A. Copland 「What to Listen for in Music」を読む

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第12章 フーガによる形式 A. Copland「What to Listen for in Music」を読む


III. フーガによる形式 


FugueConcerto Grosso; Chorale Prelude; 

Motets and Madrigals 



Chapter 1 began with the premise that it was essential, in learning to listen more intelligently, to hear a great deal of music over and over again; and that no amount of reading could possibly replace that listening. What was written there is especially true in regard to fugal forms. If you really wish to hear what goes on in these forms, you must be willing to go after them again and again. More than any other formal mold, fugal forms demand repeated hearings if they are to be fully heard by the layman. 



Whatever comes under the heading of fugal form partakes in some way of the nature of a fugue. You already know, I feel sure, that in texture all fugues are polyphonic or contrapuntal (the terms are identical in meaning.) Therefore, it follows that all fugal forms are polyphonic or contrapuntal in texture. 



At this point , the reader might do well to review what was said in Chapter 8 about listening polyphonically. It was stated there that hearing music polyphonically implies a listener who can hear separate strands of melody simultaneously. The parts need not be of equal importance, but they must be heard independently. This is no great feat, any person of average intelligence can, with a little practice, hear more than one melody at a time. At any rate, it is the sine qua non of intelligent listening to fugal forms. 



The four principal fugal forms are: first, the fugue proper; second, the concerto grosso; third, the chorale-prelude; fourth, motets and madrigals. It goes without saying that contrapuntal writing is not confined to these forms alone. Just as the principle of variation was seen to be applicable to any form, so in the same way a contrapuntal texture may occur without preparation in almost any form. Be ready, in other words, to listen polyphonically at any moment. 








A certain number of well-known contrapuntal devices are used whenever the texture is polyphonic. They are not invariably present, but they may put in an appearance, and so the listener must be on the lookout for them. The simplest of these devices are: imitation, canon, inversion, augmentation, diminution. More recondite are cancrizans (crab motion) and the inverted cancrizans. Some of these devices, enmeshed within the web of contrapuntal texture, are quite difficult to follow. I point them out now more for the sake of completeness than because you will learn from one single illustration to recognize them each time that they occur (see Appendix II). 



Imitation is the simplest device of all. Anyone who has ever sung a round in school will know the meaning of imitation. Playing a kind of “follow-the-leader” musical game, one voice imitates what another voice does. When used incidentally during the course of a piece, this device is referred to as “imitation.” This perfectly natural idea may be found in very early music as well as in contemporary music. The simplest imitation sets up an illusion of many-voiced music, although only one melody is actually sounded. The imitation need not start on the same note with which the original voice begins. In such a case, we speak of imitation “at the fourth” above or “at the second” below, indicating the pitch at which the entrance of the imitating voice was made. Paradoxically, you have to listen cotrapuntally, although only one melody is in question. 



Canon is merely a more elaborate species of imitation, in which the imitation is carried out logically from the beginning of a piece to the end. In other words, canon may be spoken of as a form, whereas imitation is always a device. Eighteenth-century music supplies numerous examples; the most quoted illustration of the past century is that of the last movement of Cesar Frank's Violin Sonata. Recently, Hindemith has written canons in the form of sonatas for two flutes. 




Inversion is not so easily recognized. It consists of turning a melody upside down, as it were, The melody inverted always moves in the opposite direction from the melody of its original version. That is, when the original leaps an octave upward, the inversion leaps an octave downward, and so forth. Of course, not all melodies make sense when inverted. It is up to the composer to decide whether or not the inversion of a melody is justified on musical grounds. 



Augmentation is easily explained. When you augment a theme, you double the time value of the notes, thereby making the theme twice as slow as it originally was. (A quarter note becomes a half, a half note a whole, etc.) Diminution is the opposite of augmentation. It consists of halving the note values, so that the theme moves twice as fast as originally. (A whole note becomes a half, a half note a quarter, etc.) 



Cancrizans, or crab motion, as the name implies, means the melody read backward. In other words, A-B-C-D becomes, in cancrizans, D-C-B-A. Here, again, the mere mechanical application of the device does not always produce musical results. Cancrizans is much more rarely found than the other contrapuntal devices, although the modern Viennese school, led by Arnold Schoenberg, has made liberal use of it. Still more involved is inverted cancrizans, in which the theme is first read backward and then inverted.  



The ability to listen contraputally, plus a comprehension of these various devices, is all that is necessaary in order to prepare oneself to hear fugues intelligently. Most fugues are written in three or four voices. Five-voiced fugues are rarer, and two-voiced rarer still. Once a certain number of voices are adopted, they are held to throughout. They are not, however, contiuously present in the fugue, for a well-written fugue implies breathing spaces in each melodic line. So that in a four-voiced fugue, the listener seldom hears more than three voices at a time. 



But no matter how many voices may be going on at the same time, there is always one voice that predominates. Just as a juggler, handling three objects, draws our attention to the object that goes highest, so, in the same way, the composer draws our attention to one of the equally independent voices. It is the theme, or subject, of the fugue that takes precedence whenever present. Therefore, the reader can appreciate how important it is to bear in mind the subject of the fugue. Composers aid by invariably stating the subject at the beginning of the fugue without accompaniment. Fugue subjects are generally rather short - two or three measures long - and of a well-defined character. (Examine, if you can, the famous forty-eight fugue themes used by Bach in his Well Tempered Clavichord). 



Before demonstrating as much as can be blueprinted of the fugue as a whole, it should be made clear that the general outlines of the form are not nearly so definite as that of other formal molds. Every fugue differs as to presentation of voices, as to length, and as to inner detail. Its separate parts are not nearly so distinguishable as, let us say, separate parts in sectional forms. In a non-technical book of this sort, it is not possible to make the measure-by-measure explanation that each fugue demands for complete analysis. 



All fugues, however, begin with what is called an “exposition.” Let us see what the exposition of a fugue consists of before going on to examine the remainder of the form. Every fugue, as I have said, begins with an announcement of the unadorned fugue subject. If we take as model a four-voiced fugue, them the subject will appear for the first time in one of four voices: soprano, alto, tenor, or bass (For convenience sake, let's call them V-1,V-2, V-3, and V-4.) Any one of the four voices may have the first statement of the fugue subject. Whatever the order may be, the subject is heard in each one of the four voice, one after another, like this 

V-1  S......... 

V-2         S.......... 

V-3                S.......... 

V-4                       S.......... 


V-1  S......... 

V-2         S.......... 

V-3                S.......... 

V-4                       S.......... 


Or the order of entrance may be thus: 

V-1                       S......... 

V-2         S.......... 

V-3  S.......... 

V-4                 S.......... 

(V-2 and V-4 are more exactly known as “answers” to the subject. I have retained “subject” in all four voices for the sake of simplicity.) 


V-1                       S......... 

V-2         S.......... 

V-3  S.......... 

V-4                 S.......... 



It goes without saying that when the second voice enters with the subject, the first voice does not stop. On the contrary, it continues to add a countermelody, or countersubject as it is generally called (CS), to the principal subject. Thus, the ground plan really reads: 

V-1  S.........CS.......... 

V-2          S............CS.......... 

V-3                    S...........CS.......... 

V-4                             S..........CS.......... 


V-1  S.........CS.......... 

V-2          S............CS.......... 

V-3                    S...........CS.......... 

V-4                             S..........CS.......... 


When once the subject and countersubject are exposed in any one voice, it is free to continue without restrictions as a so-called “free voice.” With that filled in, our ground plan of the exposition is completed: 

V-1  S......CS.......xxFV.........xx.................................. 

V-2        S.......xxCS.........xxFV............................. 

V-3                  S.......xxCS........FV................. 

V-4                            S.......CS................ 


V-1  S......CS.......xxFV.........xx.................................. 

V-2        S.......xxCS.........xxFV............................. 

V-3                  S.......xxCS........FV................. 

V-4                            S.......CS................ 


In some fugues, it is not feasible to go directly from one entrance of a voice to the next without a measure or two of transition, because of tonal relationships too technical to be gone into here. That is what the crosses indicate. The exposition is considered to be at an end when each of the voices of a fugue has sung the theme once. (Certain fugues have a reexposition section in which the exposition is repeated but with the voices entering in different order.) 



The exposition is the only part of the fugue form that is definitely set. From there on, the form can be summarized only loosely. The general plan might be reduced to a formula something like this: exposition-(reexposition) -episode   1-subject-episode   2-subject-episode   3- subject-(etc.)-stretto (see page 138 for explanation of this term)-cadence. Speaking 

generally, a series of episodes alternate with statements of the fugue subject, seen each time in new aspects. No rules govern the number of episodes or returns of the theme. A episode is often related to some fragment of the fugue subject or countersubject. It seldom is made up entirely of independent materials. Its principal function is to divert attention from the theme of the fugue, so as better to prepare the stage for its reentrance. Its general character is usually that of a bridge section - more relaxed in quality, less dialectic than the fugue subject developments. 

フーガの形式にきちんと設定してあるのは、この主題提示の部分だけである。さてここでは、この形式を大雑把にまとめるとしよう。主題提示-(再提示)-間奏 / 1-主題提示-間奏 / 2-主題提示-間奏 / 3-主題提示-(同)-ストレッタ(主題と対主題が重なり緊迫する所:138頁参照)―終止部。一般的には、幾度となく出てくる間奏は、フーガの主題を提示することで交替する。この時、それまでにない要素が加わってくる。間奏部の回数や主題に戻る回数は、決まりはない。間奏部というのは、フーガの主題・対主題の中にある一部分と、何かしら繋がる部分があることが多い。間奏部が曲中他の部分とは全く関係のない作り方をしてあることは、滅多にない。間奏部の一番大事な役割は、フーガの主題から聞く人の注意を外すことにある。そうすることで、もう一度主題が入ってくるお膳立てをするのに良いからだ。間奏部の特徴は、一般的には橋渡しとしての性格である。フーガの主題を発展展開してゆくやり方よりも、作り込みはゆるく、訴えかける力もゆるくしてある。 


Despite the appearance of the preceding formula, there is no actual repetition in a fugue except for the kernel of the fugue subject itself, and the countersubject which often accompanies its every appearance. Half the point of fugue form would be missed if it were not clearly understood that with each entrance of the fugue subject a different light is thrown upon theme itself. It may be augmented or inverted, combined with itself or with other new themes, shortened or lengthened, sung quietly or boldly. Each new appearance tests the ingenuity of the composer. During the main body of the fugue ― that is, after the exposition and before the stretto ― a severe modulatory scheme is generally adopted, which is too technical for full discussion here. 



A stretto in a fugue is optional, but when present it is usually found just before the final cadence. Stretto is the name given a species of imitation in which the separate parts enter so immediately one after another that an impression of toppling voices is obtained. Not all fugue subjects lend themselves equally well to this kind of treatment, which explains why strettos are not found in every fugue. Whatever the nature of the fugue, the end is never casual. It brings with it, as a rule, one final, clear statement of the fugue subject and an insistence on the establishment withour question of the tonic key. 



The fugue asks for concentrated listening and is therefore not very long, a few pages at most. The character of the fugue is limited only by the imagination of its creator. It may be somber or witty, but it never tries to be both in one fugue. As far as its general character goes, a fugue says one thing, and it derives its keynote from the nature of the fugue subject itself. The emotional scope, in other words, is limited to the kind of theme with which one begins. 



The disciplinary aspect of the fugue has challenged the ingenuity of composers for centuries and continues to do so. But the consensus of opinion is that the fugue, in essence, is an eighteenth-century form. That may be partly accounted for by the fact that the composers of the following century tended to neglect a form that was undoubtedly associated in their minds with the formalism of a past era, plus the emphasis placed upon freedom of expression during the romantic period. There were other reasons also, but these will suffice.    



Recent composers, however, have shown a renewal of interest in the fugue. Whether or not their accomplishments in this field will justify their redoing a form that the past has done so consummately well, the future alone can tell. In any case, there is nothing essentially different about a modern fugue. As far as the form goes, or the general emotional character, it is still the fugue of a disciplined age. The listener's problem is exactly similar in both cases.  






The second principal fugal form is that of the concerto grosso. It, too, is an essentially pre-nineteenth-century form, as are all these fugal forms. It should not be confused in your mind with the later concerto, which is written for a virtuoso soloist accompanied by orchesra. The origin of the concerto grosso is attributable to the fact that composers in the second half of the seventeenth century became intrigued by the effect to be obtained from contrasting a small body of instruments with a large body of instruments. The smaller group, called the concertino, might be formed of any combination of instruments pleasing to the composer. Whatever the smaller group of instruments may be, the form is built around the dialectical interchange between the concertino and the larger body of instruments, or tutti, as it is often called. 



