Cambridge companion to Michael Tippett 9781107021976, 1107021979

Table of contents :
Chronology of Tippett's life and career Jonathan Rees
Part I. Contexts and Concepts: 1. Tippett and twentieth-century polarities Arnold Whittall
2. Tippett and the English traditions Christopher Mark
3. 'Things that chiefly interest ME': Tippett and early music Suzanne Cole
4. Tippett and politics: the 1930s and beyond Joanna Bullivant
5. 'Coming out to oneself': encodings of homosexual identity from the first string quartet to The Heart's Assurance Suzanne Robinson
6. Between image and imagination: Tippett's creative process Thomas Schuttenhelm
Part II. Works and Genres: 7. Tippett's 'great divide': before and after King Priam Iain Stannard
8. 'Symphonic music in our modern times': Tippett and the symphony Edward Venn
9. Tippett and the concerto: from double to triple Kenneth Gloag
10. The four piano sonatas: past and present tensions Alastair Borthwick
11. Formal archetypes, revered masters and singing nightingales: Tippett's string quartets Nicholas Jones
12. Tippett's operatic world: from The Midsummer Marriage to New Year Kenneth Gloag
13. Words and music Edward Venn
Chronological list of works Jonathan Rees.

Citation preview

The Cambridge Companion to Michael Tippett Sir Michael Tippett is widely considered to be one of the most individual composers of the twentieth century, and his music continues to be performed to critical acclaim throughout the world. Written by a team of international scholars, this Companion provides a wide-ranging and accessible study of Tippett and his works. It discusses the contexts and concepts of modernism, tradition, politics, sexuality and creativity that shaped Tippett’s music and ideas, engaging with archive materials, relevant literature and models of interpretation. Chapters explore the genres in which Tippett composed, including opera, symphony, string quartet, concerto and piano sonata, to shed new light on his major works and draw attention to those that have not yet received the attention they deserve. Directing knowledge and expertise towards a wide readership, this book will enrich the listening experience and broaden understanding of the music of this endlessly fascinating and challenging composer. KENNETH GLOAG

is Reader in Musicology at Cardiff University.

N I C H O L A S J O N E S is Co-ordinating Lecturer for Humanities at the Centre for Lifelong Learning, Cardiff University.

The Cambridge Companion to

MICHAEL TIPPETT ............................

EDITED BY

Kenneth Gloag and Nicholas Jones

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Mexico City Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107021976 © Cambridge University Press 2013 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2013 Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by the MPG Books Group A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data The Cambridge companion to Michael Tippett / edited by Kenneth Gloag, Nicholas Jones. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-107-02197-6 1. Tippett, Michael, 1905–1998 – Criticism and interpretation. I. Gloag, Kenneth. II. Jones, Nicholas. ML410.T467C36 2013 780.92–dc23 [B] 2012025549 ISBN 978-1-107-02197-6 Hardback ISBN 978-1-107-60613-5 Paperback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

In memory of Ian Kemp (1931–2011)

Contents

List of illustrations [page ix] List of tables [x] Notes on contributors [xi] Preface [xv] Acknowledgements [xvii] References to Tippett’s scores and note on music examples [xx] Chronology of Tippett’s life and career Jonathan Rees [xxi]

1 2 3 4 5

6

7 8

9 10 [vii]

Part I  Contexts and concepts [1] Tippett and twentieth-century polarities Arnold Whittall [3] Tippett and the English traditions Christopher Mark [25] ‘Things that chiefly interest ME’: Tippett and early music Suzanne Cole [48] Tippett and politics: the 1930s and beyond Joanna Bullivant [68] ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity from the First String Quartet to The Heart’s Assurance Suzanne Robinson [86] Between image and imagination: Tippett’s creative process Thomas Schuttenhelm [103] Part II  Works and genres [119] Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam Iain Stannard [121] ‘Symphonic music in our modern times’: Tippett and the symphony Edward Venn [144] Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple Kenneth Gloag [168] The four piano sonatas: past and present tensions Alastair Borthwick [190]

viii Contents

11 Formal archetypes, revered masters and singing nightingales: Tippett’s string quartets Nicholas Jones [206] 12 Tippett’s operatic world: from The Midsummer Marriage to New Year Kenneth Gloag [229] 13 Words and music Edward Venn [264] Chronological list of works Jonathan Rees [286] Select bibliography [290] Index [295]

Illustrations

Fig. 3.1 Morley College concert programme, 18 November 1944. Reproduced by permission of Lambeth Archives Department and Morley College. [page 57] Fig. 3.2 Morley College concert programme, 17 December 1944. Reproduced by permission of Lambeth Archives Department and Morley College. [58]

[ix]

Tables

2.1 Symphony No. 2, second movement, formal outline [page 42] 3.1 BBC radio talks by Michael Tippett on early music [55] 3.2 Popular madrigals and anthems performed at Morley College concerts under Tippett [56] 4.1 Political (?) works of the 1930s [72] 6.1 The five phases and conditions of Tippett’s creative cycle [104] 8.1 Formal distribution of material in Tippett’s Symphony No. 4 [160] 9.1 Concerto for Orchestra, first movement, formal outline (opening to Fig. 38) [181] 10.1 Stylistic differences in Tippett’s music, pre- and post-King Priam [196] 11.1 String Quartet No. 1, first movement, sonata-form design [211] 11.2 String Quartet No. 2, first movement, sonata-form design [214] 11.3 String Quartet No. 4, section No. 2, overall structure [221] 12.1 The Knot Garden, Act 1, Scene 13, Figs. 180–203:4, overall structure [256]

[x]

Contributors

Alastair Borthwick is Professor of Music and Head of the Department of Drama and Music at the University of Hull. His published work focuses on British music since 1900, music theory and analysis (including semiotic and cognitive approaches) and the philosophy of music (including the limitations of logic in music, intentionality and transcendence). As a composer he has been commissioned to write choral, chamber and orchestral music that has been performed in concerts and festivals in the UK and internationally. Joanna Bullivant is Leverhulme Early Career Fellow in Music at the University of Nottingham, having previously held the post of Junior Research Fellow and Lecturer in Music at Worcester College, Oxford. Arising from her doctoral thesis on ‘Musical Modernism and Left-Wing Politics in 1930s Britain’, she has a range of articles and book chapters on twentieth-century British music and politics published or forthcoming. She is currently working on the first major monograph on the English communist composer Alan Bush, titled Modern Music, Alan Bush, and the Cold War: The Cultural Left in Britain and the Communist Bloc, for Cambridge University Press. Suzanne Cole is a Lecturer in Musicology at the Melbourne Conservatorium of Music, University of Melbourne. Her research interests include the reception of early music in later periods, and the history of early music revivals. She is currently working on an extended study of the revival of ‘Tudor’ church music in the early twentieth century, funded by the Australian Research Council. Her book Thomas Tallis and his Music in Victorian England was published in 2008. Kenneth Gloag is Reader in Musicology at Cardiff University. His publications on the music of Tippett include a book on A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999) and a contribution to Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999). During the Tippett centenary year (2005) he gave several conference papers and pre-concert talks on important works, including The Knot Garden, the Second Symphony and the string quartets. He is co-author of Musicology: The Key Concepts (2005), co-editor of Peter Maxwell Davies Studies (Cambridge University Press, 2009) and author of Nicholas Maw: Odyssey (2008), and has recently published a book titled Postmodernism in Music (Cambridge University Press, 2012). He is currently reviews editor of twentieth-century music. Nicholas Jones is Co-ordinating Lecturer for Humanities at the Centre for Lifelong Learning, Cardiff University. From 2005 to 2007 he was a Lecturer in Music and Deputy Chair of the MA in Music programme at the Open University. He has a specialist interest in twentieth-century and contemporary British music and is coeditor of and contributor to Peter Maxwell Davies Studies (Cambridge University Press, 2009). He has published a number of articles on the music of Davies, William Mathias and Anthony Powers for Music & Letters, The Musical Times

[xi]

xii Notes on contributors and Tempo. He is a member of the Editorial Advisory Board for Tempo and is currently working on a book concerning the writings of Peter Maxwell Davies. Christopher Mark is a Senior Lecturer in Musicology at the University of Surrey. A co-founder of the journal twentieth-century music, of which he was Editor-inChief until January 2009, he is the author of Early Benjamin Britten (1995) and Roger Smalley: A Case Study of Late Twentieth-Century Composition (2012), and of numerous articles, conference papers and book chapters on Britten, Smalley, Elgar, Vaughan Williams, Warlock and Tippett. He is currently completing Britten: An Extraordinary Life and working on a monograph on melancholy in twentieth-century English music. Jonathan Rees is the Course Co-ordinator and Head of Singing and Music at Stella Mann College of Performing Arts, Bedford. His Ph.D. thesis, completed in 2011 with the Open University, was an analytical study of Peter Maxwell Davies’s Revelation and Fall. He has presented papers on Davies’s works at conferences organized by the Society for Music Analysis at the Universities of Durham and Bangor, and a paper on Erwin Schulhoff ’s opera Flammen at an interdisciplinary symposium on the Don Juan legend at the Institute of Musical Research, London. Suzanne Robinson is an Honorary Research Fellow at the Melbourne Conservatorium of Music, University of Melbourne, and Series Editor for Australasian Music Research. She was editor of Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (2002) and has published articles on British composers including Britten, Tippett and Smyth in American Music, Cambridge Opera Journal and Music Review. Her current project is a biography of Australian-American composer Peggy Glanville-Hicks. Thomas Schuttenhelm is a composer, guitarist and scholar. He is editor of The Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (2005), contributor to Estudios sobre Fernando Sor (2003) and author of numerous articles for the journal Soundboard. In 2007 he was the recipient of a Fulbright Fellowship to the UK and in 2008 he was a British Music Studies fellow at the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin. He is currently completing a monograph for Cambridge University Press, Creative Development and Compositional Process in the Orchestral Music of Michael Tippett. Iain Stannard studied for his Ph.D. under David Clarke at the University of Newcastle. His thesis, ‘Michael Tippett and Modernism: Instrumental Works and Aesthetics, 1962–1977’, focused on hermeneutic and analytical approaches to Tippett’s works from that period. Since then he has published work on analytical issues and on gender and sexuality in Tippett’s music. His research interests also include the use of cultural theory to inform analytical models, particularly in twentieth-century music. Edward Venn is Senior Lecturer in Music at Lancaster University. His research interests centre around twentieth-century and contemporary British music. An analysis of Tippett’s writings was published in Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (2002), and a study of Tippett’s engagement with ritual processes appeared in Ritual Dynamics and the Science of Ritual, vol. I I (2010). In addition, he regularly gives papers on Tippett’s music in colloquia, seminars and conferences.

xiii Notes on contributors Arnold Whittall is Professor Emeritus of Music Theory and Analysis at King’s College London, and a writer specializing in nineteenth-, twentieth- and twentyfirst-century music. His books include The Music of Britten and Tippett (Cambridge University Press, 1982/1990), Musical Composition in the Twentieth Century (2000), Exploring Twentieth-Century Music (Cambridge University Press, 2003) and The Cambridge Introduction to Serialism (Cambridge University Press, 2008). Writings on Tippett include contributions to Michael Tippett O.M.: A Celebration (1985), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999) and Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (2002), as well as an essay discussing The Midsummer Marriage (Cambridge Opera Journal, 21/2 (2009)). His contribution to the present volume is part of a series of essays titled ‘British Music After Britten’.

Preface

[xv]

Since his death in 1998 the music of Sir Michael Tippett continues to be performed and studied, with works such as the Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9), A Child of Our Time (1939–41) and The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52) achieving a significant public profile as well as continued critical scrutiny. The wider recognition and reception of Tippett and his music was further extended through the centenary celebrations of 2005, which drew attention to several other works such as the opera The Knot Garden (1966–9), which received several performances. However, given the wide range of music that Tippett composed during a long career that extended for much of the twentieth century, there is a great deal of music by him that is not being performed and has not been discussed extensively in the literature, and as Arnold Whittall documents in the first chapter, following a productive period around the late 1990s, there has not been much published on Tippett and his music since then. This Companion cannot fully address this absence, but it does provide commentary on Tippett’s music beyond just the already well-known works and it raises issues that were pertinent to Tippett at many key points in his career. Each of the contributors brings to this book their own interests and experiences, formed through close study of, and research on, Tippett and his music. Such interests and experiences include deep knowledge of specific archive materials – letters, documents – and often close analytical study of specific works. Many contributors draw on Tippett’s own writings about music, and the published selected correspondence, and all engage with, and reflect upon, the existing literature. However, as is consistent with the Cambridge Companion series, we seek to direct this knowledge and expertise towards a wide readership, making accessible scholarship that will enrich the listening experience of the music and construct a context for it. But we also hope that this book can present some issues, and suggest directions, that can influence both the future scholarly understanding of this music and the wider perception of it. Part I engages with the contexts and concepts within which Tippett is situated and through which the music can be interpreted. Tippett was a product of the twentieth century and, in the first chapter, Arnold Whittall reflects on the polarities of that century and Tippett’s position within it. The question of the extent to which Tippett may, or may not, be a product of a set of traditions defined as English is explored by Christopher Mark, while Suzanne Cole discusses Tippett’s often practical involvement with early

xvi Preface

music. Tippett was always aware of the wider world beyond his own compositional experiences and Joanna Bullivant examines his involvement in specific political activities in the 1930s along with his dialogue with the composer Alan Bush. If political engagement was important for Tippett at that time questions of personal, sexual identity were also crucial and, as Suzanne Robinson highlights, such issues remain directly relevant to our understanding of the music. Tippett provided a great deal of written commentary about himself, his music and other factors. These writings are returned to at many different points in this book, but Thomas Schuttenhelm’s contribution deals directly with such texts as a way of reconstructing and interpreting Tippett’s own understanding of his creative imagination and process. As a composer Tippett always related to historically defined genres – opera, string quartet, symphony, concerto, sonata – and Part II of the book traces his compositional activity in each genre, or, in the case of vocal works as a loose grouping, through discussion of individual works. In most genres Tippett’s music extends across his long career and each contributor gives an account of how, within a specific genre, different works fit into a larger picture. However, although this becomes a recurring pattern, each author has an individual interpretation of how that picture is constructed within the selected genre. And yet, one common factor in Chapters 8 to 13 is the difference of Tippett’s music composed after King Priam (1958–61) in comparison to the music which came before, with the nature of the ‘great divide’ that this opera represents discussed in some detail by Iain Stannard in Chapter 7. As David Clarke correctly reminds us, ‘there was always a tension in Tippett’s music between coherence and the inchoate and in this light we might see connections and continuities between different periods of his oeuvre’.1 As becomes evident through this part of the book, there are continuities across different works and different periods of Tippett’s career, but there are also dramatic differences, between the essentially tonal idioms of, for example, the Concerto for Double String Orchestra and The Midsummer Marriage, and the post-tonal soundworld of King Priam and beyond. We hope this book will help readers to navigate their own path through Tippett’s long and remarkable career, shedding new light on some works and issues while bringing others into a clearer focus. KENNETH GLOAG NICHOLAS JONES Notes 1 David Clarke, review of Kenneth Gloag, Tippett: A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999), Music & Letters, 82/2 (May 2001), 344.

Acknowledgements

[xvii]

We would like to express our sincerest thanks to Victoria Cooper and the staff at Cambridge University Press – especially Rebecca Taylor and Fleur Jones – for their help and assistance in guiding this project from proposal through to publication. We also record our gratitude to Sally Groves and Ian Mylett at Schott and to Gwyn Rhydderch from the Tippett Foundation for responding to various queries and requests. We are indebted to the Will Trustees of the Tippett Estate for their kind permission to reproduce unpublished material housed at the British Library, the BBC Written Archives Centre and the Mandeville Special Collections Library, University of California, San Diego. Finally, Nicholas Jones would like to thank his parents for their unwavering support and, as ever, Bethan, Hywel, Rhys and Catrin for their infinite patience and loving encouragement. All music examples from works by Tippett are reproduced by permission of Schott Music Ltd, as follows: A Child of Our Time, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1944 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Boyhood’s End, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1945 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Text by W. H. Hudson. Byzantium, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1994 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Text by W. B. Yeats. Concerto for Double String Orchestra, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1946 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Concerto for Orchestra, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1964 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. King Priam, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1962 Schott Music Ltd. New revised edition © Copyright 2005 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. New Year, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1989 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Piano Concerto, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1957 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Piano Sonata No. 2, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1962 Schott Music Ltd. Corrected and re-engraved 1987. Reproduced by permission. String Quartet No. 1, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1946 Schott Music Ltd. New Revised Edition © Copyright 1998 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission.

xviii Acknowledgements

String Quartet No. 2, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1944 Schott Music Ltd. New Revised Edition © Copyright 1997 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. String Quartet No. 3, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1948 Schott Music Ltd. New Revised Edition © Copyright 1999 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. String Quartet No. 4, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1978 Schott Music Ltd. New Revised Edition © Copyright 1997 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. String Quartet No. 5, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1992 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Symphony No. 1, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1948 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Symphony No. 2, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1958 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Symphony No. 3, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1974 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Symphony No. 4, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1977 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. The Heart’s Assurance, music by Michael Tippett, Voice and Piano © Copyright 1951 Schott Music Ltd. High Voice and Orchestra © Copyright 1992 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Text for ‘Remember Your Lovers’ by Sidney Keyes, from Collected Poems, reproduced by permission of Carcanet Press. Text for ‘Song’ by Alun Lewis, from Collected Poems (1994), reproduced by permission of Seren Books. The Knot Garden, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1970 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. The Mask of Time, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1983 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. The Midsummer Marriage, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1954 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. The Vision of Saint Augustine, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1965 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. The Weeping Babe, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1945 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Text by Edith Sitwell, written for Michael Tippett, reprinted by permission of Peters Fraser & Dunlop (www.petersfraserdunlop.com) on behalf of the estate of Edith Sitwell. The Windhover, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1943 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission. Text by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Triple Concerto, music by Michael Tippett © Copyright 1981 Schott Music Ltd. Reproduced by permission.

xix Acknowledgements

Music examples from works by Edward Elgar are reproduced by permission of Music Sales Ltd, as follows: Dream of Gerontius, Part II, music by Sir Edward Elgar © Copyright 1900 Novello & Co. Ltd for France, Italy, Spain and Mexico. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by permission. Symphony No. 1 in A♭, Op. 55 (Third Movement), music by Sir Edward Elgar © Copyright 1909 Novello & Co. Ltd for France, Italy, Mexico and Spain. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by permission. Figs. 3.1 and 3.2 are reproduced by permission of Lambeth Archives Department and Morley College, and the book cover image of Tippett by Lotte Meitner-Graf is reproduced by permission of The Bridgeman Art Library.

References to Tippett’s scores and note on music examples

References to specific bars take the following form: Fig. [rehearsal number]: [bar number after rehearsal number]. For example, ‘Fig. 52:5’ means ‘5 bars after Figure 52’ (taking the first bar to be that in which the figure itself appears). Unless stated otherwise, all transposing instruments in the music examples are written in C.

