this wealth of material to draw from, Schnitzel has constructed a work that is nearly perfect in form. Beginning with a softbim-bam-bim, which is followed by a sinistertoot, toot, he works up to a climax of marvelous contrapuntal ingenuity, in which the two themes are combined thus:
Bim, toot, bam, toot-a-toot,
Truly the apotheosis of Bengal!
A. L. S.
III. ACQUIESCENCE
From the "New York Chronicle":
"WASHINGTON" REPEATED
Last night was a brilliant one at the opera. "Washington," the new American music-drama, was given for the second time, with the same cast as before.
Among those who attended the performance were Mrs. Pierpont Astorbilt, who wore pale nesserole garnished with soufflée; Mr. and Mrs. Plantagenet Carter, the latter in an exquisite creation of blanc-mange; and Mrs. Sibley Harwood-Stevens, in gray limousine, air-cooled with insertion.
Mrs. Reginald Carrington's guests were Lord and Lady Shrewby and the Duc de Vaurien. The latter wore a black dress-suit and a white shirt.
Mrs. Gaybird was present for the first time since the death of her husband. She wore her skirt at half-mast.
(Unsigned)
Occupants of a box at the opera.
IV. SENESCENCE
From the New York "Evening Spot":
BASSOON CONCERT A RELIEF FROM MODERNISM
BY A. LINCOLN SIMPSON
New York is suffering from a plethora of concerts. The fact that the halls are generally crowded is no excuse for giving so many performances. It is unfair to the critics.
Yesterday afternoon, at the concert of the Gotham Symphony Society Ludwig Käse played that great German master-work, the Leberwurst bassoon concerto in F-flat major, opus posthumous. ("Posthumous" does notin this case have its usual meaning of written after the defunction of the composer's brain: it refers to the fact that Leberwurst did not live to publish the work, as his audience lynched him when he played it from manuscript.) This concerto, dedicated to the composer's patron, the deaf old Duke of Pretzelheim, bears the title of "Spring," and this vernal quality was admirably brought out by Herr Käse, particularly in the movement representing influenza. Indeed, it was impossible to hear his sublime sniffulations without being moved to profound coughing.
François Grisé's "Gingerbread Suite," scored for viola, piccolo, trombone, and celesta, might have been interesting had it been more of a novelty; but, since it had been heard in New York five times within four years, its performance on this occasion was a mistake.
The program included also a symphonic rhapsody on cow-boy melodies. As this is by an obscure native composer and has never been heard before, there is nothing to say about it.
Concert hall.Even people sitting behind pillars can enjoy her.
Even people sitting behind pillars can enjoy her.
There is no lightweight championship in opera. Stars of the first magnitude are of very considerable magnitude—300 pounds and up. In this class are the expensive prima donnas and heroic tenors (the term "heroic" referring to their efforts to move about the stage). The second magnitude—250 to 299 pounds—includes "jilted beauty" mezzo-sopranos and "hated rival" baritones. The third magnitude (of which no one takes any notice)—under 250 pounds—is made up of "confidante" contraltos and "noble father" bassos.
Thus, it will readily be seen that fat and fame are synonymous. For, in navigating the high C's, latitude is far more important than longitude.
Italian opera was made possible by the discovery of spaghetti, the serpentine food that produces coloratura tissue. A few miles of this swallowed daily will keep the palateleggieroand the figurelarghissimo.
In like manner, beer is responsible for thenational opera of Germany. Who would have heard of Wagner if Pilsener had never been invented? Where could Wagner have found his massive Brunhildes, his slow-dying Tristans?
Here lies the secret of the failure of our national music drama—we have spaghetti opera and beer opera, but no opera built on an American food. Emaciated from a diet of pebbly cereals and grape juice, our art still awaits the invention of the great American fattener.
For fat constitutes the wonder of opera. When a diva who looks like a hippo surprises us by singing like a canary—thatis something remarkable. When a languid mass of blubber, for whom the very act of standing would seem a supreme accomplishment, displays the lung energy of a steam calliope and the vocal endurance of a peanut-stand whistle—we are astonished, overcome.
And fat robs the tragic ending of its depression. The sight of a normally-built woman expiring of heartbreak, or any other favorite operatic death, would be most distressing; butthe spectacle of a four-hundred pound consumptive, on a thickly-padded canvas-and-steel rock, breathing forth her everlasting last, like a moping walrus on a cake of ice—such a spectacle does not disturb us in the least, for we realize that all she needs is a fan.
Indeed, the fattest never die. After a prima donna is no longer able to manoeuver over the operatic stage, she toddles along the carpet of the concert platform, tugging her train like a double-expansion freight-engine, while the audience applauds from sheer amazement. She is an immense success—even people sitting behind posts can see her.
Thin singers perish and are forgotten (there never were any, anyhow); but the gloriously fat ones sing on forever. When Judgment Day comes and the angel blows his trumpet, he will have to toot it with Wagnerian fury plus Straussian blatancy if he hopes to be heard above the aigretted and tiaraed dodos who are still on the yell.