The concerto grosso, then, is a kind of instrumental fugal form. It is generally made up of three or more movements. The classical examples of the form are those of Handel and Bach. The latter's essays in the form, known as the Brandenburg Concerti, of which there are six, make use of a different concertino in each one. Very often, in listening to the contrapuntal texture of one of these works, one has an impression of wonderful health and vitality. The inner movement of the separate parts gives off an athletic quality, as if all were in excellent working order. 



During the nineteenth century, the form was abandoned in favor of the concerto for soloist and orchestra, which may rightfully be considered an offshoot of the earlier concerto grosso. Like other eighteenth-century forms, the concerto grosso has enjoyed renewed interest on the part of recent composers. A well-known modern example is the Concerto Grosso by Ernest Bloch. 






The chorale prelude, which is the third of the fugal forms, is less definite in outline than the concerto grosso and therefore more difficult to define with any degree of exactitude. It had its origin in the chorale tunes that were sung in Protestant churches after the time of Luther. Composers attached to the church exercised their ingenuity in making elaborate settings of these simple melodies. They are, in a sense, variations on a hymn tune, and I shall mention three of the best-known types of treatment of these choral tunes. 




The simplest method consists of keeping the given melody intact, while making the accompanying harmonies more interesting, either by increasing the harmonic complexity or by making the accompanying voices more intricately polyphonic. A second type embroiders upon the theme itself, lending the barest melodic outline an unsuspected grace and floridity. The third, and most involved type, is a kind of fugue woven around the tune of the chorale. For example, some fragment of the chorale tune may serve as fugue subject. An exposition of a fugue is written just as if there were to be no chorale; and then without warning, while the fugue continues along placidly, above or beneath it may be heard the long-drawn-out notes of the chorale. 



Some of Bach's finest creations were written in one or another of these forms of chorale prelude. His Orgelb uchlein is a collection of short chorale preludes containing an inexhaustible wealth of musical riches, which no music lover can afford to ignore. Deeply moving from an expressive standpoint, they are nevertheless marvels of technical ingenuity ― a magistral illustration of the welding of thought and emotion. 






The fourth and last of the fugal forms is that of motets and madrigals. I hasten to add that a motet or madrigal is not a form, properly speaking; but since they will be listened to with increasing frequency and definitely belong with the contrapuntal forms, their proper place is here. One cannot generalize as to their form, because they are choral compositions, sung without accompaniment and dependent on their words in each individual instance for their formal outline. 



Motets and madrigals were written in profusion during the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. The difference between the two is that the motet is a short vocal composition of sacred words, whereas the madrigal is a similar composition on secular words. The madrigal is generally less severe in character. Both are typical vocal fugal forms of the era before the advent of Bach and his contemporaries. 

モテットとマドリガルが盛んに作られたのは、15, 16, 17世紀の間である。この二つの違いだが、モテットは短めで歌詞は宗教的なもの、一方マドリガルは同じようなものだが、歌詞は宗教的でないものだ。曲の性格もマドリガルのほうが、やや厳粛さから肩の力を抜いたものである。両方とも当時のフーガの手法を用いた声楽曲で、バッハやその次代の作曲家が登場する以前のものである。 


From the listener's standpoint, it is important to distinguish the texture of motet or madrigal. Here, again, no rule prevails; motets and madrigals may be either fugal or chordal in style or a combination of both. I fail to see how these vocal forms may be heard intelligently without an elementary idea as to their different textures. In the motet or madrigal of fugal or contrapuntal texture, the fact that the separate melodic voices are attached to words will be found especially helpful in aiding the listener to hear the counterpoint more easily than in the purely instrumental forms. 



The Renaissance period is crowded with masters who used these vocal forms. Palestrina in Italy, Orlando di Lasso in the Netherlands, Victoria in Spain; Byrd, Wilbye, Morley, and Gibbons in England are some of the outstanding names in one of the most remarkable eras in music. The unfamiliarity of most of our concertgoers with this extraordinary epoch is indicative of the comparatively narrow musical interests of our time. 




Bach ― Brandenburg Concertos 

Trevor Pinnock, Baroqe Ensemble (Archiv) 


Bach ― Well Tempered Clavier (see listing under Chapter Two) 


Franck ― Sonata in A for Violin and Piano 

Gidon Kremer, O. Maisenberg (Philips) 


Beethoven ― Piano Sonata in A flat, Opus 110 

Alfred Brendel (Philips) 


Schoenberg ― String Quartet No. 3 

Arditti Quartet (Disques Montaigne) 




トレヴァー・ピノック指揮 バロックアンサンブル廃盤 





フランクバイオリンとピアノのためのソナタ イ長調 



ベートーヴェンピアノ・ソナタ イ短調 作品110 


変奏による形式 Copland「What to Listen for in Music」を読む 第11回 第11章 音楽の基本の形式

11. Fundamental Forms 




II. 変奏による形式 


Basso Ostomatp; Passacaglia; Chaconne; 

Theme and Variations 




The variation forms well exemplify what the listener is expected to hear and what he is not expected to hear, as regards form in music. That is to say, it would be foolish to imagine that any listener, when hearing a variation form for the first time, hears it with any degree of exactitude as regards each separate variation. Nevertheless, it is of considerable value to him to know the general outlines, even though he is unable to follow the working out of each individual variation in detail. With a little preparation, it is comparatively easy to hear the general outlines of any variation form, whether the work is that of a classic or that of a modern composer. 



Before going further, the reader should be warned that the variation in music has two different aspects and that they must not be confused. The first aspect is that of the variation used as a device in music, in a purely incidental way. That is, any of the elements in music may be varied ― any harmony, any melody, any rhythm. Likewise, the variation as a device may be applied momentarily to any form ― sectional, sonata, fugal, etc. It is a device so fundamental, in fact, that composers fall back on it continuously and apply it almost without thinking. But the second aspect must not be lost sight of ― the variation as used in the different variation forms proper, where it is the sole and exclusive formal principle. It is this second aspect that I propose to treat here. 



The principle of variation in music is a very old one. It belongs to the art so naturally that it would be hard to imagine a time when it was not being used. Even in Palestrina's day, and before, when vocal music was paramount, the principle of varying a melody was well established in musical practice. A Mass by a sixteenth-century master was often based entirely on a single melody which was used in a varied form in each of the separate parts of the Mass. Though the variation principle was first applied melodically, the English virginal composers soon adapted it to instrumental style by varying the harmonic framework in much the same way that it is done nowadays. In fact, these early English masters used this new device to such an extent that it became rather tiresome; it became not so much a formal principle as a mere formula. Anybody could take a theme and write ten variations on it full of runs and trills and a profusion of figurations, which were not in themselves overly interesting. Naturally, that isn't true of the best examples of the period, such as Byrd's variations on The Carman's Whistle. 



Since that time there has hardly been a period during which composers have not written in the variation form. As a basic mold it was repeatedly used by the classical Haydn and Mozart, the early romantic Beethoven and Schubert, and the later romanticists Schumann and Brahms. It flourishes today, as ever, as witness the famous Don Quixote of Strauss, the Enigma Variations of Elgar, the Istar Variations of D'Indy, or to Schwanendreher of Hindemith, the string quartet (Three Variations on a Theme) of Roy Harris. This should be proof, if proof were needed, that the variation forms are fundamental in musical history; and it is unlikely that composers will ever completely abandon them. 






Of the four types of variation forms, the basso ostinato, or ground bass, is the easiest to recognize. It might more properly be termed a musical device than a musical form. Literally translated, it means an “obstinate bass,” which is more or less an exact description of what it is. A short phrase ― either an accompaninmental figure or an actual melody ― is repeated over and over again in the bass part, while the upper parts proceed normally. It provides an easy method for writing “modern music” of the 1920 vintage, the left hand continuing always in the same way, and the right hand left to its own devices. Perhaps because of that, for a time the basso ostinato exerted too strong a charm on the 

newer composers. 



Now let us examine illustrations of the basso ostinato as it was practiced at different periods. The simplest versions are those in which the ground bass is little more than an accompanimental figure. The Pastorale for piano of Sibelius presents such a figure (From the Land of a Thousand Lakes, by Jean Sibelius. Used permission of the Boston Music Company).  



Another, and more recent, example is the Cortege from Arthur Honegger's well-known oratorio King David. Here, too, the ostinato bass is a mere figure, which lends itself well to the piquant tonal changes of the upper part. (From Honegger's Le Roi David. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of MM. Foetisch Freres S. A. , Editors, Lausanne, Switzerland.) 

もう一つ、比較的最近の譜例を。アルテュールオネゲルの名作、オラトリオ「ダビデ王」第6曲「行列」である。ここでもオスティナートとしての低音は凡庸な音形で、痛烈に音色が変わりゆく高い音域のパートとの相性がぴったりである。(オネゲル作曲「ダビデ王」 Foetisch Freres出版(サンフランシスコ)掲載許可済 スイス・ローザンヌ)。 


Note that once the ground bass is firmly established  

in your consciousness, it may, to a certain extent, be taken for granted, thereby permitting a greater concentration on the remaining material. 



Many beautiful illustrations may be culled from music of the seventeenth century. Here is one from Monteverdi's last works, written in 1642. The Coronation of Poppea. In this case, the ground base is no longer a mere figure, it is a real melody in its own right. 



Henry Percell, one of the greatest composers England has ever produced, lived toward the end of the seventeenth century and was especially fond of the basso ostinato. His works show numerous illustrations of the most varied use of this device. Here is an example taken from his famous opera Dido and Aeneas, a solo song called “Dido's Lament.” The ground bass is surprisingly chromatic and therefore easy to remember, and the chords above it have a romantic glow about them far in advance of Purcell's period. 



One of the best of modern examples is the second number called the “Soldier's Violin” from Stravinsky's pantomime The Story of a Soldier. With the aid of four notes pizzicato in the double bass, the composer pens a half-pitiful, half-sarcastic picture which provides one of the earliest and best illustrations of humor in modern music. [Felix Petyrek makes effective use of the basso ostinato for humorous purposes in his Eleven Small Children's Pieces (no recording available).] 






The passacaglia is the second type of variation form. Here, again, as in the basso ostinato, an entire composition is founded upon a repeated bass part. But this time, the ground bass is invariably a melodic phrase, never a mere figure. It is also open to more varied treatment, as we shall soon see, than the literal repetitions of the basso ostinato. 



The origin of the passacaglia is not too well known. It is said to have been a slow dance, in three-quarter time, of Spanish origin. At any rate, the present-day passacaglia, and those of the past, are always slow and dignified in character, retaining the ofiginal three-quarter time signature, although not invariably so. But all connection with the dance has been lost. 



A passacaglia invariably begins with a statement of the theme unaccompanied, in the bass. Since it is this theme that is to form the foundation for all further variation, it is of paramount importance that the theme itself be well established in the mind of the listener. Therefore, as a rule, for the first few variations the theme is literally repeated in the bass, while the upper part begins a gentle forward movement. 



Speaking generally, the composer has two objectives in treating the passacaglia form. First, with the addition of each new variation the theme must be seen in a new light. In other words, interest in the oft repeated ground bass must be aroused and sustained and added to by the composer's creative imagination. Secondly, aside from the beauty of any one variation, taken alone, they must all together gather cumulative momentum, so that the form as a whole may be psychologically satisfying. This second objective has been particularly true since Bach's time. 



The literal repetitions of the theme in the bass need not be retained after the first few variations. The simplest device is to move the theme itself to an upper or middle part, inventing its natural position. Other devices momentarily conceal the theme, though it is surely present either as the bottom note of some figuration or as the bottom note of what may appear to be a mere chordal accompaniment. The theme played twice as slowly or twice as fast or contrapuntally combined with new thematic material is in each case a legitimate device for variation possibilities. 



In binding the different variations into a coherent whole, it is customary to group several variations of a similar pattern together. This affords smoother transtions from one type of variation to the next. Cumulative effect has often been achieved, from Bach's time onward, by the simple process of increasing the number of notes in a measure, thereby creating a sense of climax through faster and faster motion. As a matter of fact, one of the main differences between Bach's use of the form and that of his predecessors was this adoption of a faster and faster motion to build climaxes, a device that has since been used over and over again and not only in the passacaglia form. 



One of the finest examples in all musical literature, and one which is invariably quoted when the formis under discussion, is Bach's great organ Passacaglia in C minor. It is based on the following characteristic theme: 

(score illustrated: Passacaglia in C minor BWV582) 




The lay listener is urged to study the notes or the recording or both many times, as few compositions will better repay careful listening. First, it is necessary to have the theme well in mind. Then to remember that a new variation begins each time the theme has been played through once. This may cause confusion at first, when, as in the first two variations, the pattern is almost identical, except for a heightening of the expressive harmonies in the second. Note how the movement begins to get faster in the fourth variation, changing from eighth notes to sixteenths. For the first four variations the theme remains exactly the same; in the fifth variation the theme, in a disguised version, may be found as the bottom note of each upward arpeggio. In the eighth variation, a new contrapuntal line is added above chords, the bottom note of which is thematic. In the next variation, the theme is transposed to the soprano part, with the contrapuntal line below it. Note 

particularly the gathering momentum at the end, just before the fugue begins. (Fugues are often written as the conclusion of a passacaglia, but they do affect  

the form itself in any way.) 