[xx]

Chronology of Tippett’s life and career JONATHAN REES

Date Biography 1905 Michael Kemp Tippett born in London on 2 January to Henry William Tippett and Isabel Clementine Binny Kemp; the family soon moves to Wetherden, Suffolk 1910 Begins piano lessons

1913

1914 Joins Brookfield Preparatory School in Dorset, having being schooled by a governess at home since November 1909

1916

1917

[xxi]

1918 Enters Fettes College in Edinburgh, continuing piano lessons, whilst joining the school choir and beginning organ studies 1919 Tippett’s parents leave England; he then spends school holidays visiting them, particularly at the hotel in Cannes of which Tippett’s father was the proprietor, and later in Corsica and Florence; this gives him a strong connection to a European sensibility and fluency in French by the age of

Works

Cultural and Historical Events Strauss, Salome; Debussy, La Mer; Trotsky formulates the theory of Permanent Revolution and is one of the leaders of the 1905 Russian Revolution Vaughan Williams, Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis; Yeats, The Green Helmet Ives, Holidays Symphony (one of Tippett’s choices for the BBC radio programme Desert Island Discs1) Vaughan Williams, The Lark Ascending; Yeats, Responsibilities; the AustroHungarian invasion of Serbia on 28 July initiates the conflict of World War I The Irish Easter Rebellion, on which, in the 1930s, Tippett planned to base his first opera; the Military Service Act allows conscientious objectors to be exempted from combat and perform civilian service or noncombatant army service The 1917 Russian Revolution deposes the Tsarist autocracy and leads to the formation of the Soviet Union – Lenin and Trotsky are among the principal activists World War I ends on Armistice Day, 11 November

Elgar, Cello Concerto; Reed, Ten Days that Shook the World, which deeply affected Tippett’s socialist politics

xxii Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography ten; he later also becomes fluent in German, and well versed in Italian 1920 Is moved to Stamford Grammar School in Lincolnshire after unpleasant experiences at Fettes; his piano lessons with Frances Tinkler, Malcolm Sargent’s former teacher, nurture his desire to become a composer 1921

1922 Expelled from Stamford Grammar School due to his non-conformism and overt atheism; his ambition to compose is firmly crystallized after attending a concert in Leicester in which Sargent conducts works including Ravel’s Mother Goose Suite; continues his musical training with Frances Tinkler and by studying Stanford’s book Musical Composition; a local organist helps him with species counterpoint; attends an International Congress of Youth in Brussels, which makes him aware of the plight of child victims of the war – in his registration as a conscientious objector in 1940 he describes this as his first political act 1923 Accepted into the Royal College of Music (RCM), despite requiring some remedial study; begins compositional study with Charles Wood, supplementing this with his own study of counterpoint, particularly Renaissance polyphony 1924 Begins conducting a small madrigal choir in Oxted, Surrey, mainly in order to continue his own study of contrapuntal and vocal techniques; later he combines this with a local amateur theatre group to mount productions of English operas, such as Vaughan Williams’s The Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains and Stanford’s The Travelling Companion

Works

Cultural and Historical Events

Stravinsky, Symphonies of Wind Instruments (another Desert Island Discs choice)

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (film), a viewing of which in 1923 confirms Tippett’s pacifism due to its graphic depiction of the World War I trenches Vaughan Williams, The Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains; Schoenberg, Die Jakobsleiter (unfinished); Eliot, The Waste Land

Walton, Façade; Stravinsky, Les Noces; Yeats becomes the first Irishman to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature

Vaughan Williams, Hugh the Drover

xxiii Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography 1926 Following Wood’s death he studies with C. H. Kitson; as a student at the RCM he studies piano with Aubin Raymar and conducting with Malcolm Sargent and Adrian Boult 1928 Passes the B.Mus. exams in December, having failed them in September 1929 Moves to Oxted; teaches French part-time at Hazlewood Preparatory School, where he meets Christopher Fry, with whom he collaborates in some early works 1930 The first concert of Tippett’s own music takes place on 5 April in the Barn Theatre, Oxted; he later withdraws all this music and begins a twoyear course of study in counterpoint with R. O. Morris, an expert in sixteenth-century polyphony, who had impressed Tippett in a tutorial given at the RCM during his student days 1932 Takes on responsibility for music in the work camps for unemployed miners in Boosbeck, set up in 1931 by Major Pennyman; accepts his first role in Morley College, London, organizing and directing the South London Orchestra, consisting of out-of-work professional musicians; also takes on the task of conducting two choirs run by the Royal Arsenal Co-operative Society; is introduced to the painter Wilfred Franks, with whom he begins an intense personal relationship 1933 Conducts a well-received production of The Beggar’s Opera with members of the work camp 1934 The November issue of the Communist League’s paper, The Red Flag, introduces Tippett to Trotsky’s The History of the Russian Revolution, which has a profound effect upon him; conducts two performances of the Pageant of Labour at the Crystal Palace, depicting the hardships of a workingclass family from the Industrial Revolution to the present time

Works

Cultural and Historical Events

Conducts his own realization of Schoenberg, Variations for Orchestra; Yeats, The Tower The Village Opera (1927–8) with his Oxted group Eisler, Song of the Working People; Yeats, The Winding Stair and Other Poems; the Great Depression begins following the Wall Street Crash on 29 October The April concert includes the Shostakovich, The Nose; early works Concerto in D Stravinsky, Symphony of Psalms; Eliot, Ash (1928–30), String Quartet in Wednesday; Trotsky founds F (1928, rev. 1930) and Psalm in C (1930) the International Left Opposition

String Trio in B♭

Eisler, Ballad of the Women and the Soldiers; Schoenberg, Moses und Aron (unfinished); Britten wins the Cobbett Chamber Music Prize for his Phantasy string quintet; Maritain, The Degrees of Knowledge; Trotsky, The History of the Russian Revolution

Symphony in B♭ (rev. 1934)

The Balham Group, a faction of the British Communist Party, sets up its own party, the Communist League, to follow Trotskyan principles Vaughan Williams, Symphony No. 4; Shostakovich, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk; Britten, A Boy was Born, Simple Symphony; Eisler, Song Against War; Priestley, English Journey, which powerfully portrays the poverty and degradation caused by unemployment in the North of England, the principal effect of the Great Depression in the UK

Robin Hood

xxiv Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography

Works

1935 His work with the unemployed String Quartet No. 1 in A (1934–5; rev. 1943), which bolsters his interests in the composer called his first Trotsky’s ideas and he joins mature composition the Communist Party for a short time, leaving when he realizes that he would not be able to convert his branch to Trotskyism; sings in a choir representing Britain in the first International Workers’ Music Olympiad, which he claims to have taught him more about socialism than any book; presents the political songs of Hanns Eisler in a concert in March; a performance of his play, War Ramp, examining how bank credit is used to finance war, is organized by the Labour League of Youth 1936

1937 Is introduced to T. S. Eliot, who A Song of Liberty becomes an important friend and mentor, introducing him to the poetry of W. B. Yeats and the philosophy of Jacques Maritain and Susanne Langer

Piano Sonata No. 1 (1936–38; 1938 The anti-Jewish events in rev. 1942) Germany and Austria set Tippett’s mind to the creation of A Child of Our Time, for which he asks Eliot to contribute a libretto – Eliot recommends that the composer should write it himself; the breakdown of his relationship with Wilfred Franks catalyses a personal crisis that leads him to submit himself to Jungian analysis under John Layard; joins the Socialist Anti-War Front

1939 Following the Jungian model he Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9) analyses his own dreams between January and August,

Cultural and Historical Events Gershwin, Porgy and Bess; Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral; the Reverend Dick Sheppard founds the Peace Pledge Union (PPU), attracting sponsors such as Bertrand Russell and Aldous Huxley; the Communist League is disbanded; A. J. Cronin’s novel The Stars Look Down argues a strong religious case for conscientious objection

The public trials and execution of Grigory Zinoviev and Lev Kamenev as part of Stalin’s Great Purges convince Tippett of the importance of Trotskyism as an alternative to Stalinism Vaughan Williams, Riders to the Sea; Bartók, Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste; Berg, Lulu; Shostakovich, Symphony No. 5; Eisler, Peace Song; the PPU formally merges with the No More War Movement Hindemith, Mathis der Maler; von Horváth, Ein Kind unserer Zeit, from which Tippett derives the title A Child of Our Time; Beausobre’s The Woman Who Could Not Die reveals the atrocities of torture and labour camps used by the Russian secret police; the Munich Pact allows Hitler’s annexation of Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland; the shooting of a German embassy official by a young Polish Jew, Herschel Grynszpan, a reaction to Nazi persecution, leads to brutal anti-Jewish pogroms culminating in the Kristallnacht destruction of Jewish shops and homes on 9 and 10 November Harris, Symphony No. 3; Cage, Imaginary Landscape No. 1; Eliot, The Family Reunion;

xxv Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography resulting in a greater acceptance of his homosexuality and personal needs; influenced by writings such as Beausobre’s The Woman Who Could Not Die he turns away from party politics, refocusing his efforts on composition; Willy Strecker, the director of Schott in Mainz, offers him a publishing contract, but the outbreak of the war delays the actual publications

Works

Cultural and Historical Events World War II begins with the Nazi invasion of Poland and the declaration of war from France, Britain and members of the Commonwealth in September; the National Service (Armed Forces) Act enforces military conscription in the UK and results in nearly 60,000 registered conscientious objectors; the PPU campaigns against conscription and supports conscientious objectors Stravinsky, Symphony in C; Schoenberg, Violin Concerto; Britten, Les illuminations; Webern, Variations for Orchestra; Sitwell, Still Falls the Rain; Trotsky dies on 21 August from brain damage received in an assassination attempt

1940 Becomes Director of Morley College, London, after the former director Arnold Foster is evacuated from London; directs the college choir and secures performances of rarely heard pieces of early and contemporary music by composers such as Tallis, Dowland, Purcell, Monteverdi, Stravinsky, Hindemith and Britten; joins the PPU in November, registering as a conscientious objector in the same month; becomes a very active member of the Union, offering support to other conscientious objectors Fantasia on a Theme of Handel Messiaen, Quatuor pour la fin 1941 The release of a recording of (1939–41); A Child of Our du temps Phyllis Sellick’s performance Time (1939–41) is completed of the Piano Sonata No. 1 on Rimington, Van Wyck Ltd although not premiered until marks the first recording of 1944 his music Britten, Seven Sonnets of 1942 Begins a long relationship with String Quartet No. 2 in F♯ (1941–2); Two Madrigals: Michelangelo, A Ceremony of publishers B. Schott’s Söhne, The Source and The Mainz, with the publication Carols; Langer, Philosophy in Windhover of the Piano Sonata No. 1; his a New Key registration as a conscientious objector comes before a tribunal on 3 February – Vaughan Williams supports his cause, declaring his music a ‘distinct national asset’; he refuses to undertake the noncombatant military duties allocated to him 1943 In January he gives his first Boyhood’s End (composed for Vaughan Williams, Symphony Britten and Peter Pears); No. 5; Messiaen, Visions de radio broadcast, ‘Portrait of Fanfare No. 1 l’Amen; Britten, Rejoice in the Stravinsky’ on the BBC; on 21 Lamb; Bartók, Concerto for June he begins a three-month sentence (reduced to two) in Orchestra; Hindemith, Symphonic Metamorphoses of Wormwood Scrubs Prison Themes by Carl Maria von

xxvi Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography

Works

for failing to meet the conditions of his tribunal

Plebs Angelica (1943–4); The 1944 Receives his first commission from the BBC (which became Weeping Babe very important to his development through many future commissions) resulting in the motet The Weeping Babe; writes a pamphlet, ‘Abundance of Creation’ for the PPU; his meeting and collaboration with countertenor Alfred Deller helps to establish a great deal of Purcell’s music that had been forgotten Symphony No. 1 (1944–5) 1945 After the war, he gives more regular talks on the BBC Third Programme and World Service, many of which would be published in his collection Moving into Aquarius (see 1959) 1946 Begins work on his first opera, The Midsummer Marriage

Cultural and Historical Events Weber; Die Weisse Rose student uprising against the National Socialist Government in Germany, led by Sophie and Hans Scholl, is ended with the capture and guillotining of its leaders Messiaen, Vingt regards sur l’enfant Jésus; Britten, Festival Te Deum

Britten, Peter Grimes; Prokofiev, Symphony No. 5; Eliot, Four Quartets; Sitwell, The Song of the Cold; World War II ends with the total surrender of Germany on 8 May, followed on 15 August by the surrender of Japan Britten, Rape of Lucretia; Copland, Symphony No. 3; Stravinsky, Symphony in Three Movements; Prokofiev, War and Peace

String Quartet No. 3 (1945–6); Preludio al Vespro di Monteverdi for organ (written to precede the first British performances of Monteverdi’s Vespro della Beata Virgine of 1610); Little Music for string orchestra Suite in D for the Birthday of Lutosławski, Symphony No. 1; Prince Charles Henze, Symphony, No. 1; Britten, Saint Nicolas; Fry, The Lady’s Not for Burning; the National Service Act formalizes peacetime military conscription Bliss, The Olympians; Messiaen, Turangalîla-symphonie; Eliot, The Cocktail Party

1948 Develops severe hepatitis, possibly as a result of the stress of combining work on The Midsummer Marriage and The Heart’s Assurance with his responsibilities at Morley College 1949 Awarded the Cobbett Prize for services to chamber music; becomes a member of the Music Advisory Committee, British Council – a position which he holds until 1965 The song cycle The Heart’s 1951 Moves to Tidebrook Manor, Assurance (1950–1) near Wadhurst in Sussex; premiered by Britten and income from the BBC Pears broadcasts means that he can concentrate more fully on composition; gives up his position at Morley College after conducting a series of concerts for the Festival of Britain

Vaughan Williams’s The Pilgrim’s Progress and Britten’s Billy Budd performed as part of the Festival of Britain; Stravinsky, The Rake’s Progress; Hindemith, Symphony in B♭ for Concert Band

xxvii Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography 1952

1953

1954

1955

1956 1957

1958

Works

Cultural and Historical Events

Dance, Clarion Air, a madrigal Vaughan Williams, Sinfonia which is later included in A Antartica; Cage, 4′33′′; Garland for a Queen – a Maritain, The Range of collection of works by British Reason composers to celebrate the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II; The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52) – the Ritual Dances are premiered in the following year, but the whole opera will not be performed until 1955 Runs into a series of problems Ritual Dances from Act 2 of The Britten’s Gloriana is performed at Covent Garden as part of Midsummer Marriage are with performers, beginning premiered two years before the celebrations for the with the replacement of coronation of Queen the complete opera; Fantasia Malcolm Sargent as the Elizabeth II; Stockhausen, Concertante on a Theme of conductor of the Fantasia Kontra-Punkte; Corelli; Fanfares Nos. 2 and 3, Concertante after Sargent Shostakovich, Symphony No. composed for the St Ives publicly criticized the work Festival 10; Maritain, Approaches to for being overly God; Langer, Feeling and intellectualized; becomes the Form artistic director of the St Ives Festival of the Arts for one year Lennox Berkeley, A Dinner Four Inventions for recorders; Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Engagement; Britten, The Turn of the Screw; Walton, Round’ (1953–4), which Troilus and Cressida; Varèse, incorporates his contribution Déserts; Fry, The Dark is Light to the collection Variations on an Elizabethan Theme Enough (with incidental music by Bernstein) Concerto for Piano (1953–5); Boulez, Le marteau sans maître Julius Katchen refuses to Sonata for Four Horns premiere the Concerto for Piano, claiming the piano part to be unplayable – Louis Kentner replaces him and plays the score from memory; the Dennis Brain Wind Ensemble find the Sonata for Four Horns to be written too high and demand that the work be transposed for the premiere Bonny at Morn; Four Songs from Nono, Il canto sospeso the British Isles Stravinsky, Agon; Hindemith, The premiere of Symphony No. Symphony No. 2 (1956–7) Die Harmonie der Welt; (another Desert Island Discs 2 breaks down in the first choice) Stockhausen, Gruppen movement, whilst being broadcast live on the radio – conductor Adrian Boult shoulders the blame and begins the work again; these problems with performers reinforce the prevalent criticism of Tippett’s amateurism in composition; he is elected to the presidency of the PPU The cantata Crown of the Year Boulez, Doubles; Cage, Piano written to celebrate the Concerto centenary of Badminton School (commissioned by

xxviii Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography

Works

Cultural and Historical Events

musicologist Eric Walter White, whose daughter attended the school); the hymn tune Unto the Hills Around Do I Lift My Longing Eyes Lullaby

1959 Moving into Aquarius, a collection of Tippett’s radio broadcasts, essays and articles is published;2 awarded the CBE 1960 Moves to Parkside, in Corsham, Music; Words for Music, Wiltshire Perhaps

1961

1962

1963

1964

1965

Britten, A Midsummer Night’s Dream; Boulez, Pli selon pli; Ligeti, Apparitions; the abolition of National Service means that armed forces consist entirely of volunteers, removing the need for conscientious objection Becomes a Fellow of the Royal King Priam (1958–61); Songs for Penderecki, Threnody for the College of Music Achilles, the first song of Victims of Hiroshima which is taken from King Priam; Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis Piano Sonata No. 2; Incidental Britten, War Requiem; King Priam first performed at Music for Shakespeare’s The the Coventry Festival Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich Tempest in response to an celebrating the opening of the invitation from the Old Vic, new cathedral; the work is a London; Songs for Ariel; great success and marks a Praeludium for brass, bells turning point for the composer’s reputation and percussion Concerto for Orchestra Williamson, Our Man in The BBC studio recording of (1962–3) Havana; Henze, Symphony The Midsummer Marriage, No. 5; Maritain, God and the conducted by Norman Del Permission of Evil; Stravinsky, Mar, is very well received by Abraham and Isaac the critics and reinforces Tippett’s growing international reputation; King Priam becomes his first opera to be performed abroad, in a production at the Badisches Staatstheater, Karlsruhe, in German translation Is made an honorary Doctor of Britten’s Curlew River is Music at the University of dedicated to Tippett in Cambridge anticipation of his 60th birthday the following year; Davies, Second Taverner Fantasia; Messiaen, Couleurs de la cité céleste R. R. Bennett, The Mines of Makes first visit to America, to The Vision of Saint Augustine (1963–5) Sulphur; Birtwistle, Tragoedia act as the composer-inresidence at the Aspen Music Festival; America becomes an important cultural and spiritual influence on Tippett thereafter – seen particularly in his next operas; begins an association with the excellent Leicestershire Schools Symphony Orchestra

xxix Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography

1969

1970

1971

1972

1973

1974

1975

1976

Cultural and Historical Events

Braint for orchestra, included in Stravinsky, Requiem Canticles; Goehr, Arden Must Die the collection Severn Bridge Variations Steps in for an indisposed Birtwistle, Punch and Judy; Stravinsky at short notice in a Britten, The Prodigal Son; concert with the St Louis Berio, Sinfonia Symphony in April, conducting his own Concerto for Orchestra Joins Colin Davis and Jack The Knot Garden (1966–9) Birtwistle, Down by the Greenwood Side, Verses for Phipps to help the ailing Bath Ensembles; Davies, Worldes Festival and inaugurates the Bath Festival of Blues Blis, Eight Songs for a Mad King; Weiss, Trotsky in Exile Maw, The Rising of the Moon; The Shires Suite (1965–70) Moves to the Marlborough Carter, Concerto for written for the Leicestershire Downs; takes over the Bath Orchestra Schools Symphony Festival and runs it singleOrchestra; Songs for Dov handedly until 1974, (1969–70) widening the scope of the festival to include progressive pop music as well as blues; begins to suffer from macular dystrophy, an eye disease that forces him to read with a magnifying glass and use large-print manuscript paper for composition; an amanuensis, Michael Tillett, is engaged to help complete scores In memoriam magistri, Britten, Owen Wingrave; commissioned by the journal Bernstein, Mass; Ligeti, Melodien; Birtwistle, The Tempo in memory of Triumph of Time, Tombeau Stravinsky in memoriam Igor Stravinsky Symphony No. 3 (1970–2) First performance of Davies’s Several television appearances opera Taverner over the previous decade introduce Tippett to a new audience and culminate in the documentary made for the BBC by Mischa Scorer, Poets in a Barren Age A German production of The Piano Sonata No. 3 (1972–3) Britten, Death in Venice Midsummer Marriage is given at the Badisches Staatstheater A ‘Sir Michael Tippett Festival’ is mounted in his honour at Tufts University, USA, on 13 February; the American premiere of The Knot Garden at Northwestern University, Illinois, on 22 February is the first performance of any Tippett opera in America The fall of Saigon on 30 April Visits Zambia for a performance precipitates the end of the of A Child of Our Time in Vietnam War after almost Lusaka Cathedral twenty years of conflict Undertakes a lecture tour in The Ice Break (1973–6) Davies, Symphony No. 1, The America, including the Doty Martyrdom of St Magnus; Lectures in Fine Art at the Glass, Einstein on the Beach;

1966 Awarded a knighthood for services to music 1968

Works

xxx Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography

Works

University of Austin, Texas; is awarded the Gold Medal of the Royal Philharmonic Society 1977 Although his involvement in the Symphony No. 4 (1976–7) PPU decreases, he speaks out against President Carter’s development of the neutron bomb at the opening of a PPU exhibition on 8 August String Quartet No. 4 (1977–8) 1978 The Ice Break receives its first German production on 26 June; he visits Java and Bali during a stay in Australia to conduct his Symphony No. 4 – the sounds of the gamelan he experiences on these islands influence his Triple Concerto 1979 Awarded the Companion of Triple Concerto for Violin, Honour Viola, Cello and Orchestra (1978–9) 1980 Publication of Music of the Wolf Trap Fanfare Angels: Essays and Sketchbooks of Michael Tippett,3 a collection of essays and broadcasts not published in Moving into Aquarius 1982 The Mask of Time (1980–2) 1983

1984

1985

1987

1988 1990

1991 1993

Cultural and Historical Events Britten, Phaedra; Holloway, Clarissa

Davies, Salome

Davies, The Lighthouse

Langer, Mind: An Essay on Human Feeling Awarded the Order of Merit and The Blue Guitar (1982–3); Festal Martland, Babi Yar becomes the President of the Brass with Blues London College of Music Piano Sonata No. 4 (1983–4) Davies, Symphony No. 3; Birtwistle, The Mask of Orpheus; Holloway, Seascape and Harvest Celebrates his 80th birthday Goehr, Behold the Sun with a two-week tour of Texas including concerts of his music; he conducts some of his music despite now being blind in his right eye Has an operation for colon Davies, Resurrection cancer in October but is well enough to take part in a celebration of his music in Manchester only three months later New Year (1986–8) Turnage, Greek Birtwistle, Gawain, Ritual His 85th birthday is celebrated Byzantium (1989–90) Fragments; Adès, Five Eliot by twelve hours of continuous broadcasting Landscapes; MacMillan, The Confession of Isobel Gowdie devoted to his music on BBC Radio 3; goes on two-month tour of Australia and New Zealand to attend performances of his work String Quartet No. 5 (1990–1) MacMillan, Seven Last Words Declares The Rose Lake to be his The Rose Lake (1991–3) from the Cross; Martland, final composition – after this he completes only Caliban’s

xxxi Chronology of Tippett’s life and career

Date Biography

1994

1995

1996

1997

1998

Works

Cultural and Historical Events

Song for the tercentenary Purcell celebrations in 1995 Unveils the Commemorative Stone to Conscientious Objectors in Tavistock Square, Bloomsbury on 15 May Caliban’s Song To celebrate his 90th birthday English National Opera revives King Priam and Sir Colin Davis devises and conducts a festival of Tippett’s music at the Barbican titled Vision of Paradise, culminating in a performance of The Rose Lake Moves to Isleworth, Middlesex, in order to be nearer friends and carers as his health deteriorates Contracts pneumonia whilst on a trip to Stockholm for a retrospective concert of his music Dies on 8 January

Notes 1 Tippett made two appearances on Desert Island Discs, in 1968 and 1985. For a full listing of his choices for both programmes, see www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/desert-islanddiscs.

