In art, theory and practice often influence each other, and it is frequently impossible to establish which one comes first. In music, in particular, theorizations are most commonly an ex post formalization of what has been uncontroversially employed by performing musicians and “composers” (of written music or of improvised music). The relationship between improvisation, oral tradition and composition is also a multifaceted one: on the one hand, folk music can be more conservative than the “cultivated” repertoire, whose composers deliberately choose to explore new ways. On the other, however, folk tradition may be more open to new ideas, in the absence of written rules and of the dynamics of “academic” musicianship. (This does not imply, of course, that there are no rules in folk music, oral tradition, or improvisation: quite the contrary. A folk improviser is deeply rooted in a tradition made of implicit or explicit rules, which must be obeyed and can be transgressed only within a delicate balance of acknowledgment of the improviser’s genius and social approval).
One field in which the divergence between “cultivated” music and folk music can be very pronounced is that of modality. This technical word of the musical jargon refers to “modes” of organizing musical pitches.
In the nineteenth century, many musicians of the “cultivated” tradition worked (more or less deliberately) in a direction which would ultimately undermine the very concept of tonality. However, the emptying of tonality caused a horror vacui, a void which had to be somehow filled. Schönberg would first theorize atonality, i.e. the equality of all semitones, and then serialism (a rigid organization of the same equality). Other musicians, such as Scriabin, explored harmonies built no more on thirds, but, for instance, on fourths. Still others, like Béla Bartók and his friend and colleague Zoltán Kodály, drew inspiration from a careful and deep study of folk music, where modality was still abundantly practised and adopted.
Bartók and Kodály had a scientific approach to folk music, which they recorded, transcribed, and analyzed, producing a vast output of scholarly publications. However, in parallel with this “objective” and “scientific” work, they also worked “subjectively” and creatively on the material they collected, interpreting it within the framework of classically composed works. In the process of transition from folk to Classical music, some elements of the original performance are lost: timbre, for instance (e.g. when a peasant’s flute becomes a piano), but also intonation (most commonly folk music is not sung or played with equal temperament) and performance practice (both in terms of sound quality, whereby some kinds of sound production typical for folk music are unacceptable in a “cultivated” context, and also of admissibility of improvised changes).
In 1907, the year of his appointment as a professor at the Conservatory of Budapest, Bartók visited the county of Csík; today, that zone (which belongs in the region of Transylvania) is part of Romania rather than of Hungary. It was populated by a particular ethnic group, that of the Székelys, who were particularly musical and music-loving. His harvest of folk music was abundant and satisfying, rewarding and stimulating. He remained there for two months, starting on July 1st, when he had left the home of a violinist he loved, Stefi Geyer (the dedicatee of his first violin concerto) to dedicate himself to the study of folk music. On one occasion in August, a sixty-year-old folk flutist called Áron Balog in the village of Tekeröpatak played some tunes for Bartók, who quickly notated them. So fascinating was that music for the composer that he would realize the Three Hungarian Folksongs from the Csík District on the basis of those tunes, after realizing a first version for recorder and piano (From Gyergyó). The tunes played by Balog on the flute are transferred to the piano’s right hand, while the left hand accompanies discretely. The flutist had played for Bartók tunes which were originally provided with lyrics and sung; their titles are Sír a kis galambon (“When my little dove weeps”) and Októbernak, októbernak elséjen (“October, the first of October”). In both cases, the sung tunes are ornamented. The subject matters of these songs are respectively a lover’s plea to his mother to let him marry a gentle maiden, and a farewell to a village, in leaving which the singer salutes its birds, trees, and girls.
The 15 Hungarian Peasant Songs have a complex genesis, spanning over the years 1914-8. Already in 1914, Bartók had proposed a series of fifteen peasant songs to his publisher Rózsavölgyi, but the outbreak of World War I prevented the publication to appear. The melodic sources for the pieces were collected much earlier, at least in some cases. The 1914 version was intended as a four-block composition, which was however slightly disbalanced since two isolated pieces constituted a block each in the work’s middle, surrounded by larger blocks of four and nine pieces respectively. The approach he adopted is clearly stated by the composer himself: “In order to avoid misunderstandings, we must strongly emphasize that the melodies which are published here are folk songs in the narrowest sense of the word, or, to be more precise, peasant songs. These songs are thus not sung by the upper and middle classes, and, moreover, are mostly unknown among them. One can hear these tunes sung exclusively by farmers and peasants. We should add that these songs were created by peasants of Hungarian nationality and are entirely unknown among the neighbouring peoples. Therefore they are undoubtedly characteristic of Hungarian peasant music.”
The Eight Improvisations on Hungarian Peasant Songs represent the most mature result of Bartók’s scholarly and musical research. The sources for these tunes are not entirely the fruit of Bartók’s own fieldwork: just two of the eight tunes were recorded by him during his trips in the Hungarian countryside. The remaining six originated from an immense collection of some 7,800 (!) folksongs found by Bartók at the Ethnographic Museum and collected by Béla Vikár, László Lajtha and Ákos Garay. They were preserved on phonograph cylinders from which Bartók transcribed them, and later published the result of his studies as a book (The Hungarian Folksong).