The passacaglia was somewhat neglected during the nineteenth century. Composers during that period seemed to prefer writing the theme and variations when treating variation forms. But modern composers have written passacaglias. A good example is that of the middle movement of the Ravel Trio for violin, cello, and piano. Both Alban Berg in his opera Wozzeck and Anton Webern (Passacaglia for orchestra, Op.1) show modern treatments of the form. 






The chaconne is the third type of variation form. It is very closely related to the passacaglia. In fact, the differences are so slight, that at times there has been considerable argument among theorists as to whether to label a piece a passacaglia or a chaconne, if the composer himself neglected to do so. The classic example of that is the last movement of Brahms' Fourth Symphony. Some commentators refer to it as a passacaglia, and others as a chaconne. Since Brahms called it only the fourth movement, the argument will probably continue for a long time to come. 



In any case, the chaconne, like the passacaglia, was in all likelihood originally a slow dance form in three-quarter time. It still retains its stately, sober character. But unlike the passacaglia, it does not begin with an unaccompanied bass theme. Instead, the bass theme is heard from the start with accompanying harmonies. This means that the bass theme is not given the exclusively important role to play that it occupies in the passacaglia; for the accompanying harmonies are also sometimes varied in the chaconne. So that the chaconne is a kind of stepping stone between the passacaglia and the theme and variations, as well appear presently. 



Here is a chaconne theme from the great forerunner of Bach's, Dietrich Buxtehude: 

(score illustrated:Chaconne in E minor, BuxWV 160 [first four measures only]) 


(譜例:シャコンヌ ホ短調 BWV160 最初の4小節半) 


In this case, as you see, the theme in the bass already has its accompanying harmonies, so that this first statement sounds as if it were the first variation of a passacaglia. That is where the confusion begins. 



The great modern example of the chaconne form is the movement of the Brahms symphony mentioned above, for it is in that category that I myself should list it. Unfortunately, space limitations prevent any detailed analysis. Suffice it to say that the theme which later constitutes the ground bass is first heard as the top part of the opening chords, which are themselves retained along with the theme in many instances. In other words, the chaconne, unlike the passacaglia, has something of a harmonic bias along with its ground bass. 






The theme and variations is the last, and most important, of the variation forms. Its fame has spread beyond the realm of absolute music, something in the manner of the fugue form, and has been used to title poems and novels. 



The theme that is adopted for variation is either original with the composer or borrowed from some other source. As a rule, the theme itself is simple and direct in character. It is best to have it so in order that the listener may hear it in its simplest version before the varying process begins. The reader must keep in mind the fact that the theme and variations, like many other forms, became increasingly complex as time went on. In the earlier examples, the theme was usually in a clearly defined small two- or three-part form, the outlines of which were retained in each variation that followed. The separate variations themselves, on the other hand, were loosely strung together, seeming to possess as formal principle only a general sense of balance and contrast. 



Modern practice reverses this. The outlines of the theme with which the composer begins are often lost sight of in each separate variation, but a definite attempt is made to build all of them together into some semblance of structural unity. What was stated in this connection in relation to passacaglia form ― the joining of the separate parts in view of their cumulative effect ― is even more true of the theme and variations. 



There are diffferent types of variation which may be applied to practically any theme. Five general types may easily be distinguished: (1) harmonic, (2) melodic, (3) rhythmic, (4) contrapuntal, (5) a combination of all four previous types. No textbook formula could possibly foresee every kind of variation scheme that an inventive composer might hit upon. It is even difficult to illustrate the five main divisions I have chosen fromany one piece. For purposes of illustration it seemed better to write out the beginnings of typical variation schemes for some well-known tune, such as Ach! du lieber Augustin (see Appendix I). 


(1) ハーモニーをつけたす 

(2) メロディをいじる 

(3) リズムを変化させる 

(4) 色々なフレーズを絡ませる 

(5) 以上4つを色々組み合わせる 




As has already been said, this by no means exhausts the almost limitless possibilities for the variation of any single theme. It is customary with most composers to stay rather close to the original theme at the beginning of a composition, taking more and more liberties as the piece progresses. Very often, at the very end, the theme is stated once again in its original form. It is as if the composer were saying: “You see how far away it was possible to go, well, here we are back again where we started.” 



Musical literature is so generously supplied with themes and variations that the mentioning of any particular example would seem almost superfluous. Nevertheless, I strongly advise the reader to hear the first movement of Mozart's A major Piano Sonata, which is in the form of a theme and six variations. Note that the formal outline of the theme is retained in each of the six variations. Variation 1 is a good example of the florid-melodic type of variation; variation 4, of the skeletonizing of the harmony. One small device, dear to the classic masters, is exemplified by the third variation, where the harmony is changed from major to minor. From the listener's standpoint, it is important to be conscious of the beginning of each new variation, so that the piece is split up in your mind in the same way that it was divided in the composer's mind at the moment of composition.  



Excellent nineteenth-century examples, but of a much greater complexity than Mozart, are Schumann's much quoted Etudes Symphoniques and the less well-known but admirable Theme and Variations of Gabriel Faure. 



An interesting modern example, containing a slight variation of the variation form itself, is the middle movement of Stravinsky's Octet. Here, instead of the usual scheme: A-A'-A''-A'''-A'''', etc., we get this plan: A-A'-A''-A'-A'''-A''''-A'-A. The curious feature here is that the composer, after a few variations, does not return each time to the theme itself (as in the rondo form) but to the first variation of theme.  

現代曲の興味深い作品例をご覧に入れよう。変奏の形式それ自体を、少々「変奏」している。ストラヴィンスキーの「八重奏曲」の真ん中の楽章だ。ここでは、通常の手法A-A'-A''-A'''-A'''といったぐあいではなく、 A-A'-A''-A'-A'''-A''''-A'-Aといった具合に展開される。面白いのは、作曲者は、2つ3つと変奏を展開すると、主題に戻る(ロンド形式の手法)のではなく、第1変奏に戻ってしまうことだ。 


The author's own Piano Variations (1930), based on a  comparatively short theme, reverses the usual procedure by putting the simplest version of the theme second, calling what it is, properly speaking, a first variation a “theme.” The idea was to present the listener with a more striking version of the theme first, which seemed more in keeping with the generally dramatic character of the composition as a whole. 



Sibelius ― Piano Music 

Ralf Gothoni (Ondine) 


Purcell ― Dido and Aeneas 

Lorraine Hunt, Philharmonia Baroque (Harmonia Mundi) 



Stravinsky ― The Soldier's Tale 

Gerard Schwarz, Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra (Delos) 


Bach ― Passsacaglia for Organ 

Marie-Claire Alain (Erato) 


Copland ― Passacaglia for Piano 

Leo Smit (Sony) 


Copland ― Piano Variations 

David Neil Jones (Amphion) 


Mozart ― Piano Sonata in A, K.331 

Mitsuko Uchida (Philips) 










ジェラード・シュワルツ指揮 ロサンゼルス室内管弦楽団(デロス) 













Copland 「What to Listen for in Music」を読む 第10回 第10章 音楽の基本の形式 I.◯◯部形式

10. Fundamental Forms 




I. ◯◯部形式 


Two Part; Three Part; Rondo; 

Free Sectional Arrangement 

2部形式; 3部形式; ロンド形式;  



The easiest form for the listener to grasp is that built sectionally. The more or less clearly defined separation of related parts is readily assimilated. From a certain perspective, practically all music might be considered to be sectionally constructed ― even the long tone poems of a Richard Strauss. But in this chapter we shall confine ourselves to those type forms which are obviously made up of a combination in some arrangement of separate sections. 






The simplest of these is two-part, or binary, form, represented by A-B. Two part form is very little used nowadays, but it played a preponderant role in the music 

written from1650 to 1750. The division into A and B may be clearly seen on the printed page, for the end of the A section is almost always indicated by a double bar with a repetition sign. Sometimes a repetition sign follows the end of the B section also, in which case the formula would more truly be A-A-B-B. But, as I have already pointed out, in analyzing forms we do not take into account these exact repetitions, because they do not really affect the general outlines of the music as a whole. Moreover, interpreters use their own discretion in the matter of actually playing the repetitions indicated. 



In all other forms, a B section would indicate an independent section, different in musical material from the A section. In two-part form, however, there is a general correspondence between the first and second parts. The A and B seem to balance one another; B often is little more than a rearranged version of A. Exactly how the “rearrangement” is carried out differs with each piece and  largely accounts for the great variety within the two-part structure. The B section is often made up partly of a repetition of A, and partly of a kind of development of certain phrases to be found in A. It might be said, therefore, that the principle of development which became so important in later times had its origin here. The two parts of the form will be clearly heard by the layman if he listens for the strong cadential feeling at the end of each part.   



The two-part form was utilized in thousands of short pieces for clavecin, written during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The seventeenth-century type of suite was comprised of four or five or more of such pieces, which were in some species of dance form. The dances most usually included in the suite are the allemande, the courante, the saraband, and the gigue. Not so often used are the gavotte, bourree, passepied, and loure. (This early type of suite is not to be confused with the modern suite which is nothing more than a collection of pieces lighter in character than the movements of a sonata or symphony.) 



As examples of two-part form, the reader is urged to hear pieces by Francois Couperin or Domenico Scarlatti. (Recordings by Wanda Landowska of both composers are recommended.) Couperin, who lived from 1668 to 1733, published four books of clavecin pieces, containing some of the finest music ever written by a Frenchman. They often are titled fancifully, for example, The Mysterious Barricades, or Twins or The Little Fly. This last piece (Le Moucheron) is a particularly fine example of two-part form. So is La Commere, which is, besides, a brilliant example of eighteenth-century wit and esprit. Something of the sensuosity of present-day French music will be found in Les langeurs tendres. Couperin created a world of subtle feeling within the limits of this miniature form. 



Domenico Scarlatti (1685-1757) is the Italian counterpart of Couperin. He composed hundreds of pieces in two-part form, all under the generic name of sonata, though they have nothing in common with the later sonata either in form or in feeling. Scarlatti's personality is strongly evident in everything he wrote. He had a penchant for brilliant, showy clavecin writing, with large skips and crossing of hands in the true instrumental style. Nor was he afraid of using harmonies that must have struck his contemporaries as darling. (Many of these harmonies were “toned down” by academic editors of the nineteenth-century.) It is difficult to choose examples from so great a profusion of riches. In the Longo edition, Sonatas No. 413 (D minor), No. 104 (C major), and No. 338 (G minor) are among his finest works.  



The second type of sectional form is three-part form, represented by the formula A-B-A. We have already seen how the small unit of a piece may be built according to a-b-a. Now it is necessary to demonstrate it in relation to a piece as a whole. 






In the case of three-part form, we are dealing with a type of construction that is in continual use by composers today. Among the clearest early examples are the minuets of Haydn or Mozart. Here the B section ― sometimes labeled “trio” ― is in distinct contrast to the A section. It is sometimes almost like an independent little piece, bounded on both sides by the first part: minuet-trio-minuet. When the return to the first section was exact repetition, composers did not trouble to write it out again but merely indicated “da capo” (from the beginning). But when the return is varied, the third section must be written out. 



The minuet, and with it three-part form, gradually changed its character, even among so-called classical composers. Haydn himself began the transformation of the minuet from a simple dance formto what finally became the Beethoven scherzo. In fact, there are few better examples of the gradual expansion of a formal pattern than this metamorphosis of minuet to scherzo. The outline A-B-A remained the same, but the character became transformed completely. In Beethoven's hands, the graceful and dignified minuet turned into the brusque and whimsical scherzo-allegro which contrasts so well with the slow preceding movement. 



One important alteration was made in the form by Beethoven himself and adopted by composers who followed him. It was usual to have, in the earlier minuets and scherzos, a complete sense of close at the end of both first and second parts. Later examples of the form, however, connect the A section by a bridge passage to the B section; and likewise, on the return, B to A, thereby creating a greater impression of continuity. This tendency will be found in most forms in music; the demarcation points of separate sections tend to melt away before the need for a greater impression of continuous flow. Definitely marked divisions are easier to follow from the listener's vantage point, but the higher development of form brings with it the need for the manipulation of an uninterrupted and longer line. 



Here is a typical illustration of the Haydn Minuet from the String Quartet, Op. 17, No. 5. The divisions are clearly marked. 

(score illustrated: the second movement [melody only]) 




For a modern example of minuet form, I can recommend the Ravel Minuet from Le tombeau de Couperin, a set of six piano pieces, which were later orchestrated by the composer. The typical A-B-A form is present, with these differences: The return to the A section is made up of an ingenious combination of both A and B at the same time; and a fairly elaborate coda is added at the end. Both nothing essential to the form of the minuet has been changed.   