Dance Works; Turnage, Your Rockaby Birtwistle, The Second Mrs Kong

Goehr, Arianna; Adès, Powder Her Face

Davies, Symphony No. 6

Davies, Job; Adès, Aslya; MacMillan, Cello Concerto

Dove, Flight; MacMillan, Quickening

2 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul); expanded edn (St Albans: Paladin Books, 1974). 3 Selected and ed. Meirion Bowen (London: Eulenburg Books, 1980).

PART I

Contexts and concepts

1 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities ARNOLD WHITTALL

1998 and all that

[3]

Michael Tippett’s death, on 8 January 1998, six days after his ninety-third birthday, came at a time when performers’ interest in his music was buoyant, and scholarly writing about his life and work was flourishing. A comprehensive collection of his own writings, Tippett on Music, appeared in 1995, the year of his ninetieth birthday, and this was soon followed by the second edition of Meirion Bowen’s relatively brief survey of his life and works (1997); then came Tippett Studies (edited by David Clarke) and Kenneth Gloag’s book on A Child of Our Time (both 1999), Clarke’s own monograph on The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett (2001), and a further collection of essays, Michael Tippett: Music and Literature, edited by Suzanne Robinson (2002).1 By then it was only three years to 2005 and the Tippett centenary, an event less well marked than it might have been had his death been less recent. The only major publication of that year was Thomas Schuttenhelm’s edition of Selected Letters, with its fervent prefatory declaration by David Matthews that Tippett ‘was such a central figure in our musical life that his absence is still strongly felt, not simply as a composer but as a man whose integrity and conviction were evident in everything he said and did’.2 Since then, there has been little or nothing. Performances and recordings have also tailed off, and it has not been difficult for those who sincerely believed that Tippett’s prominence in the last quarter-century of his life was more to do with the premature death of Benjamin Britten in 1976 than with the positive qualities of his actual compositions to declare ‘I told you so!’, and point to the contrast in the way in which ‘the Britten industry’ has continued to flourish.3 The argument that such speedy and summary dismissal bore out the verdict handed down by Robin Holloway in his brief obituary notice, where the ‘marvellous personal synthesis’ of the ‘two visionary song cycles, two masterpieces for string orchestra, the first two symphonies, The Midsummer Marriage’ was the prelude to ‘a long, slow decline’ in which ‘feckless eclecticism and reckless trendiness’ ruled,4 is less persuasive than it might be simply because of the melancholy fact that the earlier music has been sidelined as much as the later.

4 Arnold Whittall

Consideration of possible reasons why the cultural practice of British music has evolved in the way it has between 1998 and today cannot sensibly be confined to statistical tabulations claiming to measure degrees of prominence and obscurity. It is nevertheless natural to speculate about whether some composers have a definable ‘staying power’ denied to others, and whether it is reasonable to consider ‘eclecticism and . . . trendiness’ as proof of ephemerality – at least when proven to be ‘feckless’ and ‘reckless’ respectively. Since this chapter is concerned, among other things, with arguing that Tippett is more properly considered in terms of dialogues between eclecticism and consistency, trendiness and ‘classic’ timelessness, it should be clear that I tend to the view that in his case recent neglect is not an infallible index of musical value, any more than it was for Sibelius in the first decades after his death in 1957. It follows that now is not the time to pursue a topic that needs a longer timeframe: so, rather than continue with the subject of ‘Tippett since his lifetime’ I will take a fresh look at the rich cultural practice of that lifetime, so nearly coinciding with the twentieth century, and explore Tippett’s relationship with that practice.

The background in outline To list the British composers born between 1900 and 1914 is to establish a rough-and-ready context for Tippett himself (born in 1905) and for the century within which he and his contemporaries lived and worked. Born just before 1905, Alan Bush (1900–95), Gerald Finzi (1901–56), Edmund Rubbra (1901–86), William Walton (1902–83) and Lennox Berkeley (1903–89) were all involved to varying degrees with reinforcing rather than radically challenging the generic and stylistic predispositions of earlier generations. If – apart from Finzi – none of them could be thought of as essentially English in idiom after the model of Elgar, Vaughan Williams, or even Holst, their engagement with more radical (non-British) initiatives did not on the whole generate compositions as radically progressive as many in continental Europe or America before 1939. Of those born alongside Tippett in 1905 itself, William Alwyn (d. 1985) would prove to be the most traditionally orientated symphonic composer of this vintage, while Alan Rawsthorne (d. 1971) would embody a more determinedly gritty reaction against what many perceived as the rather flabby effusions of Vaughan Williams or Arnold Bax. Likewise, both Walter Leigh (a casualty of the war in 1942) and Constant Lambert (who also died young, in 1951) found continental neoclassicism attractive as a means of evading the more pious and passive aspects of their national

5 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities

musical heritage – the kind of tensions Tippett himself would deal with so resourcefully during the 1930s and 1940s. (Lambert was also very perceptive about the significance of Sibelius in his book Music Ho! (1934)5 – but it was Walton’s music which grew closer to Sibelius’s during these years, not Lambert’s.) Among composers born between 1906 and 1913 the only clear sign of those stronger disparities between radical and conservative which would define twentieth-century musical life and compositional practice is provided by Elisabeth Lutyens (1906–83); it would be another ten years before two other composers of comparable progressiveness, Humphrey Searle (1915–82) and Denis ApIvor (1916–2004), came along. Nevertheless, while Arnold Cooke (1906–2005), Grace Williams (1906–77), William Wordsworth (1908–88), Robin Orr (1909–2006), Stanley Bate (1911–59), Daniel Jones (1912–93) and George Lloyd (1913–98) were all in their different and in some cases quite distinctive ways on the conservative end of the formal and stylistic spectrum, Elizabeth Maconchy (1907–94) would show particular skill in crafting a progressive path leading closer to Bartók as model than to her teacher Vaughan Williams, and by this means to a kind of ‘mainstream’ engagement with modernism after 1950 that was as personable as Tippett’s own. By the early 1930s, of course, it was Benjamin Britten (1913–76) who was the most promising and successful exponent of mainstream progressiveness, his various ‘continental’ affinities – Mahler, Berg, Ravel, Stravinsky, Prokofiev – and the internationalist sympathies of his most important teacher, Frank Bridge, proving no hindrance to the rapid forging of a well-integrated personal language. Britten was a challenge to those like Tippett, Rawsthorne and Maconchy who might have had comparable instincts and ambitions in relation to the British inheritance as it seemed to define itself after the watershed year of 1934, when Elgar, Delius and Holst all died. Tippett may never have been likely to strive for a less explicitly mainstream stylistic and technical amalgam than that which Britten was deploying to such effect immediately after 1935, but he seems gradually to have defined his own relation to the established and emerging polarities between radical and conservative in ways which reinforced the differences between his own personal compositional voice and that of his contemporaries, especially Britten. Nowhere was the contrast between Britten’s economical intensity and Tippett’s more flamboyantly decorative idiom greater than in two compositions written for Peter Pears and Britten to perform – Britten’s Seven Sonnets of Michelangelo (1940) and Tippett’s Boyhood’s End (1943). By the mid-1950s, with the first performances of The Turn of the Screw (1954) and The Midsummer Marriage (1955), the contrast in opera was

6 Arnold Whittall

even more apparent: and contrast remained of the essence, as Tippett’s dedication of his notably progressive Concerto for Orchestra to Britten in 1963 was complemented the following year by Britten’s dedication to Tippett of one of his most intensely constrained later works, the first parable for church performance, Curlew River. In the years immediately after 1945, it was evident that British musical life was robust enough to sustain a diversity of styles, embracing Vaughan Williams, Britten and a younger, more internationalist figure like Peter Racine Fricker (1920–90), who, together with others born during the 1920s, including Malcolm Arnold (1921–2006), Robert Simpson (1921–97), Kenneth Leighton (1929–88) and Alun Hoddinott (1929–2008), bridged the divide between the 1900–14 generation and the new radicals born in the 1930s – Alexander Goehr (b. 1932), Peter Maxwell Davies (b. 1934), Harrison Birtwistle (b. 1934) and Jonathan Harvey (b. 1939). It was from within this pluralism that Tippett emerged as something more than just another distinctively English composer born in the years between 1900 and 1914. Yet it was only with Britten’s premature death in 1976 that he achieved the unambiguous prominence of a leader within a spectrum of compositional activity in which the generation of the 1930s was in turn finding itself complemented by younger minimalists – John Tavener (b. 1944) and Michael Nyman (b. 1944) – and those more conservative (Robin Holloway, b. 1943) and more radical (Brian Ferneyhough, b. 1943). This context of supreme heterogeneity suited Tippett’s own probingly pragmatic aesthetic, as well as his consistently internationalist outlook.

Interactive oppositions There is perhaps more than a touch of irony in the fact that, had Tippett died at Britten’s age of (barely) 63 – in 1968 – he would be seen in terms of a career that ended with one of his most demanding scores, The Vision of Saint Augustine (1963–5), a work which showed him beginning to reassert his belief in the positively visionary – and blues-healing – nature of music after the upheavals occasioned by the stark tragedy shown in the opera King Priam (1958–61). As it was, Tippett survived and prospered for thirty years after 1968, and David Clarke encapsulated that near-century of life with admirable percipience in 2001, declaring that ‘one result of his longevity was an engagement with the radically different social and cultural climates across the century, particularly reflected in a dramatic, modernist change of style in the 1960s’.6 That ‘engagement’ with radical difference is also a crucial theme in Clarke’s book of the same year, the most

7 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities

penetrating and far-reaching critical study of the composer yet published, whose blurb sonorously declares that ‘Tippett’s complex creative imagination’ involves a ‘dialogue between a romantic’s aspirations to the ideal and absolute, and a modernist’s sceptical realism’. The book itself ends with the declaration that ‘Tippett’s is a music that contains a continuing and salutary reminder to face up to contradictions and to keep our minds and imaginations open’.7 ‘Contradictions’ can be another term for ‘polarities’, and facing up to them realistically, as they are, is a clear alternative to seeking compromise. If fusing – integrating – rather than merely balancing out the opposites is the most fundamental quality of a classicist aesthetic, then maintaining, even revelling in the persistent polarity of centrifugal superimpositions would seem to be the essence of modernism, celebrating twentieth-century culture’s distinctive embrace of fragmentation, stratification and disparity. For some commentators, the pursuit of fragmentation and juxtaposition, at the expense of unity and connectedness, amounts to something ‘post-modern’ – especially when materials and stylistic associations with ‘pre-modern’ art materials are involved. While it is a symptom of current terminological diversity to note that what, for some, is ‘post-modern’ is, for others, ‘late modernist’, there is still likely to be broad agreement that the stylistic heterogeneity this kind of music displays demonstrates the willingness of the composer in question to challenge conventional concepts of stylistic consistency and ‘integrity’. Such issues became very relevant to Tippett’s later compositions. Indeed, of all the images that have clung to him, that of the magpie maverick is probably the most persistent. It allows for Robin Holloway’s pejoratively slanted ‘eclecticism’ as well as Clarke’s more positive ‘empiricism’;8 but, more importantly, it lays the foundations for a productive dialogue between the ‘formative’ and the ‘found’ – something whose varied manifestations helped to determine the Tippett ethos and the Tippett idiom. Since for Tippett the found – from spirituals and blues to Renaissance polyphony and the music of Beethoven or Schubert – tends to be tonal, and the formative to question the basics of tonality as much as to reinscribe them, it is by means of such very basic binary oppositions – or complements – that a critical and theoretical context for the informed reception of Tippett’s compositions in terms of meaningfully deployed polarities has been forged.

Tonality and polarity: a theoretical interlude In the Poetics of Music lectures delivered by Igor Stravinsky at Harvard University in 1939 there is a straightforward statement showing how

8 Arnold Whittall

thinking about tonality had evolved since the earliest, nineteenth-century attempts to systematize those processes which were primarily concerned to enrich (if also to undermine) the essential stability of ‘classical’ diatonicism: ‘our chief concern is not so much what is known as tonality as what one might term the polar attraction of sound, of an interval, or even of a complex of tones . . . In view of the fact that our poles of attraction are no longer within the closed system which was the diatonic system, we can bring the poles together without being compelled to conform to the exigencies of tonality.’9 Had the great twentieth-century theorist of classical tonality, Heinrich Schenker, still been alive to read those comments they would have reinforced his conviction that Stravinsky was a destroyer of music’s most fundamental, most natural materials, not a real composer at all.10 However, by the 1930s such anti-progressive views were far less salient than the more enlightened and progressive understanding of postBeethovenian processes of change found in such prominent twentiethcentury composer-theorists as Vincent d’Indy, Paul Hindemith and Arnold Schoenberg.11 Indeed, despite the obvious and strong contrasts in style between Schoenberg and Stravinsky during the inter-war decades, the ideas about tonal harmony set out in The Poetics of Music demonstrate considerable convergence with Schoenbergian beliefs about the need to retain tonality as a flexible conceptual basis for meaningful composition, and to reject the wholly negative concept of ‘atonality’. In his Harmonielehre, Schoenberg had forcefully declared that ‘a piece of music will always have to be tonal, at least in so far as a relation has to exist from tone to tone by virtue of which the tones, placed next to or above one another, yield a perceptible continuity. The tonality itself may perhaps be neither perceptible nor provable . . . Nevertheless, to call any relation of tones atonal is just as far-fetched as it would be to designate a relation of colours aspectral . . . If one insists on looking for a name, “polytonal” or “pantonal” could be considered.’12 Music theorists have not been slow to seize on the implications of these statements and to try to tease out the terminological and technical consequences of regarding ‘polar attraction’ as a factor in the establishment of ‘pantonality’ or – alternatively – ‘suspended tonality’.13 For Tippett, who responded to and wrote about both Stravinsky and Schoenberg,14 the possibility that they might have significant similarities as well as essential differences could have been part of the attraction to an aesthetic instinct that acknowledged and worked with the tensions between two very fundamental artistic categories – classicism and modernism – both of which were accessible by way of the kind of thinking about harmony and

9 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities

principles of formation that the views on tonality of Stravinsky and Schoenberg exemplified.

Classicism, modernism, modern classicism When work on The Midsummer Marriage was drawing to a close, Tippett wrote that he considered ‘the general classicizing tendency of our day [the 1930s and 40s] less as evidence of a new classic period than as a fresh endeavour . . . to contain and clarify inchoate material. We must both submit to the overwhelming experience and clarify it into a magical unity. In the event, sometimes Dionysus wins, sometimes Apollo.’15 The blithe self-confidence of this declaration is very much of a piece with the thumpingly upbeat tone of the Yeats couplet that ends the opera’s text – ‘All things fall and are built again, and those that build them again are gay’ – and it strongly suggests that any possible confrontation between such ‘classicizing’ and Schoenbergian modernism (which around 1950 meant, essentially, ‘atonal’ twelve-tone technique) was of much less significance than a continuingly productive contest between Dionysian romanticism and Apollonian classicism. Such formulations reflect the general reluctance before the mid-1950s – particularly strong in British music – to follow through on the consequences of the expressionist, avant-garde initiatives, primarily in Schoenberg and Webern, which had emerged before 1914. These initiatives had been countered in the years after the First World War by a neoclassicism much more far-reaching than that developed by Stravinsky alone (it can also be traced in such twelve-tone exercises as Schoenberg’s Third and Fourth String Quartets). In addition, many of the most established and successful composers of the time – seniors like Richard Strauss, Sibelius and Janáček (even if his music was much less well-known until the second half of the century), the younger generation around Bartók, Hindemith and Prokofiev, and juniors like Britten and Shostakovich – refused to embrace fully that ‘emancipation of the dissonance’ which, coupled with resistance to harmonic centredness, was proving to be the most fundamental strategy in modernism’s principled resistance to classicism’s dissonance-resolving, unity-prioritizing qualities. While it is true that these composers often adopted harmonic characteristics that replaced simple major and minor triads with less standard chordal formations, such characteristics did not require the complete abandonment of degrees of relative consonance and dissonance, any more than the textures in which they appeared required the rejection of all points of contact with harmonic and contrapuntal

10 Arnold Whittall Ex. 1.1 String Quartet No. 1, third movement, ending

techniques that had flourished in the time of diatonicism – the kind of chords, like those with which Tippett ended his First String Quartet (1934–5, rev. 1943) (Ex. 1.1), that are sometimes termed ‘higher consonances’.16 This ending is not a ‘perfect cadence’ in A major of the precise, traditional kind, but its relationship with such a cadence is unambiguous and depends for its meaning and function on recognition of that relationship. Tippett might well have been prepared to concede that the kind of unsparingly sordid modern expression found in Alban Berg’s opera Wozzeck (1914–22) could provide a humanly compassionate as well as psychologically penetrating experience, thereby to a degree cathartically transcending the unrelievedly tragic aura of its subject matter. But he himself needed a stronger degree of idealism, and he was never more determined than in his early years to equate the musical representation of the visionary, the transcendent, with the triumphantly ‘cohesive . . . mingling of disparate ingredients’ he admired in Holst, and (eventually) in Ives: in both Holst’s The Hymn of Jesus and Ives’s Fourth Symphony, he would eventually argue, ‘the constituent elements and methods may be disparate, but their essence is one of distillation’.17 Berg might have been a master when it came to distillations of the disparate, but a modernism that downplayed the cohesive – the aspiration to renewal that was also an advance socially, politically and culturally – was initially far less appealing to Tippett than an aesthetic that retained enough of classical and romantic qualities to give space to his sense of how the modern world of the 1930s and 1940s needed to evolve if its political and spiritual crises were not to prove terminally destructive. The heady mix of Marxist political progressiveness and Jungian psychological self-exploration, so typical of the 1930s, fuelled Tippett’s conviction that the ‘everyday’ world in itself was an inadequate environment for properly aspirational and inspiring art. Even Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring had to be seen as something other than an unsparingly vivid portrait of human cruelty and social repression: it was ‘a drama of

11 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities

renewal’, and ‘deadly serious’ as such.18 But even if the cultural climate of the years between 1920 and 1945 did little to promote the positive qualities of an absolute, avant-garde rejection of tonality and traditional formal models (hence the strong admiration of the Mahler-worshipping Britten for Berg’s Bach-quoting, Bach-subverting Violin Concerto of 1935),19 it did allow for the kind of more mainstream modernism that worked with a heady blend of celebration and subversion to bring elements of traditional aesthetics and compositional technique into a newer world of scepticism and potential fragmentation – a world in which the belief that ‘renewal’ was a wholly positive and realistic proposition was countered, if not actually contradicted.