Chiara Bertoglio © 2023
This album also comprises works by Giuseppe D’Amico, written between 2021 and 2023 – i.e., almost exactly a century after Bartók’s Improvisations. As we saw, the works by Bartók performed in this CD are highly indebted toward the folk tradition he loved and studied. In the works by G. D’Amico we also find an extensive use of modality, both in the pieces called Impressioni modali and in the Danze fantastiche. This latter cycle is particularly close to Bartók’s works (particularly to the 15 Hungarian Peasant Songs), directly inspired by folk dance.
Impressioni modali
The notion of modality in music is profoundly multifaceted and intricate. These compositions, which also serve an educational purpose (more in an aesthetic sense than a technical one), pertain to that specific interpretation of modality that emerged in musical history in the late nineteenth century and, essentially, has never been forsaken. It bears no relation to ancient Greek modes, nor even to those of the Renaissance. The modality in question represents a functional reinterpretation, seen through the lens of tonality (which is also an aspect of modality), of modal scales. Many pianists, even those with technical prowess, tend to shy away from twentieth-century pieces; thus, the idea arose to craft compositions, some even virtuosic, that might paradoxically introduce the timbre of that era: contemporary pieces leading to twentieth-century classics, allowing for a more nuanced familiarization with the tones of certain modes. Although the titles specify the modes, it’s apparent they are not employed rigidly or exclusively but occasionally intersect with tonality or other modes. For instance, all those modulating moments naturally transition into other modes, where a relative minor might be replaced by a mere Dorian, even if the piece is in Lydian mode. Nothing groundbreaking technically; innovations, when present, lie within the inventive nature and not merely within the adopted technical framework. The cycle consists of ten compositions featuring various modes: Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, Locrian, Overtone (which is essentially an artificial scale highly esteemed by Bartok) that alternate and in some cases, repeat. For example, both the first and second pieces are in Lydian mode, but the former accentuates a pastoral nuance, while the latter evokes an ancient martial element. The third is a Dorian-mode fugue, the fourth a soliloquy containing a chorale, also in Dorian. The fifth, experimenting with Mixolydian, explores post-progressive timbres, likely more by consequence than intent. Dance elements find space, as in the seventh, a genuine Aeolian waltz. Even though true Greek modes are quite distinct mechanisms, Plato’s noted affective differentiation remains valid: modes truly delve into an emotional dimension via interval shifts. The Phrygian and Locrian, with their lowered pitches, incline towards a certain darkness, offset in the ninth and tenth pieces by lively and virtuosic movement. If there’s a subsequent volume, it will likely focus on artificial scales.
Danze fantastiche
With the advent of serious ethnomusicology studies, many early twentieth-century composers were inspired not only to pay homage to their traditions beyond the romantic view but also to envisage a kind of imaginary folklore, a visionary world to craft new dance movements, detached from societal reality; a journey from “scientific” realism to creative idealism. Ravel and Bartok, despite their differences, both ventured into this ethnic phantasmagoria, based not purely on imagination but on a conscious dive into diverse ethnic expressions, which they melded into original material. Giuseppe D’Amico’s “Fantastic Dances” align with this tradition. He had previously explored this theme in the piano cycle “Imaginary Transcriptions from the Garden of Delights”, where Bosch’s world metamorphosed into the sound of an array of invented, almost surreal dances. This cycle comprises five demanding pieces for the pianist. The first is hard to attribute to a specific dance, even though it’s in ternary time, marked by a fluid, occasionally edgy progression, emanating a fairy-tale, chivalric mood. The second piece, subtitled “Like an Old Song,” underscores its remote, archaic feel. Its composition demands a rhapsodic fluidity, as if an accompanist, perhaps a guitar or lute, were improvising beneath a melody. Despite its moderate pace, ornamental flourishes make it challenging. The Third Dance, resembling a modernist jig, bears a sharp, aggressive character, with forays into especially dissonant counterpoint. The tumult settles in the central section, “Nostalgic and slightly rubato,” which, however, crescendos into the frantic jig movement. The Fourth Dance has a clearer indication: “Habanera and song,” but even here, the reference is merely an initial pretext to transcend the familiar domain of this renowned dance type. The Fifth Dance, seemingly the most virtuosic, albeit arguably the Third is more technically challenging, is hard to pin to any existing, real dance. It more closely mirrors a perpetual motion juxtaposed with a primitive theme, marked by repeated notes. The piece hinges on the interplay between perpetual movement and the primitive theme, with counterpoint again playing a crucial role— not in speculative or abstract terms, but as a vital component in the musical discourse.
Folk Intermezzo
This brief composition is designed as a moment of respite or pause between the preceding piano cycles. Its timbres craft an enchanted soundscape wherein, almost dreamlike or reminiscent, a folkloristic ballad melody is introduced, yet it’s entirely original. The piece emphasizes the core theme of this album: invention through the essence of folk music.