Now let us see what Beethoven did with the minuet form. Let us take as illustration the same Scherzo from the Piano Sonata, Op. 27, No. 2, the first page of which was analyzed in the preceding chapter. In analyzing the Scherzo as a whole, that first page, which itself was found to be a-b-a, counts as A of the larger A-B-A formula. The B section - the Trio - is more sustained in quality, for the sake of contrast. This is almost always true of any middle part of a scherzo and makes the divisions easily distinguishable. The return to the A is an exact repetition.   



Played slowly, this particular Scherzo might conceivably be a minuet, but that is not true of the Scherzo of the Sonata, Op. 27, No. 1. The Beethoven-like, stormy character completely removes it from the stately minuet that originated the form. To have written a B section of the usual sustained and contrasted type would have dissipated the mood of the A section. It is interesting to see how Beethoven manages both to write a contrasting section and yet to keep up the hectic, seething character of the first part. The return to the A is varied by a slight syncopation in the rhythm, which serves to emphasize the stormy mood. 



Three-part form, with slight adaptations, is the generic type form for innumerable pieces, variously named. Some of the most familiar are nocturne, berceuse, ballade, elegy, waltz, etude, capriccio, impromptu, intermezzo, mazurka, polonaise, etc. These are not, of course, necessarily three-part in form, but they certainly are likely to be. Always watch for the contrasted middle part and some kind of return to the beginning. Those are the unmistakable earmarks of the three-part form. 



Limitation of space forbids the pointing out of more than one illustration: the Chopin Prelude No. 15, in D flat. This is an excellent example of “adaptation” of the A-B-A form. After a first part of quiet and sustained mood comes the B part, which is more dramatic and “threatening,” by way of contrast. It demonstrates a tendency, which later became more and more frequent, to find a way of connecting the B to the A by utilizing some element common to both, such as a rhythmic or melodic figure (in this case, a repeated note). Treated thus, the B section seems to grow out of the first part instead of being merely an independent and contrasted section, which might conceivably belong to some other piece equally well. The return to the A in this Prelude is very much shortened. It is as if Chopin said to the listener: “You remember the mood of this first part. Taking you back for a few measures will suffice to give you a feeling of the whole without bothering to play it all the way through.” That is good psychological reasoning in this particular piece and adds to both the originality, and the conciseness of the formal treatment.  






The important type form which bases itself on the sectional principle is that of the rondo. It is easily reduced to the formula A-B-A-C-A-D-A, etc. The typical feature of any rondo, therefore, is the return to the principal theme after every digression. The main theme is the important thing; the number or length of the digressions is immaterial. The digressions provide contrast and balance; that is their principal function. There are different types of rondo form, both slow and fast. But the most usual type is that found as final movement of a sonata ― light, cheerful, and songlike. 



The rondo is a very old musical form, but it has far from outlived its usefulness. Examples may be found in the music of Couperin as well as in the latest work of the American Walter Piston. In early examples ― even up to and including the time of Haydn and Mozart ― the divisions between sections were clearly marked. But here, again, later developments in the use of the form tend to break down demarcation points, so that one may truthfully say that the essential quality of the rondo is the creation of an uninterrupted sense of flow. That smoothly flowing style is fundamental to the rondo character, whether the music is old or new. 



A fine illustration of the early rondo is the outline of the last movement of the Haydn Piano Sonata, No. 9, in D major (see pages 113-114). Notice a very important feature, the fact that each time the A returns, it is varied, which makes for new interest despite the numerous repetitions. Later rondos invariably show different versions of A each time that it returns. 



Numerous examples of modern rondos will be found in the works of Roussel, Milhaud, Hindemith, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, etc. The famous example from Strauss, Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks, is too complex to be grasped without special analysis. 






The fourth, and final, type of sectional build-up cannot be reduced to any one formula, because it allows for any free arrangement of sections which together make a coherent whole. Any arrangement that makes musical sense is possible, for instance A-B-B, or A-B-C-A or A-B-A-C-A-B-A. The first is the formula of the piece called Frightening from Schumann's Scenes from Childhood. It is particularly easy to follow in the Schumann piece, because each section is so short and so different in character. 



A good example of an unconventional arrangement of various sections, as used by a modern composer, is Bela Bartok's Suite, Op. 14, in the first and second movements. 



D. Scarlatti ― Selections from his Sonatas 

Igor Kipnis (harpsichord) (sony) 


Haydn ― Quartets Opus 17 

Tatrai Quartet (Hungaroton) 


Beethoven ― Sonata in E flat, Opus 27, No. 1 

Alfred Brendel (Philips) 


Chopin ― Preludes 

Arthur Rubinstein (RCA) 


Bartok ― Suite for Piano 

Bela Bartok (Angel-EMI) 




イーゴル・キプニスハープシコード) (ソニー 


ハイドン弦楽四重奏曲集 作品17 



ベートーヴェンピアノソナタ変ロ長調 作品17の1 








Copland 「What to Listen for in Music」を読む 第9回 第9章 音楽のストラクチャー(構造)

9. Musical Structure 



Almost anyone can more readily distinguish melodies and rhythms, or even harmonies, than the structural background of a lengthy piece of music. That is why our main emphasis, from here on, must be put upon structure in music; for the reader should realize that one of the principal things to listen for, when listening more consciously, is the planned design that binds an entire composition together. 



Structure in music is no different from structure in any other art; it is simply the coherent organization of the artist's material. But the material in music is of a fluid and rather abstract character; therefore the composer's structural task is doubly difficult because of the very nature of music itself. 



The general tendency, in explaining form in music, has been to oversimplify. The usual method is to seize upon certain well-known formal molds and demonstrate how composers write works within these molds, to a greater or lesser extent. Close examination of most masterworks, however, will show that they seldom fit so neatly as they are supposed to into the exteriorized forms of the textbooks. The conclusion is inescapable that it is insufficient to assume that structure in music is simply a matter of choosing a formal mold and then filling it with inspired tones. Rightly understood, form can only be the gradual growth of a living organism from whatever premise the composer starts. It follows then, that “the form of every genuine piece of music is unique.” It is musical content that determines form. 



Nevertheless, composers are not by any means entirely independent of outer formal molds. It therefore becomes necessary for the listener to understand this relationship between the given, or chosen, form and the composer's independence of that form. Two things, then, are involved: the dependence and independence of the composer in relation to historical musical forms. In the first place, the reader may ask: “What are these forms, and why should the composer bother about them in any way?” 



The answer to the first part of the question is easy: The sonata-allegro, the variation, the passacaglia, the fugue are the names of some of the best-known forms. Each one of these formal molds was only slowly evolved through the combined experience of generations of composers working in many different lands. It would seem foolish for present-day composers to discard all that experience and to begin to work from scratch with each new composition. It is only natural, particularly since the organization of musical material is by its very nature so difficult, that composers tend to lean on these well-tried forms each time that they begin to write. In the back of their minds, before beginning to compose, are all these used and known musical molds 

which act as a support and, sometimes, a stimulus for their imaginations. 



In the same way, a playwright working today, despite the variety of story material at this disposal, generally fits his comedy into the form of a three-act play. That has become the custom ― not the five-act play. Or he may prefer the form of the play in a number of short scenes, which has found favor recently; or the long one-actor without intermission. But whatever he chooses, we presume that he begins from a generalized play form. In the same way, the composer each time begins from a generalized and well-known musical form. 



Busoni felt that this was a weakness. He wrote a pamphlet to prove that the future of music demanded the freeing of composers from their overdependence on predetermined forms. Nevertheless, composers continue to depend on them as in the past, and the emergence of a new formal mold is just as rare an occurrence as ever. 



But whatever outer mold is chosen, there are certain basic structural principles which must be fulfilled. In other words, no matter what your architectural scheme may be, it must always be psychologically justified by the nature of the material itself. It is that fact which forces the composer out of the formal, given mold.  



For example, let us take the case of a composer who is working on a form that generally presupposes a coda, or closing section, at the end of his composition. One day, while working with his material, he happens on a section that he knows was destined to be that coda. It so happens that this particular coda is especially quiet and reminiscent in mood. Just before it, however, a long climax must be built. Now he sets about composing his climax. But by the time he has that long climactic section finished, he may discover that it renders the quiet close superfluous. In such a case, the formal mold will be overthrown, because of the exigencies of the evolving material. Similarly Beethoven, in the first movement of his Seventh Symphony, despite what all the textbooks say about “contrasting themes” of the first-movement form, does not have contrasting themes ― not in the usual sense, at any rate, owing to the specific character of the thematic material with which he began. 



Keep two things in mind, then. Remember the general outlines of the formal mold, and remember that the content of the composer's thought forces him to use that formal mold in a particular and personal way ― in a way that belongs only to that particular piece that he is writing. That applies chiefly to art music. Simple folk songs are often of an exactly similar structure within their small frame. But no two symphonies were ever exactly alike. 



The prime consideration in all form is the creation of a sense of the long line which was mentioned in an earlier chapter. That long line must give us a sense of direction, and we must be made to feel that that direction is the inevitable one. Whatever the means employed, the net result must produce in the listener a satisfying feeling of coherence born out of the psychological necessity of the musical ideas with which the composer began. 






There are two ways in which structure in music may be considered: (1) form in relation to a piece as a whole and (2) form in relation to the separate, shorter parts of a piece. The larger formal distinctions would have to do with entire movements of a symphony, a sonata, or a suite. The smaller formal units would together make up one entire movement. 






These formal distinctions may be clearer to the layman if an analogy is made with the construction of a novel. A full-length novel might be divided into four books ― I, II, III, and IV. That would be analogous to the four movements of a suite or symphony. Book I might be, in turn, divided into five chapters. Similarly, movement I would be made up of five sections. One chapter would contain so many paragraphs. In music, each section would also be subdivided into lesser sections (unfortunately, no special term denotes these smaller units). Paragraphs are composed of sentences. In music, the sentence would be analogous to the musical idea. And, of course, the word is analogous to the single musical tone. Needless to say, this comparison is meant to be taken only in a general sense. 



In the outlining of a single movement, it has become the custom to represent the larger sections by letters A, B, C, etc. Smaller divisions are usually represented by a, b, c, etc. 

一つの楽章を大まかに説明するためには、アルファベットの文字を使うのが習わしだ。大きなセクションは大文字のA、B、Cで、細かな区分けは小文字でa, b, c となる。 





One all-important principle is used in music to create the feeling of formal balance. It is so fundamental to the art that it is likely to be used in one way or another as long as music is written. That principle is the very simple one of repetition. The largest part of music bases itself structurally on a broad interpretation of that principle. It seems more justified to use repetition in music than in any of the other arts, probably because of its rather amorphous nature. The only other formal principle that need be mentioned is the opposite of repetition ― that is, nonrepetition. 



Speaking generally, music that is based on repetition for its spinal structure may be divided into five different categories. The first one is exact repetition; the second, sectional, or symmetrical, repetition; the third, repetition by variation; the fourth, repetition by fugal treatment; the fifth ,repetition through development. Each one of these categories (with the exception of the first) will receive separate treatment in single chapters later. Each category will be found to have different type forms which come under the heading of a specific kind of repetition. Exact repetition (the first category) is too simple to need any special demonstration. The other categories are split up according to the following type forms: 









I. Sectional or symmetrical repetition 

a. Two-part (binary) form 

b. Three-part (ternary) form 

c. Rondo 

d. Free sectional arrangement 


II. Repetition by variation 

a. Basso ostinato 

b. Passacaglia 

c. Chaconne 

d. Theme and variation 


III. Repetition by fugal treatment 

a. Fugue 

b. Concerto grosso 

c. Chorale prelude 

d. Motets and madrigals 


IV. Repetition by development 

a. Sonata (first-movement form) 



a. 2部形式 

b. 3部形式 

c.  ロンド形式 

d. 形式にとらわれないセクション分け 



a. バッソ・オスティナート 

b. パッサカリア 

c. シャコンヌ 

d. 主題と変奏 



a. フーガ 

b. コンチェルト・グロッソ 

c. コラール前奏曲 

d. モテットとマドリガル 



a. ソナタ(第1楽章形式) 


The only other basic formal categories are those based on nonrepetition,and so-called “free” forms. 



Before launching into discussion of these large type forms of repetition, it would be wise to examine the principle of repetition applied on a smaller scale. This is easily done because these repetitional principles apply both to the large sections which comprise an entire movement and also to the small units within each section. Musical form, therefore, resembles a series of wheels within wheels, in which the formation of the smallest wheel is remarkably similar to that of the largest one. A folk song is often constructed on lines similar to one of these smaller units and whenever possible will be used to illustrate the  

simplest repetition principles. 