Precarious balances: before 1945 In British music of the inter-war decades the kind of deconstructive response to Purcellian counterpoint found in Elisabeth Lutyens’s FivePart Fantasia for Strings (1937) was a rare and flawed attempt at truly radical reappraisal of ‘classical’ traditions.20 Nevertheless, as the recent studies of Vaughan Williams’s Third (Pastoral) and Fourth Symphonies by Daniel Grimley and J. P. E. Harper-Scott have argued, even in a music that remained ‘classical rather than modern’, a deeply rooted ‘mingling of classical and modernist processes’ could function effectively.21 Most significantly, despite its relatively unprogressive kind of extended tonality, Vaughan Williams’s Pastoral Symphony (completed in 1921) was able to project an unusual degree of ambivalence in reaching back to the remembered horrors of the First World War with something of a ‘nihilist’ trajectory, offering ‘a complex and often fractured vision’ in place of a ‘magical unity’.22 It was Tippett’s resistance to such nihilism which did most to determine the relatively traditional style of his music up to A Child of Our Time (1939–41) – his own first, mature attempt at ‘a drama of renewal’ in which the very immediate evidence of human weakness and social cruelty is distanced and ritualized, the work of art offering spiritual consolation or psychotherapeutic counselling as well as political instruction. A Child of Our Time does not work as a productive dialogue between old and new, classical and modern, sacred and secular. If anything, it seems more concerned with failures of communication, and with disparities that can be lived with, accommodated, as long as they do not seriously inhibit that natural process of resistance to annihilation (and therefore of healing, renewal) that underpins the drama. Undoubtedly, pious aspirations to ‘know one’s shadow and one’s light’ as a sure means of

12 Arnold Whittall

effecting personal wellbeing are the most dated, least convincing aspect of the work from a twenty-first-century perspective. Because the continuing status of Jung is as problematic and unresolved an issue as the continuing status of Karl Marx, A Child of Our Time might be more of a problem piece today than it was in the 1940s. But it served the important purpose, for Tippett, of making him wary of using musical materials – the spirituals – whose social, religious function was so unambiguously explicit, so profoundly at odds with the more innately aesthetic purposes of art. When, at the end of The Midsummer Marriage, he alludes to a (purely instrumental) hymn-like chorale the atmosphere is perfectly poised between the ironic and the elevated, refining rather than simply underlining the ritualized collectivity of the generic association. And A Child of Our Time itself is redeemed aesthetically, to a degree, by the downbeat austerity of the way its concluding spiritual, ‘Deep River’, fades away (Ex. 1.2). The build-up of affirmative regeneration, the ‘rite of spring’ that precedes it, is countered, not transcended or given emphatic closure, and the fact that Tippett never seems to have considered bringing back the soaringly upbeat music which begins the finale (No. 29: Ex. 1.3) to round off and resolve the work as a whole leaves it polarized between two very different expressions of hopefulness in a way that not only seems relevant to the zeitgeist of 1941, but also lays a foundation for the methods Tippett would later employ to intensify the representation of polarities.

Ex. 1.2 A Child of Our Time, No. 30, chorus and soli, ‘Deep River’, ending

13 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities Ex. 1.3 A Child of Our Time, No. 29, chorus and soli, ‘I would know my shadow and my light’, opening

Precarious balances: after the war As I have argued elsewhere, by the time he came to compose the ending of The Midsummer Marriage, Tippett was capable of ‘refining and intensifying the work’s dramatic themes without dissolving all traces of darkness, or even of scepticism’ – despite that Yeatsian textual assertion about ‘all things’ being ‘built again’.23 To this extent, Tippett was already on the road that would lead, in his late Yeats setting Byzantium, to the use ‘of symbol and myth to further the process of human self-understanding in a far more sceptical, circumspect and (on the face of it) realistic manner’ than in the opera.24 Arguably, however, that journey took the form and character it did in part at least because of being rooted so firmly in the relatively unambiguous classical ideals of his earlier years – ideals that remained conspicuous in the works composed immediately after The Midsummer Marriage – the Piano Concerto (1953–5) and the Symphony No. 2 (1956–7). The continued presence of a Stravinskian aura in the symphony has often been highlighted, and in 1999 Kenneth Gloag added a distinctive gloss on the music’s modern classicism – or ‘classicised modernism’ – in aligning his own analysis of it with Stephen Walsh’s comments on Stravinsky’s Concerto for Two Pianos: ‘here Stravinsky seems less and less to be confronting us with the irreconcilable nature of classicism and modernism and more and more to be synthesising a sort of personal classicism out of precisely their reconciliation’. As a result, ‘neo-classicism dissolves into a classicised modernism’,25 and Gloag surveys a range of analytical attempts to interpret Tippett’s version of ‘classicised modernism’ in terms of polarities or oppositions whose potential for reconciliation was clearly a vital aesthetic issue for him.

14 Arnold Whittall

Remaining faithful to Tippett’s aesthetic instincts has required commentators to acknowledge his commitment to ‘fusion’. Elliott Carter once famously acclaimed Stravinsky for his mastery of the paradoxical yet supremely contemporary technique of ‘unified fragmentation’, in keeping with his ‘classicising’ declaration that ‘music gains its strength in the measure that it does not succumb to the seductions of variety’.26 Yet it seems to have been exactly this commitment to connectedness that Tippett came to challenge as he moved from the Second Symphony to its immediate successor, the opera King Priam. If the Stravinskian equivalent is that most potent of Greek tragedies, Oedipus Rex, the composer’s claim that he had assembled the work ‘from whatever came to hand’, making ‘these bits and snatches my own, I think, and of them a unity’ might lie behind Ian Kemp’s suggestion that Tippett’s opera offers a ‘unity of pluralities’.27 My own 1995 gloss on Kemp’s conclusion was to suggest that ‘as a post-romantic modernist, Tippett is led to problematize the synthesis of old and new’, seeking out ‘the deep relationship between all the dualities’ and making musical drama out of a search whose successful conclusion cannot be taken for granted.28 A specific and very basic technical factor supported this conclusion: ‘the role Tippett assigned to the perfect fifth in a post-tonal context is the strongest evidence we have of his refusal to let irony and ambiguity destroy all optimism, all dreams of Utopia’29 – even when violence and death appear to sweep all before them, as in King Priam’s final stages. Focusing on the role of a particular ‘triadic’ formation – semitone plus perfect fourth (set-class [0,1,6]) – and its motivic, metaphoric significance in the opera, suggests an implicit contrast with those more directly tonal, fifthbased cadential triads central to Tippett’s earlier music: set-class [0,3,7] – the major or minor triad, as at the end of The Midsummer Marriage or (in a different formation) the Second Symphony; and set-class [0,2,7] – the major second plus perfect fourth – that ended the First String Quartet.30 It was polarities acknowledged yet questioned – challenged, rather than wholeheartedly embraced and underlined – that remained the core quality of Tippett’s gradual retreat from the possible extreme that the starkly dissonant, fractured conclusion of Priam and its satellite successor, the Piano Sonata No. 2 (1962), represented.

The centre under threat: after King Priam In his later years Tippett admitted to being ‘unsettled’ by the presence of what he termed ‘solid cadences’ in ‘one or two’ of his ‘earlier pieces’.31 Nevertheless, the extremes of ‘unsolidity’ to be found in the dissolving

15 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities

endings of King Priam and the Piano Sonata No. 2 were even more unsettling, confirming his wariness that such musical metaphors for unsparing and unrelieved tragedy might constrain, or even lame, the expressive contours of music which sought to acknowledge the realities of a modernist cultural position while not completely abandoning the more affirmative elements endemic to classicism. As early as the sonata’s immediate successor, the Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3), his chosen conclusion, while avoiding any hint of higher consonance, seems to involve stopping in the middle of the rediscovery of rhythmically regular melodic counterpoint – a wholeheartedly traditional texture given fresh post-tonal perspectives, and expressively more Apollonian than Dionysian in its imposing gravity. If, here, ‘a romantic’s aspiration to the ideal’ is tempered, held at bay, the polar opposite – ‘a more sceptical realism’ – seems also to be in question. And even if the abrupt termination of the concerto’s mosaic design was as much to do with a looming performance deadline as with deep aesthetic pondering, it seems to have reinforced the creative self-confidence that, over the next decade or so, would see Tippett’s most ambitious and controversial solutions to the paradox of polarities that demanded to be connected even as their contrasts were most starkly delineated. The Vision of Saint Augustine, following hard on the heels of the Concerto for Orchestra, might almost have been conceived as a direct response to the utterly dark moment of vision that Priam describes just before his death – a vision whose mysterious exaltedness has little of Utopian euphoria about it. But in The Vision of Saint Augustine the prophetic human voice – in awe of inaccessible transcendence, and glorying in nature rather than worshipping the image of some all-powerful divinity – links the post-tonal jubilation and awe-struck speech at the end of the work with the ‘floating’ final vision of Boyhood’s End – something whose triadic purity, Purcellian ornateness and ecstatic sensuality, coming so soon after the more brittle rhetoric of A Child of Our Time, seems perilously close to aesthetic escapism, fantasy divorced from rather than polarized against reality. Twenty years after Boyhood’s End, jubilation was even more uninhibited, but reconciliation much harder to achieve. As David Clarke’s extended and complex analysis of The Vision of Saint Augustine argues, ‘the work in which he most relentlessly pursues the transcendental is also his most uncompromisingly modernist statement’, ‘the resistance of each section to synthesis’ being ‘a measure of the extent to which it offers itself to the transcendental’.32 In aligning modernism with the transcendent in this way, Tippett for once foregoes the more far-reaching polarities to which his usual texts, dramatic themes and compositional priorities

16 Arnold Whittall

accustomed him. Augustine’s visionary voice, even though alternating between the singular solo baritone and the collective choir, has a monolithic insistence that fixes it in its own time and yet distances it from those adumbrations of the twentieth century’s real world to which Tippett would return in his next pair of major works, the opera The Knot Garden (1966–9) and the Symphony No. 3 (1970–2). Here the prophetic voice becomes more sharply delineated as Dionysian idealism resisting the kind of Apollonian sobriety heard at the end of the Concerto for Orchestra. The challenge, it might be thought, was to find a Dionysian rhetoric that did not float away into the clouds of Utopian fantasy, as idealism pure and simple, unchallenged and unrealistic. In The Knot Garden the freedom fighter Denise’s resistance to idyll, in a powerfully austere account of torture, sets up the kind of psychological nexus for the drama which Tippett would soon encapsulate in what he thought of as the Third Symphony’s confrontation between the diametrically opposed human attitudes of aggressiveness and sympathy – violence and compassion. In relation to the symphony, Tippett wrote eloquently of polarities as ‘fundamental to my temperament’: ‘I was living in the twentieth century, which had seen two world wars, numerous revolutions, the concentration camps, the Siberian camps, Hiroshima, Vietnam, and much else’, and this meant that ‘affirmation had to be balanced by irony . . . And at the very end, I wanted to preserve the underlying polarities, concentrating all the violence into strong, sharp, rather acid wind chords, but matching them with string chords, representing some kind of compassionate answer from behind.’33 Tippett’s resolutely non-technical language here has opened up a fathomless space in which commentator after commentator has attempted to specify exactly how ‘the underlying polarities’ result in particular pitches in particular registers. The first three ‘violent’ chords, alternating with the first three ‘compassionate’ chords, seem determined to suspend any clear-cut tonal character or direction, although each of them in different ways – and often because of the ‘perfect fifth with other intervals’ aspect of their construction – can be shown to anticipate the content of the decisive final pair (Ex. 1.4). Whether Tippett’s choice of C major and A major triads for the lowest pitches of these closing sonorities was a conscious allusion to the rich romantic tradition of third-related harmonic structures, to the idealistic yet uncertain juxtaposition of C major and A major at the end of The Midsummer Marriage (Ex. 1.5), or to these tonalities as standing for his First (A major) and Second (C major) Symphonies at the end of his Third can never be known; nor can we determine whether he saw the climactic, cadential fusion of the two in his late Yeats scena Byzantium (1989–90) (Ex. 1.6) as a decisively ambivalent

17 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities Ex. 1.4 Symphony No. 3, Part II, ending

image of the numinous for the modern(ist) age. Where the Third Symphony is concerned, the evolution of theoretical thinking over the past half-century might favour the argument that the suspension rather than elimination of these two tonalities stands as a metaphor for the conjunction of conflicting human attitudes – the violent and the compassionate – that Tippett’s own sense of the music’s most fundamental polarity provides. Whatever explanation is preferred, the evidence of the music Tippett composed after the Third Symphony is that the polarized imagery that stimulated his creative imagination – shadow and light, violence and compassion, scepticism and idealism, the humanly real and the transcendentally ideal – continued to lead him to dramatic themes, musical ideas and cadential conclusions that explored comparable elements and evoked comparable states of mind.

Towards an ending: integrity and irony Tippett’s poet-prophets would continue to embody the essence of that doubting visionary, represented most poignantly in his texts for the Third Symphony, who senses ‘a huge compassionate power to heal, to love’,34 and who is prevented from succumbing to sentimental self-indulgence by the abrasive environment in which she is obliged to function. Such issues also help to define the role of the exiled writer Lev in The Ice Break (1973–6), who achieves a fragile yet hopeful reconciliation with his son after the death of his wife, and also of the trainee children’s doctor

18 Arnold Whittall Ex. 1.5 The Midsummer Marriage, Act 3, ending

Jo Ann in New Year (1986–8), whose experience of love leaves her feeling able to face a dangerous and probably hostile urban world for the first time. The mix of fantasy and realism, the transcendental and the earthly, in both these operas might not have worn particularly well, if only because of the continued prominence of comparable dramatic themes in contemporary fiction and cinema. But Tippett made a still more ambitious foray into the mythologizing dramatization of the human condition in

19 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities Ex. 1.6 Byzantium, ending

his third large-scale choral and orchestral composition, The Mask of Time (1980–2). The struggle in this turbulently energetic score to balance positive and negative, human and inhuman, compassion and violence, has been well summarized by David Clarke, writing of how ‘the sublimity of the final moments . . . asserts a transcendent humanity over negative experience through a partial assimilation of it . . . Here the sublime is used in a spirit that is essentially modernist, pointing forward to the possibility of a different order, and suggesting that for Tippett images of the visionary signify not escape into a different world, but a challenge

20 Arnold Whittall

to the existing one.’35 In 2002 I aligned this with Ian Kemp’s no-lesspenetrating comments about Tippett’s personal brand of expressionism, which is not a mere repeat of its early twentieth-century counterpart. It is not so self-sufficient, its terms of reference are wider and it neither wages war against a hostile world nor presumes that music can embrace the abstract essence of things by means of an ‘absolute’ metaphor. On the contrary, it seeks a covenant with real life and is always conditioned by Tippett’s preoccupation with the integration of the individual – the individual with himself, with others and with society at large. In addition, it is coloured by an irony which questions its whole basis.36

Together, these assessments convey much of what makes Tippett’s way with twentieth-century – and other – polarities difficult to pin down yet impossible to escape. He seems consistently to be seeking to celebrate something timeless, archetypal, and to combine it with something elusive, even ephemeral. At one extreme, the archetypal musical states of singing and dancing provide the perfectly balanced complementation from which a satisfying classical synthesis can be forged. At the other extreme, challenges to such idealized integration are shown to be the more effective as their disruptive, dissonant identities ironically absorb fundamentals from those very factors to which they are most productively hostile. Nowhere are these diverse balances shown to more powerful effect than in the last work in which Tippett alluded to his beloved A-centred harmony, the Fifth String Quartet (1990–1), the ending of which – quite unlike that of Tippett’s actual swansong, The Rose Lake (1991–3), which relishes making something downbeat and understated of something that is nevertheless decisively conclusive – discovers the ‘rich’ unanimity of this fifth-based higher consonance with a freshness that belies its deep roots in the composer’s past (Ex. 1.7).

Ex. 1.7 String Quartet No. 5, second movement, ending

21 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities

In 1998 I interpreted this ending in terms of ‘the pervasive tensions and ambiguities of an idiom which has abandoned extended tonality for a harmonic world which is altogether more mobile, but in which there is still a polyphonic equality of line and a “classicising” use of repetition, imitation and sequence as the principal tools in the search for a sufficient closural stability . . . In late Tippett intensification does not secure a trouble-free stability. A sense of strain, doubt and openness remains, even though the prevailing mood is one of hope.’37 That element of ‘even though’ ambivalence is no less apparent in those later Tippett endings which require a sudden, unresolving shutting off of sound, as with The Mask of Time and New Year, where the upbeat but possibly over-optimistic tone of the Presenter’s final message – ‘one humanity, one justice’ – does not prompt an unambiguously affirmative musical coda. Rather, as I concluded in 1990 after seeing New Year’s British premiere: the irresolvable tensions in Tippett’s music surely reflect the fact that even the most confidently integrated individual still has to function in a society that is likely to be notable for its lack of unanimity. It is characteristic of the essential honesty of Tippett’s continued desire to weld what he has termed the ‘marvellous’ and the ‘everyday’ into viable drama that, despite the happy ending, the sheer abruptness with which the music of New Year stops makes it clear how uncertain the future actually is.38

The archetypal blues Having chosen a particular title, courtesy of Noel Coward, for his autobiography, Tippett brought its generic allusion to the surface in a final section headed ‘Singing the Blues’, in which he attributed two vital topics to LeRoi Jones’s book Blues People: Negro Music in White America:39 firstly, ‘the blues is the most fundamental musical form of our time’; and secondly, ‘when you sing the blues, you do so not just because you are “blue”, but to relieve the blue emotions. When I heard Noel Coward sing, “Those twentieth-century blues are getting me down” he sang because the blues were doing exactly that and the singing of them is his means of discharging their effect: simultaneous involvement and detachment, in other words – which is how artefacts are made.’40 Tippett was quite clear that his own objective was never simply to reproduce or imitate the jazz and popular derivatives of the blues: for him it was an ‘archetype’, reinforcing in a special, twentieth-century way the possibility that artefacts (like successful psychoanalysis) can purge the negative emotions of despair – along with the fear that comes from lack of

22 Arnold Whittall

self-awareness. Perhaps it is best to interpret his hyperbolic assertion that ‘the blues is the most fundamental musical form of our time’ as a declaration of his belief that it was the ‘musical form’ best suited to this therapeutic role – and certainly better suited than ‘Schoenberg’s twelve-note method’, with which he compares it, thereby failing to distinguish ‘method’ from ‘form’, or indeed to consider whether these two musical archetypes might not be complementary in their capacity for presenting extended tonal statements of great expressive intensity. Tippett’s mindset in this autobiography reveals the persistence of his neo-romantic commitment to idealization, his need to be upbeat (however sceptically or insecurely), in ways which contrast notably with the capacity of more outright modernists like Carter and Boulez to avoid pessimistic despair without going beyond that into suggesting that music can actually purge pessimism and despair in a great, consolatory outpouring of ‘relieving’ emotional discharge. Tippett in this respect contrasts even more fundamentally with the thoroughgoing English late-modernism of a Harrison Birtwistle, for whom the purpose of music is to inspire, and therefore also to console, by the aesthetic, expressive strength and power with which it represents its own stark resistance to consolatory rhetoric. It is therefore no surprise that, to the end, Tippett would speak of ‘fusion’ as much as of ‘polarity’. In what Clarke defined as that ‘dialogue between a romantic’s aspiration to the ideal and absolute, and a modernist’s sceptical realism’, Tippett’s instinct was, by and large, to move the latter into the field of the former. In this way, his personal angle on twentieth-century polarities was unfailingly rich, challenging and memorable. As was said – presciently – of Sibelius in the 1960s: his time will surely come again. Notes 1 Michael Tippett, Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995); Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett, 1st edn (London: Robson Books, 1982), 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997); David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999); Kenneth Gloag, Tippett: A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999); David Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001); Suzanne Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002). 2 David Matthews, Foreword to Thomas Schuttenhelm (ed.), The Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. xiv.

3 See Paul Kildea, Selling Britten: Music and the Market Place (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2002). 4 Robin Holloway, On Music: Essays and Diversions (Brinkworth, Wilts: Claridge Press, 2003), pp. 241–2 (originally published in The Spectator, 31 January 1998). 5 Constant Lambert, Music Ho! A Study of Music in Decline (London: Faber and Faber, 1934), p. 264. 6 David Clarke, ‘Tippett, Sir Michael’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. X X V , p. 505. 7 Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, p. 269. 8 Clarke, ‘Tippett, Sir Michael’, p. 505.

