What Makes a Good Opera?

What makes a good opera? Most of my non-classical friends would dispute that there's any such thing, but we'll let that pass.

The question arose yesterday when I revisited a work I hadn't listened to in a while: Franz Joseph Haydn's opera Il Mondo della Luna. Most people don't think of Haydn as an opera composer, but he wrote thirteen of them -- most for private performance at the Esterhazy estate.



While most people aren't even aware of Haydn's operatic output, those that are tend to dismiss it. The general opinion is that, compared to those of his younger contemporary and friend, Mozart, Haydn's works simply don't measure up. Some might say they're not even on par with those of Gluck, who was writing similar type works for larger audiences in Vienna (some of which have entered the repertoire).



I thought about all of that as I listened to Il mondo della luna. The first time I played the recording, I dutifully followed along with the libretto, and I can see the validity of the criticism. Like most of Haydn's operas, Il mondo della luna is basically a series of set pieces. There's an aria, then a duo, then a chorus, then another aria, etc. What's missing is any kind of dramatic impetus that drives the story along. That lack of drama keeps the opera from feeling organic.

In an Mozart opera (or others considered first-rate), there's a dramatic reason why the heroine sings an aria here, and then a chorus responds there. The audience is pulled along, carried by not only the beauty of the music, but the motion of the story as it unfolds.

So am I wasting my time listening to Haydn's operas? Hardly. While it may not work as a dramatic piece, it's still music by Haydn. So it's witty, charming, sophisticated, and well-crafted (as I believe these YouTube videos illustrate).

Yesterday I had to spend a lot of time concentrating on a big project, and Il mondo della luna made a nice accompaniment to my work. I don't speak Italian, so I couldn't hear how absurd/lame the libretto actually was. All I heard was one lovely melody after another.

And really, is that so bad?

Whose PI? Another classical copyright issue

My post this time was going to be about Michael John Blake. He recently posted a video on YouTube entitled "The Sound of Pi." In it he took the first 32 numbers of Pi, and using C for 1, D for 2, etc. created a melody using just the white keys of the piano. He then decided on a tempo (also based on Pi), and  recorded the melody on piano. Then did it three more times with three different keyboard instruments, and mixed them together creating an interesting a quirky canon.

My original post was going to have the video, and then talk about other ways composers have used numbers and mathematical equations to lay out music -- and not just in the late 20th/early 21st Century, either.

Instead, this post will harken back to one I wrote two weeks ago about the unintentional consequences of draconian copyright law. If you look at Michael Blake's YouTube channel, you'll find this immensely popular video has been deleted. Why? Because someone claimed copyright infringement.

YouTube lives under a sword of Damacles. In an unspoken agreement, the major media companies have agreed not to sue YouTube for allowing unauthorized copies of their content to be posted, if YouTube will immediately and without question yank any video that someone claims violates their copyright.

Because of the sheer volume of videos uploaded every day, YouTube could not afford to hire enough people to review every single clip that goes up. So if anyone complains, the assumption is guilty until proven innocent.

So why was Blake's work yanked? In 1992 composer and mathematician Lars Erickson composed a Pi symphony. This work is also based on the first 32 numbers of Pi.  Details are sketchy, but apparently Erickson claimed infringement and the video disappeared.

Is it a case of infringement? Hard to say. While the basic resource is identical, the methodologies are different. As near as I can determine, Erickson uses Pi to determine more than just the order of notes. Listening to excerpts of the Symphony side by side with Blake's Canon (that's not the name, but that's what it is), there's not only a significant difference in orchestration (which is a superficial difference), but also in tonal language, rhythms, compositional style, and many other factors.

To my ears, the two works in no way sound the same. So the question -- in my opinion -- boils down to this: is the concept of assigning notes to the first 32 digits of Pi something that is unique and copyrightable? Can a 12-tone row be copyrighted (not the finished composition, mind you, just the row)?

The major and minor scales have been around for centuries, as have the modes and other scales from other cultures. But what about the microtonal scales of Harry Partch? Are they copyrightable? Was Partch the only one who could legally use the building blocks of his music?

No one's gone to court on this one -- yet. Below are some links so you can decide for yourself. The first is an excerpt from Erickson's work. The second is the Blake video. The original has been deleted, but someone else has reposted it. At some point, I'm sure it will be removed -- so enjoy it while you can!

Review: Gavin Bryars refines his style with Piano Concerto

I've always liked Gavin Bryars' music, although I admit I was always more familiar with his earlier works, such as "Jesus' Blood Ain't Failed Me Yet," and "The Sinking of the Titanic." The latter was almost a study in sound landscapes and non-tonal sonorities, crafted to deliver a visceral emotional wallop. Bryars has continued growing as a composer, delving even further into the nature of sound, while refining his musical language.

All of that's beautifully illustrated in this new recording from Naxos. Pianist Ralph van Raat presents three of Bryars' recent compositions for the instrument, two of which are dedicated to van Raat. All three works share certain similarities. There are these long flowing arpeggios played with the damper pedal down. This causes these layered chords to overlap each other, creating an additional voice as sonorities fade in and out.

At first listen, I was reminded briefly of Philip Glass' music -- but only briefly. While flowing diatonic chords are prominent, that's where the similarity ends. Bryar isn't concerned with gradual changes over time. He's more interested in what's happening at the moment. His chords change quickly, although each chord often has several notes in common with the one before it. The result is music that organically flows from point to point, much like a vine.

While the two solo piano works on the album, "After Handel's Vesper" and "Ramble on Cortona" are compelling listening, the piano concerto is a real masterwork.

Subtitled "The Solway Canal" it takes the Edwin Morgan poem as its starting point and basis for organization. Like Smetana's "Ma Vlast," the piano concerto takes the listener down the canal, presenting scenes along the banks that drift past. The solo piano part isn't especially virtuostic, but it is the glue that holds the work together. The piano plays almost constantly, with the orchestra and chorus organized around its shimmering chordal cascades.

I would be hard-pressed to precisely describe the structure of the work, but I don't think it matters. "The Solway Canal" pulled me along from the first note to the final chord, and everything just seemed to fall into place.

If you think modern music has to sound like a toolbox descending a staircase, give Bryar a listen. You won't hear pretty little melodies, but you will hear compelling, accessible music that draws you in emotionally. And really, isn't that the point?

Highly recommended.