The most elementary of all is that of exact repetition, which may be represented by a-a-a-a, etc. Such simple repetitions are to be found in many songs, where the same music is repeated for consecutive stanzas. The first form of variation occurs when, in similar songs, minor alternations are made in the repetition to allow for a closer setting of the text. This kind of repetition may be represented as a-a'-a''-a''', etc. 



The next form of repetition is fundamental not only to many folk songs but also to art music in its smallest and largest sections. It is repetition after a digression. This repetition may be exact, in which case it is represented by a-b-a, or it may be varied and therefore represented by a-b-a'. Very often in music the first a is immediately repeated. There would appear to be some fundamental need to impress a first phrase or section on the listener's mind before the digression comes. Most theorists agree, however, that the essential a-b-a form is unchanged by the repetition of the first a (In music, it is possible to indicate the repetition by the sign , making the formula a-b-a.) Here is this species of repetition in two folk songs, Au clair de lune and Ach! du lieber Augustin: 

(score illustrated: Au clair de lune and Ach! du lieber Augustin:) 



記号, 譜面では a-b-a. 





The very same formula may be found in art music. The first of Schumann's piano pieces in Scenes from Childhood is a good example of a short piece made up of a-b-a, with the first a repeated. Here is the melodic line without the accompaniment: 

(score illustrated:”von fremden Landern und Menchen” ) 




The same formula, with slight changes, may be found as part of a longer piece in the first page of the Scherzo from Beethoven's Piano Sonata, Op. 27, No. 2. Here, even the first a, when immediately repeated, is slightly changed by a certain dislocation in the rhythm; and the final repetition is different by a stronger cadential feeling at the end. (A “cadence” in music means a closing phrase.) Here is the melodic outline. 

(score illustrated: Sonate fur Klavier Nr.14, 2.Satz Allegretto and Trio) 




It would be easy to multiply examples of the a-b-a formula, with tiny variations, but my purpose is not to be all-inclusive. The point to remember about these smaller units is that every time a theme is exposed, there is strong likelihood that it will be repeated immediately; that once repeated, a digression is in order; and that after the digression, a return to the first theme, either exact or varied, is to be expected. How this same a-b-a formula applies to a piece as a whole, including the sonata form, will be demonstrated in later chapters. 



The only other basic formal principle, that of non- 

repetition, may be represented by the formula a-b-c-d, 

etc. It may be illustrated in a small way by the follow- 

ing English folk song The Seeds of Love, all four phrases 

of which are different: 

(score illustrated: The Seeds of Love) 




This same principle may be found in many of the preludes composed by Bach and other of his contemporaries. A short example is B flat major Prelude from Book I of the Well Tempered Clavichord. Unity is achieved by adopting a specific pattern, writing freely within that pattern, but avoiding any repetition of notes or phrases, We shall be returning to it in the chapter on Free Forms. 



To obtain a similar unity in a piece lasting twenty minutes without using any form of thematic repetition is no easy achievement. That probably accounts for the fact that the principle of nonrepetition is applied for the most part to short compositions. The listener will find it used much less frequently than any of the repetition forms, which now must be considered in detail. 



Schumann ― Scenes from Childhood 

Rado Lupu (London) 


Beethoven ― Sonata in C-sharp Minor, Opus 27, No. 2 

Alfred Brendel (Philips) 






ベートーヴェンピアノソナタ第14番嬰ハ短調 作品27 第2番 


Copland 「What to Listen for in Music」を読む 第8回 第8章 音楽のテクスチャ(仕組み)

8. Musical Texture 



In order better to understand what to listen for in music, the layman should, in a general way, be able to distinguish three different kinds of musical texture. There are three species of texture; monophonic, homophonic, and polyphonic. 



Monophonic music is, of course, the simplest of all. It is music of a single, unaccompanied melodic line. Chinese or Hindu music is monophonic in texture. No harmony, in our sense, accompanies their melodic line. The line itself, aside from a complex rhythmic percussion accompaniment, is of an extraordinary finesse and subtlety, making use of quarter tones and other smaller intervals unknown in our system. Not only all Oriental peoples but also the Greeks had a music that was monophonic in texture. 



The first development of monophony in our own music is Gregorian chant. From uncertain beginnings in very early church music, its expressive power became greatly enhanced by generations of church composer's working and reworking a similar material. It is the best example we have in Western music of an unaccompanied melodic line. 



In later times, the use of monophony has usually been incidental. The music seems to pause for a moment, concentrating attention on a single line, thereby producing an effect similar to an open space in a landscape. There are, of course, examples of monophonic writing in sonatas for solo instruments, such as flute or cello, by eighteenth- and twentieth-century composers. Because of hundreds of years of accompanying harmonies, these single-lined works often suggest an implied harmony, even though none is actually sounded. In general, monophony is the clearest of all textures and presents no listening problems. 



The second species - homophonic texture- is only slightly more difficult to hear immediately than monophony. It is also more important for us as listeners, because of its constant use in music. It consists of a principal melodic line and a chordal accompaniment. As long as music was vocally and contrapuntally conceived - that is, until the end of the sixteenth century ― homophonic texture in our sense was unknown. Homophony was the “invention” of the early Italian opera composers who sought a more direct way of imparting dramatic emotion and a clearer setting of the text than was possible through contrapuntal methods. 



What happened is fairly easy to explain. There are two ways of considering a simple succession of chords. Either we may consider it contrapuntally, that is, each separate voice of one chord moving to its next note in the following chord; or we may think of it harmonically, in which case no thought of the separate voices is retained. The point is that the predecessors of the Italian innovators of the seventeenth century never thought of their harmonies except in the first way, as resulting from the combination of separate melodic voices. The revolutionary step was taken when all emphasis was placed upon a single line, and all other elements reduced to the status of mere accompanying chords. 



Here is an early example of homophonic music from Caccini, showing the “newer,” plainer kind of chordal accompaniment. It is necessary to have a fair amount of historical perspective to realize how original this seemed to its first listeners. 

(score illustrated: Caccini “Ard'il mio petto misero”) 




It wasn't very long before these simple chords were broken up, or figurated, as it is called. Nothing is essentially changed by figurating or turning these chords into flowing arpeggios. Once discovered, this device was soon elaborated and has exerted an unusual fascination on composers ever since. The foregoing example in chordal figuration would appear thus: 

(score illustrated: Caccini “Ard'il mio petto misero”) 




The only texture in music that poses real listening problems is the third kind ― polyphonic texture. Music that is polyphonically written makes greater demands on the attention of the listener, because it moves by reason of separate and independent melodic strands, which together form harmonies. The difficulty arises from the fact that our listening habits are formed by music that is harmonically conceived; and polyphonic music demands that we listen in a more linear fashion, disregarding, in a sense, those resultant harmonies. 



No listener can afford to ignore this point, for it is fundamental to a more intelligent approach toward listening. We must always remember that all music written before the year 1600 and much that was written later was music of polyphonic texture, so that when you listen to music of Palestrina or Orlando di Lasso, you must listen differently from the way you listen to Schubert or Chopin. That is true not only from the standpoint of its emotional meaning but also, technically, because the music was conceived in an entirely different way. Polyphonic texture implies a listener who can hear separate strands of melody sung by separate voices, instead of hearing only the sound of all the voices as they happen from moment to moment, vertical fashion. 



No point in this book needs direct musical illustration more than this one. The reader cannot expect to grasp it thoroughly without listening to the same piece of music over and over, making a mental effort to disentangle the interweaving voices. Here we must confine ourselves to a single illustration: Bach's well-known chorale prelude Ich ruff zu Dir, Herr Jesu Crist. 




This is an example of three-voiced polyphony. As a bit of laboratory work, you should listen to this short piece four times, hearing first the part that is always easiest to hear ― the top, or soprano, part. Now listen again, this time for the bass part which moves in a well-poised manner, making use of repeated notes. The alto, or middle voice, should be listened for next. This voice is a kind of figurated melody, but it is distinguishable from the others because of its sixteenth-note (faster) motion. Now hear all three voices together, keeping them well apart in your mind: the soprano with its sustained melody, the alto with the more flowing inner melody, and the bass with its poised line. A supplementary experiment might consist of hearing two voices at a same: soprano and bass, alto and soprano, bass and also, before hearing all there voices together. (For the 

purposes of this investigation. RCA Vctor's Stokowski arrangement is recommended [available only on 78-rpm recording].) 



In carrying out this little experiment, you will be doing a very valuable thing for yourself. Until you can hear all polyphonic music in this way ― in terms of voice against voice, line against line ― you will not be listening properly. 



Polyphonic texture brings with it the question of how many independent voices the human ear can grasp simultaneously. Opinions differ as to that. Even composers have occasionally attacked polyphony, holding it to be an intellectual idea that has been forced upon us ― not a natural one. Nevertheless, I think it can safely be maintained that with a fair amount of listening experience, two- or three-voiced music, can be heard without too much mental strain. Real trouble begins when the polyphony consists of four, five, six, or eight separate and independent voices. But, as a rule, listening polyphonically is aided by the composer because he seldom keeps all the voices going at the same time. Even in four-voiced polyphony, composers so managed that one voice is usually silence while the other three are active. This lightens the burden considerably.  



There is also this to be said for polyphonic music: that repeated hearings keep up your interest better than music of homophonic texture. Even supposing that you do not hear all the separate voices equally well, there is every likelihood that when you return to it again, there will be something different for you to listen to. You can always hear it from a different angle. 



But whether one can hear several voices at a time or not is now merely an academic question, since so much of the world's great music has been written on the principle of polyphonic listening. 



Moreover, contemporary composers have shown a marked learning toward a renewal of interest in polyphonic writing. This was brought on as part of the general reaction against nineteenth-century music, which is basically homophonic in texture. Because the newer composers feel more sympathy with the esthetic ideals of the eighteenth century, they also have taken over the contrapuntal texture of that period ― but with this difference: that their independent part writing results in harmonies that are no longer conventional. This newer kind of contrapuntal writing has sometimes been called linear, or “dissonant,” counterpoint. From the listener's standpoint, there is less chance of losing the sense of the separateness of each voice in modern counterpoint, since there is no mellifluous harmonic web to fall back upon. In recent contrapuntal writing, the voices “stick” out, as it were; for it is their separateness rather than their toughness which is stressed. 



Here is an example of the newer counterpoint from Hindemith, who is one of the best practitioners of modern polyphonic texture. 

(From Das Marienleben (original version) by Paul Hindemith. Used by permission of Associated Music Publications, Inc.) 


(ポール・ヒンデミット作曲 歌曲集「マリアの生涯」(原典版)より。AMP社掲載許諾済) 



Remember, then, that music of polyphonic texture, whether it is by Bach or by Hindemith, is listened to in exactly the same way. 



Not all music, of course, is divided into one of these three different kinds of texture. In any piece of music, the composer may go from one kind to another without transition. You, as listener, must be prepared to follow the species of texture that the composer chooses for any given moment. His choice is, in itself, not without emotional significance. Obviously, a single unaccompanied melodic line produces a greater sense of freedom and direct personal expression than a complicated web of sound. Homophonic music, which depends so much on harmonic background for its effect, generally has more immediate appeal for the listener than polyphonic music. But polyphonic music brings with it a greater intellectual participation, The mere fact that you must listen more activity in order to hear what goes on in itself induces a greater intellectual effort. Composers, as a rule, also put more mental effort into writing polyphonic music. By utilizing all three kinds of texture in a single piece, a greater variety of expressive feeling is obtained. 



The Allegretto movement from Beethoven's Seventh 

Symphony provides as good an example as any of a 

varied texture in one of the masterworks of music. 

(Toscanini's RCA Victor recording is recommended.) 

The beginning is almost entirely chordal, with only a  suggestion of a melodic phrase in the upper voice. In any case, it is definitely homophonic in texture. Then a new and full-sung melody is added in the violas and half the cellos. The effect is only partly contrapuntal, because the accompanying upper and lower voices are little more than a suggestive reminder of the opening chordal structure. But much later on (toward the end of the first side of the record), a purely contrapuntal section is arrived at. The first and second violins begin to weave a polyphonic texture about a fragment taken from the first rather inexpressive theme. If you are able to follow the way in which, gradually, the sixteenth-note motion engendered in this contrapuntal part is superimposed above a fortissimo sounding of the opening chords, you will be coming closer to the actual way in which Beethoven conceived the climax of the movement. Here, as always, a greater awareness in listening will be repaid by closer contact with the composer's thought ― and not only in the technical sense, for a greater sensitivity to musical texture is certain to make the expressive meaning of music more completely felt. 



A fuller understanding of contrapuntal texture and its relation to homophony will come, no doubt, when the reader has had the opportunity to consider the chapters on fudamental forms. Particularly the discussion of fugal forms should make the hearing of polyphonic texture easier. 