23 Tippett and twentieth-century polarities 9 Igor Stravinsky, Poetics of Music (New York: Vintage, 1947), p. 39. 10 For Heinrich Schenker’s discussion of a fifteen-bar passage from Stravinsky’s Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments (1923–4), see ‘Further Consideration of the Urlinie II’ in The Masterwork in Music: A Yearbook, Volume 2 (1926), ed. William Drabkin (Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 17–18. 11 Arnold Schoenberg’s Harmonielehre (Theory of Harmony) was first published in 1911 (Vienna; first Eng. trans. Robert D. W. Adams (New York: Philosophical Library, 1948)). The four volumes of Vincent d’Indy’s Cours de composition musicale appeared between 1903 and 1950 (Paris; vol. I V ed. G. de Lioncourt). The two volumes of Paul Hindemith’s Unterweisung im Tonsatz (The Craft of Musical Composition) were originally published in 1937 and 1939 (Mainz; Eng. trans. Arthur Mendel, vol. I (New York: Associated Musical Publishers; London: Schott & Co., 1942); Eng. trans. Otto Ortmann, vol. I I (New York: Associated Musical Publishers; London: Schott & Co., 1941). 12 Arnold Schoenberg, Theory of Harmony, trans. Roy E. Carter (London: Faber and Faber, 1978), p. 432. 13 On this topic see Richard Kurth, ‘Suspended Tonalities in Schoenberg’s Twelve-Tone Compositions’, Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Center, 3 (2001), 239–66, and Arnold Whittall, Introduction to Serialism (Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 110–11. 14 See, for instance, Tippett’s pair of articles in Tippett on Music, pp. 25–46 (Schoenberg) and pp. 47–56 (Stravinsky). 15 Tippett, ‘The Midsummer Marriage’ in Tippett on Music, p. 208. 16 For further discussion of this term, see Arnold Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques, 2nd edn (Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 5. 17 Tippett, ‘St Augustine and His Visions’ in Tippett on Music, p. 236. 18 Tippett, ‘Stravinsky and Les Noces’ in Tippett on Music, p. 51. 19 See John Evans (ed.), Journeying Boy: The Diaries of the Young Benjamin Britten 1928–1938 (London: Faber and Faber, 2009), pp. 348, 391, 393. 20 See Laurel Parsons, ‘Early Music and the Ambivalent Origins of Elizabeth Lutyens’s Modernism’ in Matthew Riley (ed.), British Music and Modernism 1895–1960 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), pp. 269–91. 21 J. P. E. Harper-Scott, ‘Vaughan Williams’s Antic Symphony’ in British Music and Modernism, ibid., p. 187.

22 Daniel M. Grimley, ‘Landscape and Distance: Vaughan Williams, Modernism and the Symphonic Pastoral’ in British Music and Modernism, ibid., p. 174. 23 Arnold Whittall, ‘New Opera, Old Opera: Perspectives on Critical Interpretation’, Cambridge Opera Journal, 21/2 (July 2009), 193. 24 Arnold Whittall, ‘“Byzantium”: Tippett, Yeats and the Limitations of Affinity’, Music & Letters, 74/3 (August 1993), 398. 25 Stephen Walsh, The Music of Stravinsky (Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 175, as cited in Kenneth Gloag, ‘Tippett’s Second Symphony, Stravinsky and the Language of Neoclassicism: Towards a Critical Framework’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 93. 26 Elliott Carter, ‘Igor Stravinsky, 1882–1971: Two Tributes’ in Elliott Carter: Collected Essays and Lectures, 1937–1995, ed. Jonathan W. Bernard (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997), p. 143; Stravinsky, Poetics of Music, p. 33. 27 Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Dialogues (London: Faber and Faber, 1982), p. 27; Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 340. 28 Arnold Whittall, ‘“Is There a Choice at All?” King Priam and Motives for Analysis’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 77; the reference is to ‘Too Many Choices’ in Tippett on Music, p. 296. 29 Whittall, ‘“Is There a Choice at All?”’, ibid. 30 For detailed information on pitch-class set theory, see Allen Forte, The Structure of Atonal Music (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1973). Introductions to the subject can be found in Nicholas Cook, A Guide to Musical Analysis, pbk edn (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1989), Ch. 4, and Jonathan Dunsby and Arnold Whittall, Music Analysis in Theory and Practice (London: Faber Music, 1988), Ch. 12. 31 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 101. 32 Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, pp. 126, 141. 33 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 96, 100. 34 Ibid., p. 99. 35 David Clarke, ‘Visionary Images: Tippett’s Transcendental Aspirations’, Musical Times, 136 (January 1995), 21. 36 Kemp, Tippett, p. 402; Arnold Whittall, ‘Transcending Song: Tippett’s Play with Genre in Vocal Composition’ in Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature, p. 196.

24 Arnold Whittall 37 Arnold Whittall, ‘Sir Michael Tippett 1905–98: Acts of Renewal’, Musical Times, 139 (March 1998), 9. 38 Arnold Whittall, ‘Facing an Uncertain Future’, The Times Literary Supplement, 13–17 July 1990, 755.

39 LeRoi Jones, Blues People: Negro Music in White America (New York: William Morrow, 1963). 40 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues (London: Hutchinson, 1991), pp. 274–5.

2 Tippett and the English traditions CHRISTOPHER MARK

Much in the complex, eclectic mix of Tippett’s artistic persona portrays an internationalist stance: his key musical exemplars were Stravinsky, Hindemith, Schoenberg (in terms of ideas if not, particularly, style), Ives and Beethoven; an important music-theoretical influence was Vincent d’Indy; politically, he aligned himself with the international left; key literary influences such as T. S. Eliot and George Bernard Shaw had overseas origins; later in life he developed a fascination for North American culture (including Black American popular music forms); he had a German publisher, Schott; and so on. He was also apparently concerned to distance himself from the preceding generation of English composers, viewing them (as did his contemporary, Benjamin Britten) as insular and amateurish. Yet he also exhibited traits that can be recognized as being in common with other English composers of the twentieth century and he actively engaged with English music of the Renaissance and baroque, especially the madrigalists and Purcell. Commencing with a discussion of what an ‘English tradition’ might mean in the twentieth century, this chapter focuses on Tippett’s indebtedness to English musical forms and procedures, highlighting in particular the role of ‘fantasy’ – an approach to musical thinking derived from Purcell and his Renaissance forebears that, I shall argue, informs Tippett’s output from the earliest of his acknowledged compositions through to the mosaic-based works of the sixties and seventies and beyond.

I Let us first start with a dictionary’s definitions of ‘tradition’: 1: a): an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior (as a religious practice or a social custom) b): a belief or story or a body of stories relating to the past that are commonly accepted as historical though not verifiable 2: the handing down of information, beliefs, and customs by word of mouth or by example from one generation to another without written instruction

[25]

26 Christopher Mark 3: cultural continuity in social attitudes, customs, and institutions 4: characteristic manner, method, or style .1

All four of these are relevant to musical tradition, which is a complex business with different types and sub-branches continually interacting. To take a relatively straightforward example: traditions of compositional practice normally arise reciprocally with traditions of performance, but while notations of the pitches and rhythms in the music of, say, Bach have remained more or less fixed (subject to generations of editorial interventions, which of course have their own traditions), ways of performing have changed markedly, leading in Bach’s case to a romantic style of performance in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (enshrined in the latter part of this period in recordings, but also in phrase and dynamic markings in many editions of his scores). In the second half of the twentieth century a burgeoning number of performers reacted against this romantic manner by making what they believed to be a reconnection with the lost performing tradition. But as Richard Taruskin has persuasively argued, this was subject no less to the (essentially modernist) ideology of the reconnectionists’ own time.2 The later volumes of Taruskin’s largest project, The Oxford History of Western Music,3 and more of his writings besides, are much concerned with the interrogation of assumed notions of tradition, and in particular the hegemonic value placed upon the Austro-German tradition and the distortions of Hegelian and neo-Hegelian historiography that sustain it.4 The constructedness of tradition is also emphasized by the historian Eric Hobsbawm through his notion of the ‘invented tradition’, which ‘is taken to mean a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behaviour by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past. In fact, where possible, they normally attempt to establish continuity with a suitable historic past.’5 As we shall see, establishing continuity with ‘a suitable historic past’ was of some concern to the generations of English composers born in the latter part of the nineteenth century and the early part of the twentieth. Clearly, this chapter needs to try to identify whose ‘English tradition’ we are talking about, as well as interpreting what it consists of. We might start by asking: what can be determined of Tippett’s notion of ‘tradition’ and, in particular, the ‘English tradition’? The word ‘tradition’ occurs a few times in his published writings and letters, though it has to be said that the composer does not always express himself with the greatest clarity, and a fair amount of speculation has to be employed in order to determine both localized meanings and what his overall view of

27 Tippett and the English traditions

tradition might be. One of the earliest occurrences of the word is in a letter to Francesca Allinson of March 1942. Tippett is initially concerned with some criticisms of his Fantasia on a Theme of Handel (1939–41), but he soon turns to tradition, suggesting this was very much on his mind when he was composing what might be called his breakthrough work, A Child of Our Time (1939–41), which is exactly contemporary with the Fantasia: Your feeling that the work was Continental is really my feeling too. And I think it’s come for good. It’s a sort of growing up inside. And it goes hand in hand with my increasing knowledge of the English tradition! I think the oratorio [A Child of Our Time] will sound even more Continental too – the point is that the temper is of that order, irrespective of myself. I am quite happy about this, and indeed welcome it. Not but what the English ancestry is really there all the time – it’s the technical equipment that is growing intellectually maturer and consequently then English, as per Bax, V.W. [Vaughan Williams] and Ireland etc.6

What exactly does he mean by ‘English ancestry’ and ‘Continental’ approaches? The former almost certainly refers to Purcell and the earlier generations of composers including Orlando Gibbons and Thomas Morley, whose music he had been exploring since the early 1930s with the various choirs he conducted: in a letter to Alan Bush dated 6 February 1940 (two years earlier than the letter to Allinson) he states that ‘The recitative [in A Child of Our Time] in principle goes back to Lawes and Purcell.’7 Tippett began to explore his responses to Purcell in various BBC radio talks and programme notes during the 1940s and early 1950s, and I will discuss these further below.8 This is not to say, though, that the influence of more recent English composers is insignificant (as we shall see presently). And the English tradition was not the only one in play: in the same letter to Bush Tippett writes that ‘The question of assimilation of the “classical” tradition is the point I’ve just got to, having lived out the jejune romanticism of my adolescence.’9 This might suggest some kind of engagement with neoclassicism, which might be partly what he means by a ‘Continental’ feeling: he goes on to refer to A Child of Our Time as ‘Almost a resuscitation of a traditional form. There are choruses, arias, recitative (!) and chorale. It is only the content and one or two more subtle means of expression which are modern.’10 The oratorio genre, though, suggests more strongly an engagement with the English tradition that starts with Handel (who could be said to have been adopted by the English) and is then sustained by Mendelssohn and numerous minor composers (with performances at provincial festivals) through to Elgar and Walton (in the form of Belshazzar’s Feast (1930–1)). With Handel incorporating various aspects of Purcell’s style himself,11 the oratorio tradition could almost be

28 Christopher Mark

seen as a thread of continuity from Purcell to Tippett. The point is, though, that Tippett sees a break in the tradition, such that it has to be ‘resuscitated’. Writing to Robert Ponsonby on 28 July 1972 about his (Tippett’s) ideas about British music, having declined to collaborate with Ponsonby on the 1974 Proms season (Ponsonby had just been appointed Director of the Proms), he says: Might I suggest, however, since the matter of British music is in general very near my heart, that we have a talk about it over lunch, when you are settled in the south. I have ideas on this theme, that is, what kind of voice our national music is, at its best, and how it can find its true place in the general variety of our Western musical experience. I mean, why the Tallis 40-part motet is probably the most extraordinary piece of European music of its period; what can be successfully performed of Purcell in the concert hall; the real gap in the English tradition during the 18th and 19th centuries; why, at the return, Elgar is a creative genius and Bax is second rate; what is the core of Vaughan Williams? And earlier of Delius? And so on.12

The existence of the oratorio tradition and recent research into music in nineteenth-century Britain give the lie to this gap.13 What Tippett seems to have been latching onto, along with most composers, performers, historians and listeners (including the Germans who viewed Britain, famously, as Das Land ohne Musik), was the lack of composers of the front rank. One of the most interesting of Tippett’s comments about tradition is to be found in another letter roughly contemporaneous with A Child of Our Time (actually written two years later, on 7 February 1943). This time the recipient is William Glock, and the subject is the promotion of ‘the moderns’: I can’t help feeling what we want most is an artistically discriminate public somewhere, even if a small one, that has some sense of a much larger and more living tradition than the usual notion of a few great names down from which, as it were, we scale to the small fry. I am sure the way around is to have a sense of a tremendous tradition within which the great men are great; in part or virtue of which they are great. And when it comes to the moderns I just feel it’s impertinence on our part to try and ‘put them across’, like a disagreeable political policy. No – they are there, and praise heaven there are such active minds alive – let us be thankful for them and do our best to see what they are up to – their works will fall into place soon enough, and if they are of the true tradition, then they will ever so little alter our view of the whole mass of stuff gone before. Stravinsky, Hindemith, Bartók are all of this and I’m pretty certain to speak of the living. And each of them without exception has the strongest sense of tradition and the music of all sorts of pasts.14

Key in this is the notion of what Tippett calls ‘the true tradition’, the ‘whole mass of stuff’ which is constantly (if only ‘ever so little’) given new perspective by subsequent generations of composers. This reflects some

29 Tippett and the English traditions

comments made by T. S. Eliot (a significant influence on Tippett15) about tradition in his essay ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’ published in 1919, which Tippett quotes in his article ‘Schoenberg’, first published in 1965, though it seems likely that he had come across it many years earlier: ‘The existing monuments [of art] form an ideal order among themselves, which is modified by the introduction of the new, the really new work of art among them. The existing order is complete before the new work arrives. For order to persist out of the supervention of novelty, the whole existing order must be, if ever so slightly, altered.’16 Glossing this, Tippett writes: Eliot’s point is that the new and the old, the revolutionary and the traditional, is a two-way traffic. The old affects the new; that is obvious. But Eliot believed that what he calls the really new affects the old. If this is so, and leaving anti-art and Dada aside, then the really new works of art are only those by which our view of the whole pre-existing order of works of art is ever so slightly altered. The greatest works of Schoenberg and Stravinsky are in this category.17

If all this suggests that, for Tippett, a sense of tradition provided the means of ensuring coherence and meaningfulness in the face of the profusion of allusions which are part and parcel of his compositional approach from A Child of Our Time onwards, the evidence of his scores is that tradition was at least as importantly a straightforward matter of resource.

II Rarely in the Tippett literature is the influence of English composers immediately after the ‘gap’ – the composers of the so-called English Musical Renaissance – regarded as being of much importance. Meirion Bowen’s assertion is typical of many commentators: At the outset of his career as a composer, Tippett steered a fairly independent musical course. He was not in sympathy with the aspirations of Vaughan Williams towards a national school of composition rooted in English folk song. He rejected Elgar and many of the other late-romantic figures such as Mahler and Bruckner, though later he came to value and learn something from all three.18

But as David Clarke has shown in an essay on the Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9), Tippett’s relationship with his national environment was not so straightforward. Clarke’s view is that while ‘Tippett seemed to have projected onto [Vaughan Williams and Holst] the different aspects of a personal ambivalence towards Englishness and English music’, the

30 Christopher Mark

composer’s ‘stance towards these various aspects of English musical culture was in fact far from one of rejection. We might surmise that his reservations were directed less to the actual sound the music made, so to speak, than to its perceived technical limitations and ideological connotations.’19 In this regard, he took a rather softer approach than his contemporary, Benjamin Britten, whose judgements were much more severe.20 Tippett’s attitude to one of the best-known proclivities of the previous generation, the use of folksong, was also not simply one of rejection, as evidenced by the incorporation of instances of it into the Concerto for Double String Orchestra and the derivation of much of the work’s thematic material from folk-like shapes.21 He seems to have had some sort of role in Francesca Allinson’s researches, written up in an unpublished monograph entitled The Irish Contribution to English Traditional Tunes, which represent a ‘challenge to [Cecil] Sharp’s beliefs (and the whole nationalist edifice built on it) that these songs represented pure, quintessential Englishness’.22 But as Clarke points out: It is significant, though, that the Allinson-Tippett critique entails not a dismissal of the folksong enterprise, but an attempt to reconceive it from within. This finds a parallel in Tippett’s attitude towards English musical traditions, which are not to be rejected in favour of some kind of internationalist agenda, but to be embraced without specious, nostalgic distinctions between urban and rural cultures.23

As for any influence of the first wave of the English Musical Renaissance, we have seen that Tippett himself sees the Concerto for Double String Orchestra as springing partly from ‘a special English tradition – that of Elgar’s Introduction and Allegro and Vaughan Williams’s Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis’.24 But the possibility of Elgar and Parry playing even a minor role in the composer’s development has hardly been entertained. And when these composers are mentioned in the literature, it is usually with a negative tone. Thus Kemp sees the influence of Parry’s Blest Pair of Sirens in Tippett’s unpublished A Song of Liberty (1937) as detrimental,25 and is at best equivocal about the small number of indebtednesses to Elgar he identifies – in, for example, the slow movement of the String Quartet No. 1 (1934–5, rev. 1943) (‘The G [major] in the second section . . . creates a fresh, open sound (albeit unpleasantly suggestive of Elgar . . .’26)) and the beginning of the Scena for solo quartet (No. 15) in A Child of Our Time (‘. . . it is difficult to see precisely what Tippett intended here [No. 15] by conjuring up the spirit of the Enigma Variations, unless it was simply that Elgar’s theme crystallizes a universal mood of valedictory sorrow’27). Yet certain practices that can be identified as originating in nineteenth-century English church music and culminating in Parry and

31 Tippett and the English traditions

Elgar are still important elements in the stylistic mix of the music through which Tippett first achieved recognition, as Peter Evans suggests in his passing observation that those passages exhibiting ‘traditional harmony’ in the Concerto for Double String Orchestra are ‘very English in [their] ardent appoggiaturas – see the finale’s second subject’.28 Although chromaticism is not eschewed, the opening of A Child of Our Time is characterized by the abundance of ‘“clean” diatonic dissonance’ that was one of the principal means of expression in the work of composers from S. S. Wesley to Parry and beyond:29 see, for example, the appoggiatura in bar 6 (F♯–G), the 4–3 suspension in bar 8, and in particular the 9–8 suspensions over minor-seventh chords in the sequence in Fig. 1:1–2 (see Ex. 2.1). Meanwhile, the more chromatic opening bars display the obliquity that Evans has identified as a Parry trait:30 the E minor triad that begins the work is a prime candidate for tonic (the opening paragraph ends on V of E at Fig. 1:7 and the music begins again on the same E triad, while the chorus’s initial entries are all over a V pedal in E), but this status is immediately fudged by the bass C♯; and while the

Ex. 2.1 A Child of Our Time, opening

32 Christopher Mark

subsequent movement to the putative dominant in bar 2 (via C♮) is conventional enough, the D above that resolves the suspended E is the flattened leading note. The opening is in fact a descending series of seventh chords ending on ii7. The movement on to the E-based chord in bar 6 almost confirms E as tonic, but the C above the bass, which displaces B, sustains the obliquity. To be sure, the obliquity is mild, for the tonic is not seriously in doubt; indeed, it is its very undemonstrativeness that points to the source. The beginning of the penultimate number, General Ensemble (No. 29) – the most expansive music in the work – also has its origins in Parry, again through the yearning appoggiaturas in a context that remains diatonic, at least for the tenor’s opening statement. The rather less restrained late romanticism of Elgar is, perhaps inevitably, less apparent. As noted above, Kemp finds a section of the central slow movement of Tippett’s String Quartet No. 1 ‘unpleasantly suggestive of Elgar’, though he does not actually say what is unpleasant about it. It seems to me that more than just this bit of the movement (which, from his comments, I take to be Fig. 23:1–3) has links with Elgar: Ex. 2.2 reproduces the beginning of the movement alongside the beginning of the slow movement of Elgar’s Symphony No. 1, which is scored for strings with telling reinforcement of the inner voices and melodic peak from the wind. I would not claim it was a conscious model – to my knowledge there is no evidence of this, and clearly much of the harmonic structuring is very different – but what Kemp describes as ‘that long soaring melodic line characteristic of so much of Tippett’s music’ (he sees this as the first example of it)31 has a clear precedent in Elgar (where it is born of Wagner’s endless melody), as does the diatonic dissonance that is again prominent. Closer to Elgar stylistically is the central section of Madame Sosostris’s aria in The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52; Act 3, Scene 5, from Fig. 380), the beginning of which is reproduced in Ex. 2.3 (a).32 Once again, the expressive burden falls on diatonic appoggiaturas, at the beginning of bars. Also finding a parallel in Elgar is the harmonic parenthesis from Fig. 381 (a flatwards deflection via triads of G and F before folding back through V7 of E at Fig. 381:8 – though it is linear movement, particularly in the outer parts, rather than functional progression, that is the principal agent here); compare this with Ex. 2.3 (b), the beginning of the ‘big tune’ in the final section of Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius (from Fig. 126), which has a similar kind of deflection. There are also melodic figures in common between these examples (compare Fig. 380:3, last beat in the Tippett with 126:3, first beat in the Elgar), and the tempo indications are similar (Andante espressivo and Andante tranquillo; the metronome markings are exactly the same). But it is the expressive mien born of the particular use of

33 Tippett and the English traditions Ex. 2.2 (a) String Quartet No. 1, second movement, opening bar to Fig. 23:3; (b) Elgar, Symphony No. 1 in A♭, third movement, opening

diatonicism that is the clearest link. There is little else in Sosostris’s aria (which is very wide-ranging stylistically), or indeed in the opera as a whole, that could be said to be so clearly of English Musical Renaissance provenance: the first part of the aria (from Fig. 367 to Fig. 380) seems, for example, to point more to one of Elgar’s main sources, Wagner.33

34 Christopher Mark Ex. 2.3 (a) The Midsummer Marriage, Act 3, Scene 5, Figs. 380–382:4

The main substance of the aria is Sosostris’s presentation of her visionary credentials – or, as Kemp puts it, ‘a classic account of the creative process, laid out in four sections, each describing a particular stage’.34 The ‘Elgarian’ section introduces relative calm and luminosity after the darkened, angst-ridden descriptions of her condition in previous sections: the voice-part is cantabile, with none of the tortured intervals that have

35 Tippett and the English traditions Ex. 2.3 (b) Elgar, Dream of Gerontius, Part II, Figs. 126–127:4 (choral parts of first two bars omitted)

characterized much of her music thus far; the phrasing is regular (the initial statement is 4 + 4); and the harmonic rhythm is also regular and relatively conventional (Arnold Whittall sees here ‘a more orthodox extension of a tonic triad’35). Kemp’s interpretation, continuing from the point where the previous quotation leaves off, identifies Sosostris with the composer and is worth quoting at length: From inchoate beginnings illuminated by sudden flashes of insight a struggle develops to give shape to ideas intractable yet clamouring for fulfilment, whose very fulfilment denies the humanity of their creator. The second section culminates in a magnificent but terrible acceptance of this

36 Christopher Mark destiny [this is the stentorian setting of the text ‘I am what has been, is and shall be, no mortal ever lifted my garment’]. Once such struggles are over something is both given and taken away. The composer is given the lucidity through which his visions of the soul can be formed and at the same time he is deprived of his identity. As himself he dies: he becomes an instrument. Tippett’s music of lucidity [from Fig. 380] is as serene as any he has written. It moves in a state of rapt spirituality, impervious to fashionable conceptions of ‘contemporary’ music, yet unmistakably original in voice, quietly asserting that the sources from which Handel and Mozart drew their inspiration are as fresh as the air we breathe.36

Ex. 2.3 (a) does indeed come across as lucid and serene. It is actually the shortest of the four sections Kemp identifies, but achieves far more ‘presence’ than this might suggest. I have already mentioned some of the features that promote this. Possibly the most important, though, is the use of a conventional V7 to stabilize the key at the beginning and again just before the varied repeat at Fig. 381:8. When the opening paragraph is repeated (transposed, and considerably varied after the initial chromaticism), the harmonic parenthesis is not, this time, closed: Kemp’s serenity is interrupted by a drastic change of tone – literally, since Sosostris is instructed to sing ‘in an altered voice’, accompanied by more astringent harmony. It is certainly the case that the music is far from ‘fashionable conceptions of “contemporary” music’, though clearly I disagree with Kemp that this particular passage is as ‘original in voice’ as he asserts. It is, though, a testament to Tippett’s skill that the section is integrated so smoothly into the heterogeneous mix of styles. The final section of the aria, from Fig. 387, introduces another kind of music again that presents a different ‘take’ on pastoralism from that of Vaughan Williams and Holst. Sosostris’s vision is a pastoral idyll (actually marked by Tippett ‘tranquilmente à la pastorale’) that gradually becomes disturbed. The voice parts (Sosostris describing what she sees, with interjections from King Fisher) are essentially arioso, over a texture consisting of ‘a fabric of short ostinati, interrelated but of varying lengths, which combine into sound patterns at once the same and always different – a marvellously apt symbol of the infinite, timeless nature of Sosostris’s vision’.37 As Kemp observes, there are parallels here with Stravinsky’s layered ostinati and with medieval isorhythm. There is no hint of the folksong generally associated with English pastoralism, though the modal usage (which in Vaughan Williams’s and Holst’s cases is prompted by folksong) has similarities. A broad modal field is set up in which emphasizes shift: thus A♭ is the referential pitch for Sosostris at the outset, whilst F is for the orchestra, though at Figs. 388 and 389 the orchestra supports King Fisher’s interjections with an A♭ triad in the bass ‘layer’; then from Fig. 389:3,

37 Tippett and the English traditions

without any change to the ‘collection’ in play apart from a brief chromatic A♮, the voice shifts allegiance to B♭; and so on. The highest stratum of the ostinato texture (the scalic descent from B♭ to F, paralleled at a fourth below) is derived from the music that presages the Ancients’ appearance in Act 1, Scene 1 at Fig. 14. Thus the original association between pastoralism and Ancient Greek culture is evoked, for, as a note at the beginning of the score of The Midsummer Marriage instructs, ‘the costumes are of the present day, except for those of the Ancients and Dancers, which are old Greek’. The note draws further attention to the opera’s pastoral setting and its use of classical symbols: When fully lighted the stage, as seen from the audience, presents a clearing in a wood, perhaps at the top of a hill, against the sky. At the back of the stage is an architectural group of buildings, a kind of sanctuary, whose centre appears to be an ancient Greek temple.38

Pastoralism and classicism are central to the seventeenth-century English genre of the masque. The influence of Renaissance and early baroque music on Tippett is more obvious to the listener than the influence of the immediately preceding generations both in this opera and in his output in general (it is more extensive, and has a particularly strong rhythmic impact). Not surprisingly, it has been discussed at much greater length in the Tippett literature.39 During gestation The Midsummer Marriage was referred to by Tippett as ‘the masque’,40 so it is not surprising that Renaissance elements – particularly those associated with dance – are often to the fore. ‘Dance’ is evident almost at once, in the madrigalian sprung rhythms in the sixteenth bar (Fig. 1:2) of the work. It is most apparent when the mise-en-scène is at its most pastoral (though not so much in the best-known embodiment of the pastoral, the Ritual Dances, which were subsequently extracted as a concert work) – for example, in the ‘post-scene’ at the conclusion of Act 2 where the off-stage chorus (who are ‘heard singing as they pass behind the hill’) present what is essentially a madrigal in praise of the midsummer sun; and then at the beginning of Act 3 when (again, initially off-stage) the chorus follows the orchestra’s lead in music that, as Evans writes of one of the first works to develop Renaissance rhythmic attitudes, ‘discovers an entirely original buoyancy, a sensation that many bars pass in which one’s feet do not touch the ground’.41 The madrigalian influence is generally so clear that there is no need to list examples. What is of greater interest than individual instances per se is that Tippett’s approach to English Renaissance music as source material was at least to a certain extent via Purcell. As Clarke states, Purcell was ‘a further formative figure, whose music Tippett had explored with the choir of Morley College and would subsequently edit in collaboration with

38 Christopher Mark

Walter Bergmann’.42 Thus Tippett continued the ‘Purcell tradition’ begun by Holst when he taught at Morley,43 and recreates what Kemp calls the ‘Purcellian syndrome’, ‘[taking] over a tradition and develop[ing] it’ and integrating the best of the native traditions and ‘new styles and techniques from abroad’, especially jazz and ‘the new classicism’.44 The Purcellian syndrome is apparent in Tippett’s essay on the composer, in which he discusses ‘harmonic polyphony’: I want to speak of it because I can’t think of any other feature of Purcell’s style which has meant so much to me personally. This poignancy is in Dido’s lament, especially in the last ritornello after Dido has ceased to sing. But I think an example from the early string fantasies is better, because it is nearer the source. Much of this intensity and poignancy is to be found in the madrigals of Weelkes and in other Elizabethan music. Purcell did not invent here – he took over a tradition and developed it.45

What he writes next provides a link from Purcell to Elgar via the Wagnerian concept of ‘endless melody’: The technical means to produce this intense polyphony are chiefly the hanging on to notes in one part so that they make a momentary dissonance with another part before they resolve themselves; and the placing of harmonically unexpected notes at the moment of resolution, so that the music is never quite resolved and still. (It is a method of composing which Wagner used to tremendous effect in Tristan.)46

One can observe this effect in Purcell simply by turning to the Overture to Dido and Aeneas: the first point of rest is the cadence on the B♭ triad at the beginning of bar 6, but it is relatively weak (first inversion V–I) and on the flattened leading note (extraordinarily distant from the tonic key of C minor), so that ‘rest’ is illusory: there is no proper resolution until the break into the fast section. Before the part of his Purcell essay just quoted, Tippett gives an example of the way in which the composer acts as a ‘resource’ beyond being a straightforward stylistic model: I like to think I was influenced by Purcellian examples when I needed to express an aria from some of the relatively simple situations of A Child of Our Time. I am thinking particularly of the air for tenor to a tango-like bass . . . The things that influence one, in a composition of this kind, are never simple, but always complex. The sense of our time – that is, in this case, of the period between the two world wars – lies musically in the tango, not in any Purcellian turn of phrase. Purcellian is the setting of the scene by a short orchestral introduction, and the manner of repeating a simple, easily understood phrase. Such a phrase is that to the first words the tenor sings – ‘I have no money for my bread’.47

39 Tippett and the English traditions

There is indeed little which seems directly Purcellian in the setting of the phrase that Tippett mentions, which is in the tenor aria that forms No. 6. And the orchestral introduction, the beginning of which is reproduced in Ex. 2.4, is not, on the surface, particularly Purcellian either: thus the syncopations are a pre-echo of the tango of the aria rather than a redeployment of Renaissance dance rhythms. However, the means by which Tippett makes sure his music is ‘never quite resolved and still’ is very much the result of the ‘intense polyphony’ to which he was drawing attention. Of particular importance are the constant modal variations (for example in the viola in bars 1 and 2) and the dissonances on the main beats (see particularly bars 8–10), or at the very least the use of consonant chords in unstable positions (for example at Fig. 42:3–4). The only root-position consonances occur in bar 5 – a peak that is obviously the beginning of a descent rather than a finishing point – and Fig. 42:6, the end-point of diminuendo. The latter

Ex. 2.4 A Child of Our Time, No. 6, tenor solo, ‘I have no money for my bread’, orchestral introduction, opening

40 Christopher Mark

is preceded by a perfect cadence (actually, an English cadence, with the flattened seventh degree (B♭) followed by the sharpened seventh degree (B♮) at Fig. 42:5),48 but in its weakest position (second inversion V).

III Perhaps the most interesting of Tippett’s comments on Purcell, however, are those concerning the 1692 Ode to St Cecilia (Hail, Bright Cecilia): In the final chorus from this Ode, Purcell seems to be reaching forward to greater splendour and clearer form. The shape of this piece is best described as ABCA. A is exhortatory and uncomplicated. B is elaborate, rich, polyphonic. C is short, highly expressive, for solo voices only. Then comes A again. This is still madrigal form – that is, block added to block. But the blocks are so contrasted (and one, of course, is repeated) that we appreciate the simplicity and clarity, as well as the grandeur, of the form.49

What he perceives here is close to the mosaic form that emerges with such dramatic forcefulness in King Priam (1958–61). In that work and many others that followed, Tippett maximizes the block-like nature of the music by emphasizing the non-connectedness between the different materials – in particular, he ensures that the blocks are non-concluding, eschewing any sense of transition. It can be demonstrated, though, that the block-like approach to the overall architecture of a work is of the essence from the first music that Tippett thought worthy of publication: Peter Evans identifies what he terms ‘Tippett’s block transfer methods’ in the Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9) and Piano Concerto (1953–5), resulting from the composer’s ‘tendency to shape the second half of a piece by juxtaposing literal or transposed paragraphs from the first’.50 Perhaps listeners and critics have been overly swayed by Tippett’s statement about the importance of Beethoven to him to listen and look for a Beethovenian attitude towards form. Whereas it could be said that Beethoven’s music is all about form, and that his material serves his forms entirely, Tippett’s approach is more preclassical, in the sense of being looser, less organically oriented – the order of events, timing, and so on is important, but there is a sense in which form is a vessel for, or conveyor of, material, rather than the other way around. It can be argued that the most significant influence of early English music is to be found in the notion of ‘fantasy’, the English version of ‘Fantasia’ (other English variant names include ‘Fancy’ or ‘Fancie’ and, in the case of Purcell’s viol works, ‘Fantazia’). Christopher D. S. Field defines ‘Fantasia’ as: A term adopted in the Renaissance for an instrumental composition whose form and invention spring ‘solely from the fantasy and skill of the author

41 Tippett and the English traditions who created it’ (Luis de Milán, 1535–6). From the 16th century to the 19th the fantasia tended to retain this subjective licence, and its formal and stylistic characteristics may consequently vary widely from free, improvisatory types to strictly contrapuntal and more or less standard sectional forms.51

The entry goes on to note a variety of approaches in works for lute, keyboard, and viols in Dowland, Ferrabosco, Byrd and Gibbons, amongst others. Thomas Morley’s description of what he called ‘fantasie’ in his A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke emphasizes the freedom offered to the composer: when a musician taketh a point at his pleasure, and wresteth and turneth it as he list, making either much or little of it as shall seeme best in his own conceit. In this may more art be showne then in any other musicke, because the composer is tide to nothing but that he may adde, deminish, and alter at his pleasure . . . Other thinges you may use at your pleasure, as bindings with discordes, quicke motions, slow motions, proportions, and what you list. Likewise, this kind of musick is with them who practise instruments of parts in greatest use, but for voices it is but sildome used.52

The flexibility to invoke elements of the strict but reserve the right to change direction and do whatever your ‘fancy’ pleases might stand as the central characteristic of Tippett’s attitude to composition. Clarke encapsulates this in his observation of the language of the composer’s later music: Although the hallmarks of the final works are a re-burgeoning of lyricism, a re-admission of diatonicism, and a move towards structural simplification, these features are mediated by a further, and eventual dominant tendency. That tendency is one of heterogeneity of materials married to a heteronomy of structure – that is to say, a structure governed by more than one law, a resistance to any single overarching principle of organization. Thus relatively transparent diatonic material co-exists with other more complex elements within schemes of simple juxtaposition that leave differences unresolved.53

The slow movement of Symphony No. 2 (1956–7), composed halfway between the lyrically abundant The Midsummer Marriage and the severely mosaic-based King Priam, is a particularly good example of Tippett in fantasy mode. In this he adopts a block-like form (see Table 2.1 below) that is not too dissimilar from his description of Purcell’s Ode to St Cecilia quoted above. Section A and the beginning of B are reproduced in Ex. 2.5. Section A is a good example of the compositional manner Tippett sustained throughout his career. There are two planes: the trumpet melody coloured by fragmentary doublings on flute and clarinet, and arabesques in the harp and piano. The trumpet melody traces an ascent from D♭ to

42 Christopher Mark

Table 2.1 Symphony No. 2, second movement, formal outline Section Figs. A B

C

D

A1 B1 E

Commentary

Opening–66 The focus of the texture is the trumpet melody, doubled intermittently by flute and clarinet. A background ‘counter-layer’ is formed of harp and piano arabesques. 66–70 The counter-layer continues, but the focus is now the cello duet, comprising lines that are by turns sustained and highly decorated. The flutes and clarinets provide another counter-layer of sustained chords. The music builds with the introduction of the upper strings, and briefly coalesces around two sonorous chords (Figs. 67:4 and 68:2) before dying away. The section finishes with a truncated reprise of the beginning of the duet, varied so as to provide an upbeat to section C. 70–71 The solo trumpet is again the focus, playing a fanfare that fades into the kind of ascent heard at the end of A. The orchestra (omitting only horns, tuba and percussion) accompanies with ‘punchy’ diatonic dissonances. 71–77 This central section is in ternary form – the first section to have subdivisions. The outer subsections are characterized by a sustained melodic line in Lydian D in the first violins, supported by largely diatonic (extended-triadic, sometimes partly fourths-based) harmony. As in sections A and B (and the end of C), the overall trajectory of the main line is an ascent, with a tailing-off of intensity. The middle subsection is a varied repeat of the last two bars of section D. 77–79 This section is a transposed variation of A in which the texture is inverted (the trumpet melody is now played by the trombone, the arabesques in the lower rather than the upper register of the harp and piano, and so on). 79–83 This, too, is a transposed, texturally inverted variant of the original section. 83–end Beginning with material from section C, this section proceeds by intercutting fragments from A and D with a new element on the horns, first heard at Fig. 83:5, that subsequently flowers in the coda.

G via D♮, E♭ and F, with various leaps away from and back to these notes. I am not suggesting that the notes I have named have any hierarchical superiority over the others, but that, in forming the most obvious pattern (of stepwise ascent), they are the means by which the ear is most likely to organize the passage.54 The melody begins in a sketchily-defined flat tonal area (D♭ itself, perhaps), though A♮ and D♮ are introduced later, suggesting a move sharpwards. The precise tonal area is not, though, I would suggest, of much significance, in that it seems to have no broader structural function. Neither is there any sense of progression from D♭-asreference to G-as-reference: G is not so much a goal as simply the next step away. The arabesques also sketch out, rather than clearly define, a tonal area – generally the same broad area in each instrument, but usually at a tangent with the trumpet. Possibly it is the apparently decorative profusion of the arabesques that most suggests fantasy here, but the trumpet line too may be so considered in its variation and extension of the first phrase for no apparent purpose other than the desires of the moment. The inorganic nature of the mosaic form throws emphasis onto the local action. Events within the blocks are liberated from the creation of form, allowing a degree of freedom not generally accorded ‘in any other musicke’. Rather, form is determined by the ‘external’ ordering of the blocks. This in itself might be said to be fantasy in spirit. Even the

43 Tippett and the English traditions Ex. 2.5 Symphony No. 2, second movement, opening

transposition of material (in, for example, sections A1 and B1) is ‘wresteth and turneth [. . .] as he list’, rather than to fulfil a part in an overall design. Only in the final section, which is labelled E in Table 2.1, does formshaping genuinely take place: beginning with material from section C, it proceeds by intercutting fragments from A and D with a new element on the horns, first heard at Fig. 83:5, that subsequently flowers in the coda. The extent to which the ending truly ‘resolves tonal tensions’55 might be debated; but this material does have a specific formal function: of effecting, through its static rotations, a sense of closure.

44 Christopher Mark Ex. 2.5 (cont.)

Bowen sees the two works written immediately after King Priam, the Piano Sonata No. 2 (1962) and the Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3) – both of which make even greater play of the mosaic approach than the opera – as further elevating the role of fantasy in Tippett’s compositional approach: ‘The fantasy procedures of Purcell and Gibbons are given a new lease of life. Tippett’s musical thought flows uninhibitedly within a more concentrated, tightly organized format.’56 It would appear that the greater (or the more severe) the apparently ‘external’ determination of the overall pattern of the music, the greater the scope for ‘internal’ freedom within the sections. It might be doubted, however, whether the succession of blocks is likely to resolve into a higher synthesis along the lines of the locus classicus of mosaic form, Stravinsky’s Symphonies of Wind Instruments:57 while various commentators have argued the case for specific formal processes (Kemp, for instance, identifies a number of movements and transitions, while Iain Stannard sees ‘evidence of a proportional scheme’58), I would suggest that the only sections that genuinely have a sense of acting to shape the form are those that start and finish the work – the opening fanfare and its one-and-only return at the beginning of the final section (bar 301), which employs an intercutting process similar to section E of the slow movement of Symphony No. 2 (see Table 2.1 above). Otherwise, the switches from one kind of material to another resist form-making, leaving the listener (who will recognize returns and some of the variations, extensions and contractions, but probably not make much long-term significance out of them) to focus on the (impressively diverse) invention.