Gregorian Chant ― The “Sarum” Liturgy 

Tallis Scholars (Gimell) 


Medieval Polyphony ― Music of Johannes Ciconia 

Ensemble P.A.N. (New Albion) 


Bach ― Mass in B Minor 

Philippe Herreweghe, Collegium Vocale (Virgin Classics) 


Beethoven ― Symphony No. 7  

John Elliot Gardiner (Archiv); Otto Klemperer (Angel-EMI) 



グレゴリオ聖歌よりThe “Sarum” Liturgy 







フィリップ・ヘレヴェッヘ指揮 コレギウム合唱団ヴァージンクラシックス 





Copland 「What to Listen for in Music」を読む 第7回 第7章 音楽の4要素 7.音色

7. The Four Elements of Music 





IV. 音色 


After rhythm, melody, and harmony, comes timbre, or tone color. Just as it is impossible to hear speech without hearing some specific timbre, so music can exist only in terms of some specific color in tone. Timbre in music is analogous to color in painting. It is a fascinating element, not only because of vast resources already explored but also because of illimitable future possibilities. 



Tone color in music is that quality of sound produced by a particular medium of musical tone production. That is a formal definition of something which is perfectly familiar to everyone. Just as most mortals know the difference between white and green, so the recognition of differences in tone color is an innate sense with which most of us are born. It is difficult to imagine a person so “tone-blind” that he cannot tell a bass voice from a soprano or, to put it instrumentally, a tuba from a cello. It is not a question of knowing the names of the voices or instruments but simply of recognizing the difference in their tone quality, if both were heard from behind a screen. 



Instinctively, therefore, everyone has a good start toward getting a fuller understanding of the various aspect of tone color. Don't allow this natural appreciation to limit your taste for certain favorite tone colors to the exclusion of all others. I am thinking of the man who adores the sound of a violin but feels an extreme distaste for any other instrument. The experienced listener should wish rather to broaden his appreciation toinclude every known species of tone color. Moreover, although I have said that every person can make broad distinctions in tone colors, there are also subtle differences that only experience in listening can clear up. Even a music student, in the beginning, has difficulty in distinguishing the tone of a clarinet from that of its blood brother the bass clarinet. 



The intelligent listener should have two main objectives in relation to tone color: (a) to sharpen his awareness of different instruments and their separate tonal characteristics and (b) to gain a better appreciation of the composer's expressive purpose in using any instrument or combination of instruments. 

懐深い熟練音楽ファンを目指す上で、音色に関して2つの大きな目標を設定しよう。(a) 認識する力を磨き上げ、色々な楽器とその個々の音のキャラを、頭に入れる (b) 好みのストライクゾーンを広げ、作曲家が自己表現に使う楽器や楽器同士の組み合わせを、受け入れる 


Before exploring the separate instruments for their individual tone qualities, the attitude of the composer toward his instrumental possibilities should be more fully explained. After all, not every musical theme is born fully swaddled in a tonal dress. Very often the composer finds himself with a theme that can be equally well played on the violin, flute, clarinet, trumpet, or half a dozen other instruments. What, then, makes him decide to choose one rather than another? Only one thing: he chooses the instrument with the tone color that best expresses the meaning behind his idea. In other words, his choice is determined by the expressive value of any specific instrument. That is true in the case not only of single instruments but also of combinations of instruments. The composer who chooses a bassoon rather than an oboe in certain instances may also have to decide whether his musical idea best belongs in a string ensemble or a full orchestra. And the thing that makes him decide in every case will be the expressive meaning that he wishes to convey. 



At times, of course, a composer conceives a theme and its tonal investiture instantaneously. There are outsanding examples of that in music. One that is often quoted is the flute solo at the beginning of L'apres midi d'un faune (Afternoon of a Faun). That same theme, played by any other instrument than the flute, would induce a very different emotional feeling. It is impossible to imagine Debussy's conceiving the theme first and then later deciding to orchestrate it for a flute. The two must have been conceived simultaneously. But that does not settle the matter. 



For even in the case of themes that comes to the composer in their full orchestral panoply, later musical developments in the course of a particular piece may bring on the need for varied orchestral treatments of the same theme. In such a case, the composer is like a playwright deciding on a dress for an actress in a particular scene. The stage shows us an actress seated on a bench in a park. The playwright may wish to have her clothed in such a way that the spectator knows as soon as the curtain rises what mood she is in. It is not just a pretty dress; it's an especially designed dress to give you a particular feeling about this particular character in this particular scene. The same holds true for the composer who “dresses” a musical theme. The entire gamut of tonal color at his disposal is so rich that nothing but a clear conception of the emotional feeling that he wishes to convey can make him decide as between one instrument and another or one group of instruments and another. 



The idea of the inevitable connection of a specific color for a specific music is a comparatively modern one. It seems likely that composers before Handel's time did not have a strong feeling for instrumental color. At any rate, most of them did not even trouble to write down explicitly what instrument was desired for a particular part. Apparently it was a matter of indifference to them whether a four-part score was executed by four woodwind instruments or four strings. Nowadays composers insist on certain instruments for certain ideas, and they have come to write for them in a way so characteristic that a violin part may be unplayable on an oboe even when they are confined to the same register. 



Each of the separate tone colors that the composer is enabled to use only gradually found its way into music. These steps were generally involved. First, the instrument had to be invented. Since instruments, like any other invention, usually begin in some primitive form, the second step was the perfecting of the instrument. Thirdly, players had gradually to achieve technical mastery of the new instrument. That is the story of the piano, the violin, and most other instruments. 



Of course, every instrument, no matter how perfected, has its limitations. There are limitations of range, of dynamics, of execution. Each instrument can play so low and no lower, so high and no higher. A composer may wish at times that the oboe could play just half a  tone lower than it does. But there is no help for it; these limits are prescribed. So are dynamic limitations. A trumpet, though it plays loudly by comparison with a violin, cannot play more loudly than it can. Composers are sometimes painfully aware of that fact, but there is no getting around it. 



Difficulties of execution must also be continually borne in mind by the composer. A melodic idea that seems predestined to be sung by a clarinet will be found to make use of a particular group of notes that present insuperable difficulties to the clarinetist because of certain constructional peculiarities of his instrument. These same notes may be quite easy to perform on oboe or bassoon, but it so happens that on a clarinet they are very difficult. So composers are not completely free agents in making their choice of tone colors. 



Nevertheless they are in a much better position than were their predecessors. Just because instruments are machines, subject to improvement like any other machine, any contemporary composer enjoys advantages that Beethoven did not have as far as mere tone color is concerned. The present-day composer has new and improved materials to work with, besides which he benefits from the experience of his forebears. This is especially true of his use of the orchestra. No wonder that critics who pride themselves on their severity toward contemporary music willingly allow the brilliance and cleverness of the modern composer's handling of theorchestra. 



It is important nowadays for a composer to have a 

feeling for the essential nature of each instrument ― 

how it may best be used to exploit its most personal 

characteristics. I should like to take, for example, a 

perfectly familiar instrument ― the piano ― and show 

what I mean by using an instrument characteristically. 

A treaties on orchestration would do the same for each 

of the instrument.  



The piano is a handy instrument to have around ―  “maid of all work,” someone once called it. It can substitute for a large variety of different instruments including the orchesra itself. But it is also a being in its own right ― it is also a piano ― and as such it has properties and characteristics that belong to itself alone. The composer who exploits the piano for its essential nature will be using it to best advantage. Let us see what that essential nature is. 



A piano may be used in one of two ways: either as a vibrating or as a nonvibrating instrument. That is true because of its construction, which consists of series of strings stretched across a steel frame, with a damper on each string. This damper is vital to the nature of the instrument. It is controlled by the piano pedal. When the pedal is untouched, piano tone lasts only as long as the note is pressed by the pianist's finger. But if the damper is removed (by pushing the pedal down), the tone is sustained. In either case, piano tone declines in intensity from the instant it is struck. The pedal minimizes this weakness somewhat and therefore holds the key to good piano writing. 



Although the piano was invented around 1711 by one Cristofori, it was not until the middle nineteenth century that composers understood how to take advantage of the pedal in a truly characteristic way. Chopin, Schumann, and Liszt were masters of piano writing because they took fully into account its peculiarities as a vibrating instrument. Debussy and Ravel in France, Scriabin in Russia carried on the tradition of Chopin and Liszt, as far as their piano writing is concerned. All of them took full cognizance of the fact that the piano is, on one side of its nature, a collection of sympathetically vibrating strings, producing a sensuous and velvety or brilliant and brittle conglomeration of tones, which are capable of immediate extinction through release of the damper pedal.  



More recent composers have exploited the other side of the piano's essential nature ― the nonvibrating tone. 



The nonvibrating piano is the piano in which little or no use is made of the pedal. Played thus, a hard, dry piano tone is produced which has its own particular virtue. The feeling of the modern composer for harsh, percussive tonal effects found valuable outlet in this new use of the piano, turning it into a kind of large xylophone. Excellent examples of this may be found in the piano works of such moderns as Bela Bartok, Carlos Chavez or Arthur Honegger. This last composer has an attractive last movement in his Concertino for piano and orchestra which fairly crackles with a dry, brittle piano sonority. 



The point I have been making in relation to the piano 

is valid for every other instrument also. There is defi- 

nitely a characteristic way of writing for each one of  

them. The tonal colors that an instrument can produce 

that are uniquely its own are the ones sought after by 

the composer. 






Now we are in a better position to examine single tone colors, such as are found in the usual symphony orchestra. Orchestral instruments are generally taken as a norm, for it is those that we are most apt to find in a composer's score. Later we shall want to know how these single tone colors are mixed to form timbres of various instrumental combination. 



Orchestral instruments are divided into four principal types, or sections. The first section, of course, is that of the strings; the second, of the woodwind; the third is the brass; and the fourth is the percussion. Each of these sections is made up of a related group of instruments of similar type. Every composer, when working, keeps these four divisions very much to the front of his mind. 



The string section, which is the most used of all, is itself made up of four different types of stringed instruments. These are the violin, the viola, the violin-cello (or cell, for short), and the double bass. 



The instrument with which you are most familiar is, of course, the violin. In orchestral writing, violins are divided into two sections ― so-called first and second violins ― but only one type of instrument is involved. There is certainly no need to describe the lyric, singing quality of the violin; it is much too familiar to all of us. But you may be less familiar with certain special effects which help to give the instrument a greater variety of tone color. 



Most important of these is the pizzicato, in which the string is plucked by the finger instead of being played with the bow, thus producing a somewhat guitar-like effect. That, too, is familiar enough to most of us. Less well known is the effect of harmonics, as they are called. These are produced by not pressing the finger on the string in the usual way but lightly touching it instead, thereby creating a flutelike tone of special charm. Double stopping means playing on two or more strings simultaneously, so that a chordal effect is obtained. Finally, there is the veiled and sensitive tone obtainable through use of the mute, a small extra contraption placed on the bridge of the instrument, immediately deadening the sonority. 



All of these varied effects are obtainable not only on the violin but also on all the other stringed instruments. 



The viola is an instrument that is often confused with the violin, because it not only resembles it in outward appearance but is held and played in the same fashion. Closer examination would show that it is a slightly larger and weightier instrument, producing a heavier and graver tone. It cannot sing notes as high as the violin's but compensates for that by being able to sing lower. It plays a contralto role to the violin's soprano. If it lacks the light lyric quality of the higher instrument, it possesses, on the other hand, a gravely expressive sonority ― seemingly full of emotion. 



The cello is a more easily recognized instrument played, as it is, by a seated performer holding it firmly propped between both knees. It plays baritone and bass to the viola's contralto. Its range is one full octave lower than the viola, but it pays for this by not being able to go so high. The quality of cello tone is well known. Composers, however, are conscious of three different registers. In its upper register, the cello can be a very poignant and touching instrument. At the other extreme of its range, the sonority is one of sober profundity. The middle registrer, most frequently used, produces the more familiar cello tone ― a serious, smooth, baritone-like quality of sound, almost always expressive of some degree of feeling. 



The last of the string family, the double bass, is the largest of all and must be played standing. Because it is seen in jazz bands, it has recently taken on an importance more nearly commensurate with its size. When it was first used in orchestra, it played a very menial  role, doing little more than what the cello did (doubling the bass, as it is called) an octave lower. This it does very well. Later composers gave it a part of its own to play, down in the depths of the orchestra. It almost never functions as a solo instrument; and if you have ever heard a double bass try to sing a melody, you will understand why. The proper function of the double bass is to supply a firm foundation for the entire structure above it. 



The second section of orchestral instruments comprises those that come under the heading of woodwinds. Once again they are of four different types, though in this case each type has a closely related instrument which belongs in its immediate group, a kind of first cousin to the main type. The four principal woodwinds are the flute, oboe, clarinet, and bassoon. The flute's “first cousins” are the piccolo and the flute in G; the oboe is related to the English horn, which, as one orchestration book has it, is neither English nor a horn but called that nevertheless. The clarinet is related to the clarinet piccolo and bass clarinet; and the bassoon, to the double bassoon. 