45 Tippett and the English traditions

IV Tippett’s career continued for thirty years after the Concerto for Orchestra was completed, his last major work being The Rose Lake (1991–3). The form of this, like in most of his works after King Priam, is again mosaic in nature, which has the effect of drawing attention to the return, in the five Lake Song episodes, of the long-breathed lyricism of his earlier output (a feature that was also apparent in the Triple Concerto of 1978–9). In a programme note for the first recording of the The Rose Lake Tippett states: ‘the idea that took shape gradually [during gestation] was that some kind of lyric utterance would burgeon within the design, initially polarized against a sharper, more pungent element, but ultimately reached a climactic stage where song reigned supreme’.59 An argument could be put forward that the central Lake Song episode, ‘The Lake is in full song’, represents the peak of Tippett’s engagement with fantasy. Thus while there is little stylistically that is likely to trigger a sense of Englishness (though some of the dance-like rhythms might do this as a memory of Tippett’s earlier madrigal-inspired work), and while there is much in the piece that is specifically non-English (the inspiration for it was a visit to Le Lac Rose in Senegal, and some of the sonorities and indeed techniques have their provenance in non-Western musics), the work may be said, at the broadest level of musical behaviour and topic (for the work is essentially pastoral), to have an underlying link with particular aspects of musical Englishness. Whether one can conclude from this and my earlier discussions of other kinds of English influence that a fundamental Englishness, rather than a more general appeal to tradition, provides the anchor-point throughout Tippett’s output for what I referred to above as the profusion of allusions in his music, is not something that can be broached here. However, it is interesting that in the work that Tippett must have thought of as the summation of his artistic ideals, The Mask of Time (1980–2), it is the indigenous genre of the masque that provides the ‘force’ by which an extraordinarily ambitious array of ideas – seeking to encompass the totality of human experience since the dawn of time – is held together. It is not an especially strong force, however – one suspects that its very looseness (the lack of strong expectations of how things will be organized) is what appealed – so that, if the English provenance is not exactly disguised (just as the use of the word ‘Mask’ barely disguises the fact that it is a ‘Masque’), it certainly does not dominate. Indeed, it is difficult to say that any of the elements in Tippett’s stylistic amalgam – European modernism, Ivesian collage, jazz, popular music and the demotic in general – consistently holds sway. As is usually the case with composers with something original to say, the sources are subsumed by the composer

46 Christopher Mark

being himself. But originality comes more into focus against a backdrop of contemporaries and traditions. In seeking to establish Tippett’s international stature, commentators have thus far tended to emphasize his links with modernism and the radical in general. However, in order to develop a more rounded view, Tippett’s relationship with the English traditions needs to be taken into account. Notes 1 ‘Tradition’, Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary, www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tradition. 2 See ‘The Pastness of the Present and the Presence of the Past’ in Richard Taruskin, Text and Act: Essays on Music and Performance (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 90–154. 3 Richard Taruskin, The Oxford History of Western Music, 5 vols. (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2010). 4 See ibid., pp. 414 and 814. 5 Eric Hobsbawm, ‘Introduction: Inventing Traditions’ in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 1. 6 Tippett, letter to Francesca Allinson, undated (March 1942) in Selected Letters of Michael Tippett, ed. Thomas Schuttenhelm (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. 91. 7 Tippett, letter to Alan Bush (6 February 1940), ibid., p. 128. 8 These were drawn upon for the article ‘Purcell’ reproduced in Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 57–65. 9 Tippett, letter to Alan Bush (6 February 1940) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 128. 10 Ibid. 11 Anthony Hicks notes that ‘echoes of Purcell, perhaps mediated through his immediate successors, are present in the setting of anthems and canticles, and in the occasional harmonic inflections heard in the English choral dramas, notably Acis and Galatea and Semele’ (‘Handel, George Frideric’, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. X , p. 766). 12 Tippett, letter to Robert Ponsonby (28 July 1972) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 23. 13 See, for example, Jeremy Dibble, Peter Horton and Bennett Zon (eds.), NineteenthCentury British Music Studies, 3 vols. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999, 2002, 2003).

14 Tippett, letter to William Glock (7 February 1943) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, pp. 247–8. 15 See, for example, the discussion of the influence of Eliot on the text of A Child of Our Time in Kenneth Gloag, Tippett: A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 8–19. 16 T. S. Eliot, quoted in Tippett, ‘Schoenberg’, in Tippett on Music, p. 39. 17 Tippett, ‘Schoenberg’, ibid., p. 40. 18 Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett (London: Robson Books, 1982), p. 90. 19 David Clarke, ‘“Only Half Rebelling”: Tonal Strategies, Folksong and “Englishness” in Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra’ in David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 4, 5. 20 See Britten’s references to Vaughan Williams in diary entries reproduced in Journeying Boy: The Diaries of the Young Benjamin Britten 1928–1938, ed. John Evans (London: Faber and Faber, 2009). 21 See Clarke’s extensive discussion in ‘“Only Half Rebelling”’, Tippett Studies, esp. pp. 17–26. 22 Ibid., p. 8. (For details of Allinson’s monograph, see ibid., p. 5 n. 13.) 23 Ibid., p. 9. 24 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 92. 25 Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (London: Eulenberg, 1984), p. 129. 26 Ibid., p. 124. 27 Ibid., p. 174. 28 Peter Evans, ‘Instrumental Music I’ in Stephen Banfield (ed.), The Blackwell History of Music in Britain: The Twentieth Century (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), p. 221. 29 See Stephen Banfield’s comment: ‘One might now detect that at the start of the 20th century a good deal of shared sensibility and myth were at work in English music, ideologically propelled. The oft-remarked English preference, from Wilbye to Parry, for “clean” diatonic dissonance over “dirty”

47 Tippett and the English traditions chromaticism could be heard (the British never really took to Tristan – as opposed to Meistersinger . . .’ (Stephen Banfield, ‘England (i)’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. V I I I , pp. 223–4). 30 Evans, ‘Instrumental Music I’ in Banfield (ed.), The Blackwell History of Music in Britain, p. 181. 31 Kemp, Tippett, p. 123. 32 Rehearsal figures here follow Schott ED 11158 (London: Schott & Co. Ltd., 1954). 33 Clarke does not entirely agree: in analysing the first section of Madame Sosostris’s aria in some detail, he refers to the music inhabiting ‘quite clearly the world of an English, post-pastoral neotonality’ (The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 58). 34 Kemp, Tippett, p. 270. I would say there are at least five sections. Kemp seems to see the divisions at Figs. 367, 372, 380 and 387. I would be inclined to place further divisions at Fig. 385 (which begins a transition to Fig. 387), and also possibly at Figs. 378 (Sosostris’s fanfare, ‘I am what has been’) and 384 (where Tippett instructs her to sing ‘in an altered voice’). 35 Arnold Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques (Cambridge University Press, 1982), p. 138. 36 Kemp, Tippett, p. 270. 37 Ibid., p. 271. 38 Tippett, ‘Notae’, in Schott ED 11158. 39 For instance, Bowen (Michael Tippett), Kemp (Tippett) and Whittall (Britten and Tippett) mention English Renaissance composers more often than the English generations between Parry and Vaughan Williams. 40 Tippett, letters to Francesca Allinson, undated (early 1943 and September 1943) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, pp. 97, 111. 41 Evans, ‘Instrumental Music I’ in Banfield (ed.), The Blackwell History of Music in Britain, p. 221. 42 Clarke, ‘Tippett, Sir Michael’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. X X V , p. 507. 43 Kemp, Tippett, p. 44. 44 Ibid., p. 65.

45 Tippett, ‘Purcell’, in Tippett on Music, p. 64. 46 Ibid. 47 Ibid., p. 63. 48 See also the false relation, F♯–F♮, in Fig. 42:2. 49 Tippett, ‘Purcell’, in Tippett on Music, p. 65. 50 Evans, ‘Instrumental Music I’ in Banfield (ed.), The Blackwell History of Music in Britain, pp. 221–3. 51 Christopher D. S. Field, et al., ‘Fantasia’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. V I I I , p. 545. 52 Quoted ibid., p. 546. 53 Clarke, ‘Tippett, Sir Michael’, p. 516. 54 In this, I am in agreement with Clarke, who writes that ‘The trumpet call inhabits a nonharmonic, non-contrapuntal domain . . . It would seem to draw on a pitch source abstracted from the immediate experienced sound of the music, in which the hierarchic ordering of its elements is not a priority’ (Language, Form and Structure in the Music of Michael Tippett, 2 vols. (New York: Garland, 1989), vol. I , p. 102; see also his graph in vol. I I , p. 35). 55 Evans, ‘Instrumental Music I’ in Banfield (ed.), The Blackwell History of Music in Britain, p. 224. 56 Bowen, Michael Tippett, p. 109. 57 See Edward T. Cone’s classic commentary ‘Stravinsky: The Progress of a Method’, Perspectives of New Music, 1/1 (Autumn 1962), 18–26; and Richard Taruskin’s observation that ‘the Symphonies is indeed an “organically constructed” composition’ (Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works through Mavra (Oxford University Press, 1996), vol. I I , p. 1493). 58 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 376–80; and Iain Stannard, ‘“Arrest and Movement”: Tippett’s Second Piano Sonata and the Genesis of a Method’, twentieth-century music, 4/2 (2007), 150. 59 Tippett, quoted in Meirion Bowen, CD liner notes to The Rose Lake and The Vision of St Augustine, Conifer Records Ltd (BMG) 75605 51304 2 (1997), p. 5.

3 ‘Things that chiefly interest ME’: Tippett and early music SUZANNE COLE

Throughout Michael Tippett’s extensive compositional career, his music was heavily influenced, in a variety of ways, by the music of the past.* Anthony Pople suggests that ‘style reference, if not outright pastiche’, is generally regarded as an essential component of Tippett’s work.1 Allusions to the music of the past, from Pérotin to late Beethoven and beyond, are common, and Tippett is widely seen as a composer with a strong interest in early music (that is, music from the baroque and earlier). Sometimes the relationship with old music is made explicit in a work’s title, as in the Fantasia on a Theme of Handel (1939–41), the Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli (1953) and the Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’ (1953–4). On other occasions, the influence is more subtle, such as in the resonances between the grand pauses and the A major chords in the closing moments of The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52) and Tallis’s setting of the word ‘respice’ in the forty-part motet Spem in alium,2 or the more generic influence of Elizabethan fantasias upon his rhythmic style.3 Tippett’s engagement with early music is not, however, limited purely to compositional allusions. He was very active in the performance of early music (particularly early English music), which he also promoted via radio broadcasts, recordings and editions. This chapter will examine Tippett’s work conducting, editing and promoting early music, and the relationship between these activities and the ways in which he was influenced by, or referred to, early music in his own compositions.

I Tippett’s numerous autobiographical reflections repeatedly stress the limited nature of his early musical education. In his autobiography, Those Twentieth Century Blues, he wrote that ‘the one thing missing in

[48]

* I am grateful to Timothy Day, Katherine Firth, Suzanne Robinson and Richard Turbet for listening to my early thoughts on this topic, and for sharing their own considerable expertise, and to Morley College and Lambeth Archives Department for permission to reproduce Figs. 3.1 and 3.2. I am also indebted to Patricia Shaw, Head of Section, Instrumental and Academic Studies at Morley College for locating archival material relating to Morley College, and for her support and encouragement.

49 Tippett and early music

my childhood home was music, or at least contact with professional music-making’,4 while elsewhere he claimed that in the ‘middle-class schools of England music was absolutely non-existent’.5 He took piano lessons as a child with various local teachers, but recalls that while he was passionately engaged with the pieces he studied, he had absolutely no awareness of their historical context. When he began his studies at the Royal College of Music (hereafter RCM) in 1923, Tippett was, in his own words, ‘an entire greenhorn’, who ‘didn’t know hardly one end of the piano from the other’.6 There is undoubtedly an element of exaggeration in these accounts,7 but there can also be little doubt that the young Tippett’s general musical knowledge was extremely limited. He recalls, for example, that he was unable to answer an RCM examination question on the importance of Orlando Gibbons, as he had never heard of him,8 even though interest in the music of Tudor and Elizabethan composers, including Gibbons, was at a peak in the mid-1920s. The tercentenary of the death of Gibbons was widely celebrated in 1925, with performances across England,9 and may well have stimulated the examination question. Tippett was acutely aware of his own ignorance, and set out to teach himself about the history of music ‘from the beginning’: I went deliberately and began with polyphonic counterpoint of Palestrina, which I taught myself by going to hear Palestrina masses sung at Westminster Cathedral and by moving then onto the English Elizabethans.10

While still a student, in a bid to familiarize himself with English madrigals, and with traditions of setting English texts, Tippett enquired at the RCM about the possibility of conducting a small choir. Fortuitously, at this time the Oxted and Limpsfield Players (an amateur theatrical group in Surrey) had decided to form a ‘Musical Section’ and were looking for a conductor: Tippett filled the post from late 1924.11 There are no records of the early activities of Tippett’s choir, but he recalled that he experimented with ‘the contrapuntal repertoire that I regarded as my main musical focus – Elizabethan madrigals in particular’, and Kemp reports that Tippett asked his choir to buy copies of Byrd’s Though Amaryllis Dance in Green.12 In March 1927, Tippett’s choir and the Oxted and Limpsfield Players mounted a performance of the medieval mystery play Everyman and Vaughan Williams’s opera The Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains. Tippett later wrote that: I had to choose suitable off-stage music [for Everyman] and took advice from someone who suggested anthems by Orlando Gibbons – those wonderful pieces that I hadn’t previously known, such as Hosanna to the Son of David.13

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The following year, the Players performed Tippett’s own version of the eighteenth-century ballad opera The Village Opera (1927–8), inspired by John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera (first performed in 1728), which enjoyed an astonishingly successful revival in the early 1920s, running for 1,463 performances.14 This revival triggered a renewed interest in ballad opera, and Nellie Chaplin, who played harpsichord in the orchestra alongside her sisters Kate and Mabel on viola d’amore and viola da gamba, remarked that the ‘old instruments’ used in The Beggar’s Opera ‘aroused a great deal of interest and hundreds of people have spoken to us and asked to look at them’.15 Tippett’s Village Opera, which was based on a copy of the 1729 original by Charles Johnson that he found in the RCM library, included parts for piano and harpsichord. The harpsichord did not, however, act as a continuo,16 but served purely as an accompaniment instrument, usually alternating with the piano, but occasionally playing with it, to create an ‘olde world’ atmosphere.17 On 5 April 1930, the Oxted and Limpsfield Players presented a concert of Tippett’s own compositions.18 Disappointed with the negative critical response and sensing that he had failed to write anything of genuine worth, Tippett returned to the RCM to undertake further study with R. O. Morris. Morris is best known for his influential book Contrapuntal Technique of the Sixteenth Century,19 which, unusually for the time, placed a far greater emphasis on actual sixteenth-century practice than on the standard rules of counterpoint, and included a chapter on the distinguishing characteristics of sixteenth-century English polyphony. His work with Morris appears to have provided the stimulus that Tippett needed and enabled him, somewhat belatedly, to discover ‘his individual voice’.20 The early 1930s were, however, also a time of intense political activity for many young artists and musicians, including Tippett, and this had a direct impact on his musical activities.21 He became involved in the work camps organized for the unemployed at Boosbeck; in 1933, he returned to his original inspiration for The Village Opera, and directed a shortened version of The Beggar’s Opera. He also became increasingly involved in conducting amateur choirs, as a way of ‘communicating messages and ideas of significance’,22 and was influenced by the ideas of the communist composer Alan Bush, who believed that art and music should be viewed historically, as a product of the prevailing social conditions of their time.23 This political viewpoint seems to have temporarily dampened Tippett’s enthusiasm for the madrigal: he reportedly lectured the participants in a 1934 London Labour Choral Union competition on the distressingly bourgeois capitalist origins of Morley’s April is in my Mistress’ Face.24 Despite such ideological misgivings, Tippett’s first published works, which were composed after the completion of his studies with Morris in

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mid-1932, all show signs of the influence of early music, and particularly early English keyboard music. The form of the slow movement of the String Quartet No. 1 (1934–5, rev. 1943), like that of Tippett’s First Symphony (1944–5), is based on the Pavans found in English virginal and instrumental music, with three equal sections forming an extended thematic unit.25 The first movement of his Piano Sonata No. 1 (1936–8, rev. 1942) is made up of a series of variations, modelled, Kemp suggests, upon the sets of variations favoured by the English virginalists, such as Byrd’s The Carman’s Whistle,26 while he identifies the rhythmic techniques in the Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9) as grounded in the practices of Elizabethan and Jacobean composers, such as Byrd, Morley and Gibbons.27 These works would appear to be influenced primarily by Tippett’s private study and Morris’s teaching (he urged modern composers to learn from the ‘rhythmical freedom and subtlety’ of sixteenth-century music).28 There is little evidence, however, that Tippett was particularly interested in the early English keyboard repertoire in the 1930s, or indeed at any later time, apart from a single performance on 7 November 1937 by the South London Orchestra, conducted by Tippett, of his own orchestration of John Bull’s popular The King’s Hunt.29 In 1939, he began work on his Fantasia on a Theme of Handel (1939–41), based upon a Prelude from a Suite in B♭. As Kemp has observed, this theme is not inherently well-suited to variation treatment, but Tippett had been fascinated by it since stumbling upon it as a musically starved schoolboy in Samuel Butler’s novel Erewhon.30 Despite his youthful determination to familiarize himself with music ‘from the beginning’, to this point the evidence suggests that Tippett’s encounters with early music – whether ballad opera, the anthems of Gibbons or this theme from Handel – were rather ad hoc. In October 1940, however, he was appointed director of music at Morley College in Lambeth, a position that he held for eleven years. This appointment ushered in a period of intense and structured engagement with early music, in which Tippett was able to develop genuine expertise, and which had a profound effect upon his subsequent compositions.