Recently a new instrument has been added, which is partly a woodwind, called the saxophone. You've probably heard of it! At first, it was only very sparingly used in the usual symphonic orchestra. Then suddenly the jazz band began exploiting it, and now it is finding its way back to more extended use in the symphonic field. 



Even if all the instruments of the orchestra are playing their loudest, you can generally hear the piccolo above all of them. In fortissimo, it possesses a thin but shrill and brilliant sonority and can outpipe anyone within listening distance. Composers are careful how they use it. Often it merely doubles, an octave higher, what the flute is doing. But recent composers have shown that, played quietly in its more moderate register, it has a thin singing voice of no little charm. 



The tone color of the flute is fairly well known. It possesses a soft, cool, fluid or feathery timbre. Because of its very defined personality, it is one of the most attractive instruments in the orchestra. It is extremely agile; it can play faster and more notes to the second than any other member of the woodwinds. Most listeners are familiar with its upper register. Much use has been made in recent years of its lowest register which is darkly expressive, in a most individual way. 



The oboe is a nasal-sounding instrument, quite different in tone quality from the flute. (The oboe player holds his instrument perpendicularly, whereas the flutist holds his horizontally.) The oboe is the most expressive of the woodwinds, expressive in a very subjective way. By comparison, the flute seems impersonal. The oboe has a certain pastoral quality which is often put to good use by composers. More than any other woodwind the oboe must be well played if its limited tonal scope is to be sufficiently varied. 



The English horn is a kind of baritone oboe, which is often, by inexperienced listeners, confused in tone color with the oboe. It possesses a plaintive quality all its own, however, which was fully exploited by Wagner in the introduction to the third act of Tristan and Isolde. 



The clarinet has a smooth, open, almost hollow sound. It is a cooler, more even-sounding instrument than the oboe, being also more brilliant. Much closer to the flute than to the oboe in quality, it has almost as great an agility as the former, singing with an equal grace melodies of all kinds. In its lowest octave it possesses a unique tone color of a deeply haunting effect. Its dynamic range is more remarkable than that of any other woodwind, extending from a mere whisper to the most brilliant fortissimo. 



The bass clarinet hardly differs from the clarinet itself, except that its range is one octave lower. In its bottom register, it has a ghostlike quality which is not easily forgotten. 



The bassoon is one of the most versatile of instruments. It is able to do a number of different things. In its upper register, it has a plaintive sound which is very special. Stravinsky made excellent use of that timbre at the very beginning of Le Sacre du Printemps (Rite of Spring). On the other hand, the bassoon produces a dry, humorous staccato in the lower register, of an almost puckish effect. And it is always being called upon to make dullish bass parts more resonant by the sheer weight of its tone. A handy instrument it certainly is. 



The double bassoon bears the same relationship to it as the double bass does to the cello. Ravel used it to characterize the beast in his Beauty and the Beast from the Mother Goose Suite. Mainly it helps to supply a bass voice to the orchestra where it is badly needed, down in its very depths. 



The brass section, like the others, boasts four principal types of instruments. These are the horn (or French horn, to be exact), the trumpet, the trombone, and the tuba. (The cornet is too much like the trumpet to need secial mention.) 



The French horn is an instrument with a lovely round tone ― a soft, satisfying, almost liquid tone. Played loud, it takes on a majestic, brassy quality which is the complete opposite of its softer tone. If there exists a more noble sound than eight horns singing a melody fortissimo in unison, I have never heard it. There is one other most effective sonority to be obtained from the horn by stopping the tone either with a mute or with the hand placed in the bell of the instrument. A choked, rasping sound is produced when the tone is forced. The same procedure, when unforced, gives an unearthly tone which seems to emanate with magical effect from distant places.  



The trumpet is that brilliant, sharp, commanding instrument with which everyone is familiar. It is the mainstay of all composers at climactic moments. But it also possesses a beautiful tone when played softly. Like the horn it has its special mutes, which produce a snarling, strident sonority which is indispensable in dramatic moments and a soft, dulcet, flutelike voice when played piano. Recently, jazz-band trumpetists have made use of a large assortment of mutes, each producing a quite different sonority. Eventually some of these are almost certain to be introduced into the symphony orchestra. 



The tone of the trombone is allied in quality to that of the French horn. It also possesses a noble and majestic sound, one that is even larger and rounder than the horn's tone. But it also partly belongs with the trumpet, because of its brilliance of timbre in fortissimo. Moments of grandeur and solemnity are often due to a judicious use of the trombone section of the orchestra. 



The tuba is one of the orchestra's more spectacular-looking instruments, since it fills the arms of the player holding it. It isn't easily manageable. To play it at all one must possess good teeth and plenty of reserve wind. It is a heavier, more dignified, harder-to-move kind of trombone. It is seldom used melodically, though in recent years composers have entrusted occasional themes to its bearlike mercies, with varying results. (Ravel's tuba solo in his orchestral version of Moussogsky's Pictures at an Exhibition is a particularly happy example.) For the most part, however, its function is to emphasize the bass, and, as such, it does valuable service. 



In the percussion group, it is the drum family that is most imposing. These are all rhythm- and noise-makers of various sizes and assortments, from the little tom-tom to the big bass drum. The only drum with a definite pitch is the well-known kettledrum, usually found in groups of two or three. Played with two sticks, its dynamic range goes all the way from a shadowy, far-off rumble to an overpowering succession of thudlike beats. Other noisemakers, though not of the drum variety, are the cymbals; the gong, or tam-tam; the woodcock; the triangle: the slapstick; and many more. 



Other percussion-group instruments provide color rather than noise or rhythm. These are likely to be of definite pitch, such as the celesta and glockenspiel, the xylophone, the vibraphone, the tubular bells, and others. The first two produce tiny, bell-like tones which are a great asset to the colorist in music. The xylophone is possibly the most familiar of this group, and the vibraphone the most recent addition. Well-known instruments like the harp, guitar, and mandolin are also sometimes grouped with the percussion instruments because of their plucked-string timbre. In recent years, the piano has been used as an integral part of the orchestra. 



There are, of course, a number of nonorchestral instruments, such as the organ, the harmonium, the accordion - not to mention the human voice - which we can do little more than list. Needless to add, all these are sometimes used with orchestra.  





Mixing these separate instruments in different combinations is one of the composer's more pleasant occupations. Though there are theoretically a very large number of possible combinations, composers usually confine themselves to groups of instruments that usage has made familiar. These may be groupings of instruments belonging to the same family, such as the string quartet, or those of different families, like flute, cello, and harp. It isn't possible to do more than mention a few customary combinations: trio, made up of violin, cello, and piano; the woodwind quintet, a combination of flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and horn; the clarinet quintet (with strings); the flute, clarinet, and bassoon trio. In recent years, composers have done a considerable amount of experimenting in less usual combinations with varied results. One of the most original and successful is the accompanying orchestra of Stravinsky's ballet Le Noces, comprised of four pianos and 

thirteen percussion instruments. 



The most usual of all chamber-music combinations is that of the string quartet, composed of two violins, viola, and cello. If a composer is subjectively inclined, there is no better medium for him than the string quartet. Its very timbre creates a sense of intimacy and personal feeling which finds its best frame in a room where contact with the sonority of the instruments is a close one. The limits of the medium must never be lost sight of; composers are often guilty of trying to make the string quartet sound like a small orchestra. Within its own frame it is an admirably polyphonic medium, by which I mean that it exists in terms of the separate voices of the four instruments. In listening to the string quartet, you must be prepared to listen contrapuntally. What that means will become clearer later on when the chapter on musical texture is reached. 



The symphony orchestra is, without doubt, the most interesting combination of instruments composers have yet evolved. It is equally fascinating from the listener's standpoint, for it contains within itself all instrumental combinations, of an endless variety. 



In listening to the orchestra, it is wise to keep well in mind the four principal sections and their relative importance. Don't become hypnotized by the antics of the kettledrum player, no matter how absorbing they may be. Don't concentrate on the string section alone, just because they are seated up front nearest you. Try to free yourself of bad orchestral listening habits. The main thing you can do in listening to the orchestra, aside from enjoying the sheer beauty of the sound itself, is to extricate the principal melodic material from its surrounding and supporting elements. The melodic line generally passes from one section to another or from one instrument to another, and you must always be mentally alert if you expect to be able to follow its peregrinations. The composer helps by careful balancing of his instrumental sonorities; the conductor helps by realizing those balances, adjusting individual conditions to the composer's intention. But none can be of any help if you are not prepared to disengage the melodic material from its accompanying web of sound.  



The conductor, if rightly looked at, may be of some help in this. He generally will be found giving his primary attention to the instruments who have the main melody. If you watch what he is doing, you will be able to tell, without previous knowledge of a piece ,where the center of your interest should be. It goes without saying that a good conductor will confine himself to necessary gesture; otherwise he can be most distracting. 



A chapter on tone color ,written in America, would be incomplete without some mention of the jazz band, our own original contribution to new orchestral timbres. The jazz band is a real creation in novel tonal effects, whether you like them or not. It is the absence of strings and the resultant dependence on brass and wind as melody instruments that makes the modern dance band sound so different from a Viennese waltz orchestra. If you listen to a jazz band closely, you will discover that certain instruments provide the rhythmic background (piano, banjo, bass, and percussion), others the harmonic texture, with, as a rule, one solo instrument playing the melody. Trumpet, clarinet, saxophone, and trombone are used interchangeably as harmonic or melodic instruments. The real fun begins when the melody is counterpointed by one or more susidiary ones, making for an intricacy of melodic and rhythmic elements that only the closest listening can unravel. There is no reason why you should not use the jazz band as a way of practicing how mentally to disconnect separate musical elements. When the band is at its best, it will set you problems aplenty. 



Britten - A young Person's Guide to the Orchestra 

Leonard Bernstein, New York Philharmonic (Sony) 


Mozart - Sinfonia Concertante for Solo Winds and Orchestra; Sinfonia Concertante for Violin, Viola and Orchestra 

Orpheus Chamber Orchestra (Deutsche Grammophon) 



Sir Georg Solti, Chicago Symphony (London) 




レナード・バーンスタイン指揮 ニューヨーク・フィルハーモニックソニー 







サー・ゲオルグショルティ指揮 シカゴ交響楽団(ロンドン) 

Copland 「What to Listen for in Music」を読む 第6回 第6章 音楽の4要素 6.ハーモニー

6. The Four Elements of Music 




III. ハーモニー 


By comparison with rhythm and melody, harmony is the most sophisticated of the three musical elements. We are so accustomed to thinking of music in terms of harmonic music that we are likely to forget how recent an innovation it is, by comparison with the other elements. Rhythm and melody came naturally to man, but harmony gradually evolved from what was partly an intellectual conception ― no doubt one of the most original conceptions of the human mind.  



Harmony, in the sense that we think of it, was quite unknown in music until about the ninth century. Up until that time, all music of which we have any record consisited of a single melodic line. Among Oriental peoples of today, this is still true, although their single melodies are often combined with complex percussion rhythms. The anonymous composers who first began experimenting with harmonic effects were destined to change all music that came after them, at least among Occidental nations. No wonder we look upon the development of the harmonic sense as one of the most remarkable phenomena of musical history. 




The birth of harmony is generally placed in the ninth century, because it is first mentioned in treatises of that period. As might be expected, the early forms of harmony sound crudely primitive to our ears. There are three principal kinds of early harmonic writing. The earliest form was called “organum.” It is very easy to understand, for whenever we “harmonize” in intervals of thirds or sixths above or below a melody, we produce a kind of organum. The idea in ancient organum was the same, except that the harmonizing was done in intervals of the fourth below or fifth above, thirds and sixths being proscribed. So that organum is simply a single melody, plus that same melody repeated simultaneously at the fourth or fifth interval below or above, respectively. As a method of harmonization it makes a fairly primitive beginning, particularly if you imagine all music being treated in only that way. Here follows an illustration of organum: (score illustrated, TE DEUM) 



The second of these early forms was not developed until another two or three hundred years had passed. It was called “descant” and is attributed to the ingenuity of French composers. In descant, there was no longer merely a single melody moving in parallel motion with itself but two independent melodies, moving in opposite directions. At that time, one of the basic principles of good voice leading was uncovered: When the upper voice moves downward, the lower voice moves upward; and vice versa. This innovation was doubly ingenious, for no intervals between voices, other than the originally permitted fifths, fourths, and octaves of organum, were used. In other words, they kept the rules as to intervals but applied them in a better way. (For the benefit of those who do not know what an “interval” is, the term indicates the distance between two notes. Thus, from the note C to G there are five tones, C-D-E-F-G. C to G is therefore referred to as an interval of the fifth.) Here is an example of descant: 



The last form of earliest counterpoint was called “faux-bourdon” (false bass). This introduced the hitherto forbidden intervals of the third and sixth, which were to form the basis of all later harmonic developments. As long as harmonic intervals were confined to fourths and fifths, the effect remained bare and crudesounding. That is why the introduction of the more mellifluous thirds and sixths added immeasurably to harmonic resource. Credit for this step is given the English, who are said to have “harmonized in thirds” in their popular singing long before faux-bourdon made its more formal entry into art music. Here is an example of a melody harmonized according to faux-bourdon: 

(score illustrated) 



It is not my purpose to plot out a historical survey of harmonic development but only to indicate the tentative beginnings of harmony and to stress its continually evolving nature. Without understanding harmony as a gradual growth and change from primitive beginnings, the reader cannot expect to grasp the implications of harmonic innovation in the twentieth century. 



The sounding together of separate tones produces chords. Harmony, considered as a science, is the study of these chords and their relationship among one another. It takes more than a year for the underlying principles of harmonic science. Needless to say, the lay listener can expect to get only the merest smattering of information from a short chapter of this kind. Still, without cluttering the reader's mind with details, some attempt must be made to relate the harmonic element to the rest of music. To do that, the reader should have some conception, no matter how slight, of how chords are built and what their interrelations are; of the meaning of tonality and modulation; of the importance of the basic harmonic skeleton in the structure of the whole: of the relative significance of consonance and dissonance; and, finally, of the comparatively recent breakdown of the entire harmonic system as it was known in the nineteenth century and some still more recent attempts at reintegration. 








Harmonic theory is based on the assumption that all chords are built from the lowest note upward in a series of intervals of a third. For example, take the note A as the bottom tone, or root, of a chord to be constructed. We are able, by building series of thirds on this root, to get the chord A-C-E-G-B-D-F. If we continued, we should simply be repeating notes that are already included in the chord. If, instead of taking the note A, we take the numeral 1 to symbolize any root, we get the following picture of any series of thirds: 1-3-5-7-9-11-13. 



Theoretically, this seven-toned chord 1-3-5-7-9-11-13 is possible, but practically most of the music we know is based on only 1-3-5, which is the ordinary three-toned chord known as the triad. (A full chord is always made up of three tones or more; two-toned “chords” are too ambiguous to be counted as anything more than intervals.) Besides the triad, the other chords are named as follows: 

seventh chord:1-3-5-7 

ninth chord:1-3-5-7-9 

eleventh chord:1-3-5-7-9-11 

thirteenth chord:1-3-5-7-9-11-13 







These four chords only gradually fought their way into the musical sun, and, each time, a minor revolution had to take place before they were admitted. Since it is the triad 1-3-5 that accounts for most of familiar music, let us concentrate attention on that. If you wish to know how a triad sounds, sing “do-mi-sol.” Now sing “do-mi-sol-do,” with the second “do” an octave higher than the first one. That is still a triad, though there are four tones in the chord. In other words, nothing is changed, as far as theory goes, by doubling any tone in any chord any number of times. As a matter of fact, most of our harmonic writing is done in four-part harmony, with one tone doubled. 



Furthermore, chords need not remain in their root position, that is, with tone 1 as the bottom note of the chord. For example, 1-3-5 might be inverted so as to have 3 or 5 as the bass note of the triad. In that case, the chord would look like this: 

(original: chord illustrated) 












The same is true of the other chords mentioned above. The reader can already appreciate that with the possibilities of doublings and inversions, not to mention all kinds of alterations too complicated to go into here, the basic chords, though few in number, are open to wide possibilities of variation. 



So far, we have been considering chords in the ab- 

stract. Now let us pin them down ― always confining  

ourselves to the triad for simplicity's sake ― to the 

seven tones of one specific scale. By taking the scale, for 

instance, of C major and building a 1-3-5 chord on 

each of the degrees of the scale, we get our first series of 

chords, which are related both to each other and to 

similar chords in other tonalities than that of C major. 

This is the moment to review what was said about scale 

in the previous chapter. For anything that was stated as  

true about the seven tones of the diatonic scale will hold true of chords constructed on those seven tones. In other words, it is the root of the chord that is the determining factor. Chords built on the tonic, dominant, and subdominant degrees bear the same relative attraction to one another as the tonic, dominant, and subdominant tones taken alone. In the same way, it is sufficient to find the tonic chord in order to determine the tonality of a series of chords; and chords, like single tones, are said to modulate when they move out of one key into another. 



Insomuch as they are chords and not single tones, they do have one further connection. If we construct a triad on the first three degrees of the scale, we get:  

(original: chord illustrated) 

(in C-major scale tones) 











This shows that the first and third chords have tones 3 and 5 in common. This factor, that chords of the same or different tonalities possess common tones, is one reason for the strong feeling we have of the relationship of chords among themselves. 



This brief summary of the construction of chords and their interrelationships must suffice. Now let us see how these harmonic factor are applied. 



Just as a skyscraper has a steel frame below the outer covering of stone and brick, so every well-made piece of music has a solid framework underlying the outer appearance of the musical materials. To extract and analyze that implied harmonic skeleton is the work of a technician, but the sensitive listener will undoubtedly know when there is something harmonically lacking, even though he may not be able to give the reason for it. The reader, perhaps, will be interested to see how, in one tiny example, the harmonic frame of a few bars of music is abstracted. Take, for instance, the first four measures of Ach! du liever Augstin. 

(score illustrated) 




There are, in these four measures, only two underlying chords, I and V, the tonic and dominant. Of course, the basic chords are not so plainly there as they would be in a harmony exercise. Music would be dull indeed if composers were not able to disguise, vary, and adorn the bare harmonic frame. 



You shoud realize, however, that composers apply this same principle not for four measures only but for four movements of a symphony. That may give you some inkling of the problem involved. In the early days, the harmonic progressions of a piece were fairly well established in advance, by virtue of common practice. But long after the conventions were abandoned, the principle was retained, for whatever the harmonic style of the music may be, the underlying chordal structure must have its own logic. Without it, a work is likely to lack a sense of movement. A well-knit harmonic framework will be neither too static nor over elaborate; it provides a steady foundation which is always firmly there no matter what the decorative complexities may be. 



The harmonic principles outlined above are, of course, a greatly simplified version of harmonic facts as they existed up to the end of the last century. The breakup of the old system, which occurred around 1900, was no sudden decision on the part of certain revolutionaries in music. The entire history of harmonic development shows us a continually changing picture; very slowly, but inevitably, our ears are enabled to assimilate chords of greater complexity and modulations to farther off keys. Almost every epoch has its harmonic pioneers: Claudio Monteverdi and Gesualdo in the seventeenth century introduced chords that shocked their contemporaries in much the same way that Moussorgsky and Wagner shocked theirs. Still, they all had this in common: Their new chords and modulations were arrived at through a broader conception of the same harmonic theory. The reason our own period has been so remarkable in harmonic experimentation is that the entire former theory of harmony was thrown overboard, for a time at least. It was no longer a question of broadening an old system but of creating something entirely new. 



The line of demarcation comes soon after Wagner. Debussy, Schoenberg, and Stravinsky were the main pathfinders in this uncharted harmonic territory. Wagner had begun the destruction of the older harmonic language because of his chromaticism. I have already explained that our system, as practiced without question up to the end of the nineteenth century, admitted the hegemony of one main tonic note in the scale and, therefore, one main tonality in a piece of music. Modulation to other tonalities were looked upon as only temporary. Inevitably, a return to the tonic key was implied. Since there are twelve different diatonic scales, modulation may be represented by the face of a clock, with XII symbolizing the tonic key. Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century composers did not venture far in their modulatory schemes. They would go from XII to I to XI and back to XII. Later composers were bolder, but the returns to XII was still imperative. Wagner, however, moved about from one tonality to another to such an extent that the feeling of a central key or tonality began to lost. He modulated daringly from XII to VI to IX to III, etc, and one could not be sure when, if ever, the return to the central tonality would be made. 



Schoenberg drew the logical conclusions of this har- 

monic ambiguity, abandoning the principle of tonality 

altogether. His type of harmony is generally referred to 

as “atonality,” to distinguish it from music of tonality. 

(Schoenberg did not approve of the term “atonality.” The word continues to be used nonetheless, more out of convenience than because of its exactitude.)  

What was left was the series of twelve “equal” semi- 

tones of the chromatic scale. Schoenberg himself found 

this remainder somewhat anarchical in later years and 

began the construction of a new system for handling 

these twelve equal semitones which he named the  

twelve-tone system. I shall do no more than mention it, 

for an adequate explanation would take us too far 




Debussy, though less radical harmonically than Schoenberg, preceded him in starting the breakdown of the old system. Debussy, one of the most instinctive musicians who ever lived, was the first composer of our time who dared to make his ear the sole judge of what was good harmonically. With Debussy, analysts found chords that could no longer be explained according to the old harmony. If one had asked Debussy why he used such chords, I am sure he would have given the only possible answer. “I like it that way!” It is as if one composer finally had confidence in his ear. I exaggerate a little, for, after all, composers have never had to wait for theoreticians to tell them what or what not to do. On the contrary, it has always been the other way about -theoreticians have explained the logic of the composer's thought after he has instinctively put it down. 



At any rate, what Debussy accomplished was the sweeping aside of all previously held theories of harmonic science. His work inaugurated a period of complete harmonic freedom, which has been a stumbling block for innumerable listeners ever since. They complain that this new music is full of “dissonances” and that all past musical history proves that there must always be a sensible mixture of consonance and dissonance. 



This question of consonance and dissonance deserves a paragraph to itself, if we are to remove the stumbling block. The whole problem, as has been pointed out many times, is a purely relative one. To say that a consonance is a pleasant-sounding chord, and a dissonance unpleasant, is making the case much too simple. For a chord is more or less dissonant to you according to the period in which you live, according to your listening experience, and according to whether the chord is played fortissimo in the brass instruments or caressed pianissimo in the strings. So that a dissonance is only relative - relative to you, your epoch, and the place that it holds in the piece as a whole. This does not deny the existence of dissonance, as some commentators seem to do, but merely that the proper mixture of consonance and dissonance is a matter to be left to the composer's discretion. If all new music sounds continually and unrelievedly dissonant to you, then it is a safe guess that your listening experience is insufficient as regards music of your own time - which is not so strange in the majority of cases, when we realize the small proportion of new music heard by the average listener compared with what he hears of the music of former times. 



One other important harmonic innovation was introduced before World War I. At first, it was confused with atonality because of its similarly revolutionary sound. But actually, it was the exact opposite of atonality, in that it reaffirmed the principle of tonality and reaffirmed it doubly. That is to say, not content with one tonality, it introduced the idea of sounding two or more separate tonalities simultaneously. This process, which Darius Milhaud has used most effectively at times, became known as “polytonality.” A clear example of it is to be found in Corcovado, one of Milhaud's pieces on Brazilian themes, Saudades do Brazil, in which the right hand plays in the key of D major while the left hand essays G major. Here, again, if you are inclined to be disturbed by the polytonalities of new music, one can only advise you to listen until they become as familiar to you as the music of Schumann or Chopin. If you do that, you may not find the music any the more to your liking (for, needless to add, not all polytonal music is good  

music), but it will no longer be the “dissonances” produced by the clash of harmonies that disturb you.  



The harmonic revolution of the first half of the twentieth century is now definitely at an end. Polytonality and atonality have both become a normal part of current musical usage. One unexpected development should be noted: the recrudescence of interest, at the end of World War II, in the twelve-tone method of Arnold Schoenberg, especially in countries like Italy, France, and Switzerland, where there had previously been little or no sign of influence. Composers like the Italian Luigi Dallapiccola or the Swiss Frank Martin have not hesitated to extract tonal implications fromthe dodecaphonic (twelve-tone) method, thereby removing some of its panchromatic sting. Younger composers, adherents of Schoenberg's more radical pupil Anton Webern, have persisted in writing a music more rigorously athematic and atonal than that of the Viennese master himself. 




Despite harmonic innovations, a large part of contemporary music remains basically diatonic and tonal. But it is no longer the diatonic, tonal harmony of the period before the turn of the century. Like most revolutions, this one has left its mark on our harmonic language. As a result, music written nowadays may often be said to be tonally centered even though it may have no tonality analyzable in the old sense. This tendency toward harmonic conservatism is certain to help bridge the gap between the contemporary composer and his audience. With the familiarity bred of phonograph disk, radio, and film track the daring harmonies of the day before yesterday are gradually and painlessly being assimilated into the musical language of our time. 




Monteverdi - “Hor che'l ciel e la terra” 

John Eliot Gardiner (Philips) 


Schoenberg - Five Pieces for Orchestra 

Pierre Boulez, BBC Symphony (Sony) 






ピエール・ブーレーズ指揮 BBC交響楽団ソニー