II Tippett’s association with Morley College actually began in 1931, when he was appointed conductor of the South London Orchestra for unemployed musicians. It was based at Morley College, which had been founded in

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1889 to provide non-vocational education for working men and women.31 The orchestra, which performed little in the way of early music, flourished under Tippett’s somewhat unconventional baton,32 but on 15 October 1940 the college buildings were badly damaged by a German bomb, and the destruction of their rehearsal space led to the orchestra’s collapse. At the same time, the director of the College’s music programmes, Arnold Foster, was evacuated out of London, and Tippett was asked to take over. Morley College had, since the appointment of Gustav Holst as director of music in 1907, enjoyed a reputation for high quality and adventurous music programmes.33 Under Holst, the students performed Bach, Vittoria and Palestrina, and English madrigals and folksongs. The music of Purcell was a particular interest, and in 1911 the College gave the first modern performance of The Fairy Queen.34 Holst resigned, due to ill health, in 1924, and was succeeded by Arnold Goldsbrough (1924–8) and Arnold Foster (1928–40). Goldsbrough and Foster both maintained the College’s high musical standards: Goldsbrough was a harpsichordist of some note, who went on to make an important contribution to the revival of early music;35 Foster, alongside his work at Morley, conducted the English Madrigal Choir, and believed madrigals to be the ‘finest foundation upon which a choir’s technique can be formed’.36 Contemporary composition was not, however, neglected: the Annual Report for 1936–7 states that ‘Morley is now becoming established in the minds of music lovers as a place where new works can be heard’.37 Nevertheless, the war had taken its toll, and Tippett had to ‘rebuild the musical life of the College over again’.38 Only ten singers attended his first choir rehearsal, held less than two weeks after the bomb struck, but Charles Stuart reports that ‘They sang madrigals and knew in their hearts that all would be well’.39 The numbers slowly swelled over the next few years, and under Tippett Morley College developed a reputation as one of London’s most significant centres of innovative and adventurous musicmaking.40 And from the earliest days of Tippett’s tenure, the music of Purcell occupied a central position in the Morley programmes. At the time of his appointment to Morley, Tippett was not entirely unfamiliar with Purcell’s music. In the 1930s, his close friend Francesca Allinson had edited some works by Purcell for the German publishing house Nagel, although the series editor, Herbert Just, refused to credit her in the publications. At the time of her death in 1945, Tippett considered her edition of Purcell’s fantasies to be ‘the finest obtainable’.41 Allinson had also arranged Don Quixote for performance by the Intimate Opera, and had asked for Tippett’s assistance with the realization of the figured bass (although he later recalled that she had rejected all his suggestions, in his opinion rightly, given his lack of experience).42 Purcell’s The Fairy

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Queen, King Arthur and Dido and Aeneas were reasonably widely known;43 a few anthems had remained in the cathedral repertoire; and ‘one or two lovely songs’ were, in Tippett’s words, ‘popular favourites’,44 and had appeared from time to time on RCM student concert programmes when Tippett was a student.45 The bulk of Purcell’s larger choral works, both sacred and secular, however, were almost completely unknown, both to Tippett and more generally. It was only when he discovered some of the Purcell Society’s editions amongst the rubble of the bombsite that Tippett belatedly realized ‘what an extraordinarily rich corpus of music [Purcell] had produced in his short life-span’.46 Tippett’s work at Morley and his new-found enthusiasm for Purcell first came to public attention on St Cecilia’s Day (22 November) 1941, when the choir performed the then little-known 1692 Ode to St Cecilia (Hail, Bright Cecilia) together with ‘a madrigal for three voices’ by Weelkes, one in five parts by Wilbye, and three ‘English songs’ sung by Esther Salaman.47 For this performance, Tippett engaged the services of a German émigré musician, Walter Bergmann, to play the continuo part – on the piano! Bergmann was a lawyer, but had also briefly studied flute and piano at the Leipzig Conservatoire, where he was recognized as a gifted accompanist.48 He had reputedly learned how to realize a continuo part as a teenager, and was, from the early 1930s, highly regarded in Germany as a performer of the music of Telemann, Rameau, Handel, J. S. and W. F. Bach and Purcell.49 In the course of an extremely bitter divorce, however, Bergmann’s estranged wife drew the attention of the Gestapo to his mother’s Jewish background. In March 1939, after several years of increasingly serious persecution, he left Germany for England, taking with him one suitcase of clothing, and another with his flute and recorder, and sheet music, including the Purcell fantasias (possibly in Allinson’s edition).50 The 1941 performance of Purcell’s Ode to St Cecilia marked the beginning of an extremely productive relationship between Bergmann and Tippett. Bergmann regularly played continuo for Morley College concerts; he conducted extremely successful recorder classes at Morley, making a significant contribution to the burgeoning popularity of this instrument in Britain; and he was recognized as an expert on the music of Telemann, the Bachs, Buxtehude and other German composers, which appeared often on Morley programmes. In a tribute to Tippett on his sixtieth birthday, Bergmann recalled that when he first started at Morley, Tippett pretended ‘not to know anything about old music, and I the opposite, both of us of course being wrong’.51 There is little doubt, however, that Bergmann was considerably more experienced in the performance of this repertoire, and that Tippett benefited significantly from this

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expertise. In late 1942, Tippett wrote in a letter to his friend Douglas (Den) Newton, that although he sometimes teased Bergmann, ‘he’s also a true friend and a very sharp ear. Just the mentor I need.’52 Indeed Tippett’s ability to bring together interesting, talented people, many of whom were European refugees – including not only Bergmann, but the conductor Walter Goehr, the musicologist Hans Redlich and the composer Matyas Seiber – was one of the keys to his success at Morley College.53 Ode to St Cecilia became a cornerstone of the Morley repertoire – it was performed on at least fifteen subsequent occasions – but it was far from the only work by Purcell that Tippett revived at Morley.54 The verse anthems My Beloved Spake, O God, Thou hast cast Us out and Why do the Heathen? all appeared regularly on Morley programmes, together with instrumental works, particularly the string fantasias. The earlier piano accompaniment was replaced by harpsichord, from 1944 Alfred Deller regularly sang countertenor solos, and Morley came to be seen as a place where Purcell could be heard ‘as written’.55 By the mid-1940s, Tippett’s public advocacy of Purcell’s music had extended beyond simply conducting concerts. In 1947 he gave two series of four talks for the BBC Third Programme devoted to Purcell’s music: further talks were given in the 1950s, and in 1951 Tippett became a member of the committee of the reformed Purcell Society.56 The BBC talks were illustrated with live performances by the Morley College Choir, soloists and instrumental ensemble, which included recorders, and were generally accompanied by Bergmann; the examples were largely drawn from the Morley repertoire (see Table 3.1 below). From around the same time, Tippett and Bergmann jointly edited a series of Purcell’s songs; in 1955 they published an edition of the Ode to St Cecilia, which they subsequently recorded.57 Tippett relied heavily on Bergmann’s expertise in preparing these editions: his biographer, Anne Martin, reports that Bergmann ‘did a significant part of the editing, taking the results to Tippett for his approval’, which was usually given.58 Fellow Purcell enthusiasts Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears, whom Tippett had met through Bergmann in late 1942,59 published a similar series of editions, but while Britten’s florid continuo realizations almost constitute new arrangements, Bergmann’s were restrained and scholarly. Although Tippett was particularly passionate about Purcell’s music, the Morley College concert programmes were also rich in ‘Monteverdi, the Elizabethans . . . [and] the Bachs’.60 Tippett and others repeatedly used the term ‘Elizabethans’ to describe the composers performed at Morley, but the focus was mainly upon the composers of the early seventeenth century. Tippett’s BBC talks on ‘Purcell and the Elizabethans’ were dedicated to Morley, Gibbons, Dowland and Weelkes, and these composers, together

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Table 3.1 BBC radio talks by Michael Tippett on early music Date

Title

Purcell and the English Tradition 5 April 1947 The Singing of the English Language 19 April 1947 The Accompanying of Singing 26 April 1947 The Figured Bass 3 May 1947

Making the Polyphony Audible

Purcell and the Elizabethans 22 November Purcell and Dowland 1947

29 November 1947 6 December 1947 13 December 1947

Purcell and Weelkes Purcell and Gibbons Purcell and Morley

Illustrations Purcell: ‘Music for a While’ (from Oedipus); excerpts from Ode to St Cecilia [Hail, Bright Cecilia (1692)] Purcell: ‘Wondrous Machine’ (from Ode to St Cecilia) Purcell: ‘In vain the am’rous Flute’ (from Ode to St Cecilia) Purcell: O God, Thou hast cast Us out

Purcell: ‘If Music be the Food of Love’; ‘Not all my Torments’ Dowland: ‘Come, heavy Sleep’; ‘In Darkness let me dwell’ Purcell: ‘Soul of the World’ (from Ode to St Cecilia) Weelkes: Thule, the Period of Cosmography; O Lord arise Purcell: My Beloved Spake Gibbons: Sing unto the Lord Purcell: Elegy on the Death of Queen Mary Morley: Sweet Nymph, Come to thy Lover; I go before, my Darling; Miraculous Love’s Wounding

Miscellaneous 13 April 1950 Poetry and Music in the English Madrigal

17 May 1951

4 April 1959

Byrd: This Day Christ was Born; Though Amaryllis Dance in Green Weelkes: On the Plains, Fairy Trains Morley: I go before, my Darling Wilbye: Draw on Sweet Night The Madrigal in Italy and Monteverdi: Ecco mormorar l’onde, Si, ch’io vorrei morire England Weelkes: Thule, the Period of Cosmography Wilbye: Sweet Honey-sucking Bees The Tercentenary of Purcell: ‘Dido’s Lament’ (from Dido and Aeneas); ‘Hail, Bright Purcell’s Birth Cecilia’ (from Ode to St Cecilia); Come Ye Sons of Art; fourpart Fantasia, No. 4 Dowland: Pavan Byrd: Ave Verum

with Wilbye, featured prominently in Morley programmes (see Table 3.2). A concert given on 18 November 1944 is typical, with a judicious mix of old and new music, including part-songs by Matyas Seiber, who was teaching at the college (see Fig. 3.1). In his early years at Morley, Tippett seems to have been determined to compensate for his previous ignorance of Gibbons and his music. A concert devoted exclusively to Gibbons was given on 7 November 1942, which included madrigals, motets, a Pavan and Galliard that Tippett had persuaded Antony Hopkins to play on the piano,61 and three unidentified string fantasias that Tippett had recently discovered.62 Gibbons’s madrigals, anthems and fantasias were played at several other concerts.63 In a letter to Allinson from around this time, Tippett mentioned an arrangement he had prepared, with Walter Goehr, of four Gibbons fantasias, having ‘got Goehr to see in Gibbons . . . the modernity

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Table 3.2 Popular madrigals and anthems performed at Morley College concerts under Tippett Composer

Title

Voice parts

Weelkes

On the Plains, Fairy Trains Cease Sorrows now O Care, thou wilt Despatch Me Since Robin Hood Thule, the Period of Cosmography O Lord Arise into Thy Resting Place Let thy Merciful Ears

5 3 5 3 6 7 4

Gibbons

What is our Life? Dainty Fine Bird This is the Record of John Sing unto the Lord O Lord increase my Faith (attribution doubtful – actually Loosemore)

5 5 5 (with T verse) 5 (with AABB verse) 4

Wilbye

Draw on Sweet Night Weep, Weep, Mine Eyes Dear Pity, How, Ah how? Sweet Honey-sucking Bees

6 5 3 5

Morley

Sweet Nymph, Come to thy Lover I go before, my Darling

5 2

Monteverdi Ecco mormorar l’onde Si, ch’io vorrei morire Lasciatemi morire Cor mio! Mentre vi miro

5 5 5 5

of the music’; Goehr performed these with his Orchestre Raymonde for the BBC.64 Although Tippett’s main interest in madrigals lay with the so-called ‘Elizabethans’, the madrigals of Monteverdi also appeared frequently on Morley College programmes, and once again Tippett had been introduced to this music by Francesca Allinson.65 The earliest recorded performance of Monteverdi’s music was in a Christmas concert in 1941, when John Amis recalls they performed ‘unaccompanied carols, some Monteverdi . . . and the Corelli Christmas Concerto’.66 Essentially similar Christmas programmes were given for several years (see, for example, Fig. 3.2), and it seems likely that the Monteverdi performed in 1941 was the Christmas motet Angelus ad pastores ait, which was also given in 1943, 1944 and 1945. A concert devoted to Dowland songs and Monteverdi madrigals was given on 1 May 1943, and a few weeks earlier Tippett had written enthusiastically to Allinson: ‘The Monteverdi madrigals are just super – oh, but most lovely – and sensual!’67 He discussed Monteverdi’s madrigals in a radio talk, given in 1951, on ‘The Madrigal in Italy and England’ (see Table 3.1 above),68 and in 1968 he nominated Nadia Boulanger’s 1937 recording of Monteverdi’s Chiome d’oro, alongside Purcell’s ‘Dido’s Lament’ (from Dido and Aeneas), as one of his Desert Island Discs.69

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Fig. 3.1 Morley College concert programme, 18 November 1944

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Fig. 3.2 Morley College concert programme, 17 December 1944

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Under Tippett’s enthusiastic guidance, the Morley College Choir thrived, and after the war they tackled ever more adventurous programmes. In May 1946, at Walter Goehr’s suggestion, they gave the first English performance of Monteverdi’s Vespers of 1610, an event that was described as ‘the outstanding musical event of the year’.70 It was performed repeatedly over the next few years, and in 1948 they revived Monteverdi’s L’Incoronazione di Poppea, an even more ambitious, if rather less successful, undertaking.71

III The influence of the music performed at Morley, and particularly madrigals (and their sacred equivalent, anthems and motets), soon became apparent in Tippett’s own compositions. In 1942 he began work on two ‘madrigals’ for the Morley choir, The Source and The Windhover. Kemp suggests that The Source is closer in form to a part-song than a madrigal,72 but Tippett explained in a letter to Den Newton that he used the term simply to mean music written for a cappella choir. In his BBC talks and elsewhere, he also repeatedly stressed that the distinguishing feature of a madrigalian text is that it is ‘epigrammatic’, ‘one Epigram per chunk of singing, so to speak’.73 On 8 May 1944 Tippett wrote to Newton that he ‘had a whim’ to compose more madrigals, ‘possibly in a sequence as Monteverdi did’, and asked Newton to think about suitable texts; a later letter shows that the ‘conversational’ nature of madrigals continued to occupy his thoughts, and that he believed that wrestling with a new ‘spaced-out’ form of polyphony would be good practice for the masque that would eventually become the opera The Midsummer Marriage.74 Although Tippett never wrote the proposed sequence of madrigals, in 1944 he completed two choral works, Plebs Angelica (1943–4) and The Weeping Babe (1944), described by Kemp as motets ‘da chiesa’ and ‘da camera’ respectively.75 Kemp sees the influence of Tallis and Byrd in these works, comparing Tippett’s treatment of the two choirs in Plebs Angelica to the polychoral effects in Tallis’s Spem in alium, and suggesting that The Weeping Babe ‘belongs to the tradition of Byrd’s polyphonic songs’.76 Tippett certainly admired both these composers: he considered Spem in alium, which was sung at Morley frequently from 1947, to be ‘probably the most extraordinary piece of European music of its period’,77 while he repeatedly described Byrd as the greatest composer of his generation.78 Yet apart from Spem in alium, neither of these earlier ‘Elizabethans’ were performed often at Morley, particularly in the early 1940s.79

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All of these choral works were unambiguously influenced by Tippett’s study of English text-setting, particularly in Purcell. Tippett dedicated his first BBC talk, ‘The Singing of the English Language’, to this topic, focusing particularly on Purcell’s setting of the short syllables in the many trochees (long/short) found in English texts (such as ‘music’, ‘wondering’ and ‘Cecilia’) to weak, unaccented beats. He argued that the dominance of the less idiomatic Handelian tradition had ‘harmed our proper sense of the language’, and had the choir demonstrate the way it had originally performed the unaccented final syllable of ‘Cecilia’, ‘before we corrected ourselves’.80 In The Windhover, the final syllables of the many trochees, including ‘morning’, ‘minion’, ‘Falcon’, and finally ‘vermillion’, are all carefully placed on weak beats. The one contrasting cadence falls on ‘chevalier’: in this French word the accent falls on the final beat, in contrast to the English ‘lovelier’ with which it is rhymed (see Ex. 3.1). In The Weeping Babe, on the other hand, Tippett experiments with setting the short syllables of trochees to extended melismas, although still carefully placed on weak beats (see, for example, ‘flowers’ and ‘bitter’ in Ex. 3.2). Tippett’s interest in madrigals can be seen, however, not just in his choral works from this period, but also in his Second String Quartet (1941–2), which was dedicated to Bergmann. Tippett’s note to the score identifies the first movement as ‘partly derived from the madrigal technique’, in that the parts have their own independent rhythms and ‘the music is propelled by the differing accents, which tend to thrust each other forward’.81 Indeed it is possible to identify some sort of implicit or explicit influence, not just of early music generally, but of the music that he performed at Morley College, in much of the music Tippett composed at this time. He acknowledged the influence of Purcell and Monteverdi on his cantata, Boyhood’s End (1943),82 and explained in a note accompanying the score of his Symphony No. 1 (1944–5) that the scherzo was inspired by the rhythms of a conductus by Pérotin that he had found in the Oxford History of Music. This conductus, Salvatoris Hodie, was sung at the Morley College Christmas Concert on 19 December 1943.83 Many pieces of early music that made their way into Tippett’s compositions appeared on these Christmas programmes. Tippett used the medieval carol ‘Angelus ad Virginem’, which the Morley choir also sang at Christmas in 1943, in both his early folksong opera Robin Hood (1934) and his 1948 Suite for the Birthday of Prince Charles.84 The ‘Non nobis, Domine’ canon, widely attributed to Byrd, was a regular item on the Christmas programmes, and appeared in two of Tippett’s own works for children, Robert of Sicily (1938) and The Shires Suite (1965–70).

61 Tippett and early music Ex. 3.1 The Windhover, bars 69–76

Ex. 3.2 The Weeping Babe, bars 55–69, sopranos only

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In the post-war years, however, as Morley’s concert programmes became bigger and more successful, Tippett was increasingly finding that his work there was getting in the way of his composition and he began to withdraw from his activities at Morley. Goehr, Bergmann and Seiber increasingly took over responsibility for the College’s concert programmes and a subtle shift in programming is discernible from this time.85 In 1951, after conducting a special concert in the newly opened Festival Hall – featuring works by Stravinsky, Tallis’s Spem in alium and his own A Child of Our Time (1939–41) – and one of eight concerts devoted to the music of Purcell (as part of the celebrations for the Festival of Britain), Tippett resigned from Morley College to concentrate on composition.86

IV Early the next year, in February 1952, King George VI died, and the imminent coronation of Elizabeth II inevitably turned the collective consciousness to the glories of the first Elizabethan era.87 The Arts Council of Great Britain commissioned ten composers to write a set of madrigals, A Garland for a Queen (modelled upon Morley’s 1601 Triumph of Oriana), to which Tippett contributed Dance, Clarion Air (1952), set to a text by his friend Christopher Fry. In 1953, the coronation year, Benjamin Britten invited a number of composers, including Tippett, to contribute to a composite work, Variations on an Elizabethan Theme, for performance at the Aldeburgh Festival. Each composer was asked to base a movement on the old folk tune ‘Sellinger’s Round’; the work opened with Imogen Holst’s orchestration of Byrd’s version of this tune from the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book. In his movement, the second, Tippett chose to incorporate a second quote, Dido’s first aria, ‘Ah, Belinda!’, from Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas, which he had recently conducted, in Italian, in Switzerland.88 Tippett was pleased with his effort, claiming ‘Mine was the best!’,89 and expanded it the following year to create the five-movement Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’ (1953–4). In each movement Tippett combined the ‘Sellinger’s Round’ theme with a second quotation; these quotations, which are presented in chronological order, form a kind of overview of the history of English music. The first movement quotes thirty-two bars from Gibbons’s eighth three-part fantasia of 1620, which Tippett described as the ‘most exciting’ of the fantasias,90 and which was presumably one of the unidentified fantasias that had been performed at Morley, while the later movements feature an air from Thomas Arne’s Comus, a John Field

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nocturne and ‘I Have a Song to Sing, O’, from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Yeoman of the Guard.91 Critical opinion of the success of the Divertimento is mixed (Kemp thinks it a failure, while Derrick Puffett finds it ‘marvellous’92), but in 1953 Tippett was commissioned, by the Edinburgh Festival, to compose another early-music-inspired work, his Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli, to commemorate the tercentenary of Corelli’s birth and, somewhat more fancifully, the four-hundredth anniversary of the violin.93 It was an unqualified success: Kemp considers it ‘his perfect work’, Peter Dennison a ‘masterpiece’.94 Tippett was not, however, particularly interested in, or knowledgeable about, Corelli’s music, and apart from the annual performance of the Christmas Concerto, little Corelli was performed at Morley. Kemp reports that Tippett more or less stumbled upon suitable thematic material (once again this is attributed to ‘instinct’), after ‘a friend’ told him about Bach’s organ fugue based on a theme from Corelli’s Concerto Grosso Op. 6 No. 2 in F.95 The Fantasia Concertante, the early Fantasia on a Theme of Handel and the Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’ are the works by Tippett that deal most explicitly with early music, and together they have shaped public perceptions of Tippett as a composer interested in this area. Yet they give a somewhat misleading view of Tippett’s areas of particular interest: in 1963 he admitted that while he felt a particular affinity with the coloratura of the baroque, he was less drawn to Bach and Handel, and, presumably, Corelli, than to Monteverdi and Purcell.96 From the mid-1950s, early music played a less important role in Tippett’s music, although he never completely lost interest in it. The Shires Suite of 1965–70 incorporated not just the canons ‘Non nobis, Domine’ and ‘Hey, ho! to the Greenwood’ (both traditionally, but incorrectly, attributed to Byrd), but also ‘Sumer is icumen in’ and canons by Purcell, Gibbons and Alexander Goehr (Walter’s son). In his Symphony No. 4 (1976–7), he returned to the Gibbons fantasia used in the Divertimento, which he paraphrased in the third episode.97 The Mask of Time (1980–2) contains allusions to Dowland’s ‘I saw my Lady weep’ and Monteverdi’s Ecco mormorar l’onde, amongst others.98 And once again, the majority of these references are to the music that Tippett had performed at Morley College. Michael Tippett’s interest in early music extended across his entire lengthy career, both pre- and post-dating his relatively brief time at Morley College. His experiences at Morley, however, were pivotal to understanding his relationship to early music. His knowledge of early music before he went to Morley was somewhat limited, but those works that really engaged his interest – English madrigals, the anthems of

64 Suzanne Cole

Gibbons, the medieval carol ‘Angelus ad Virginem’ – were incorporated into Morley concert programmes. And Tippett returned to these works, together with the music that he discovered while he was at Morley, again and again throughout his career, in concerts, in public lectures and in his own compositions. As he explained in an interview in 1963: ‘What I worked at at Morley College was always the things that chiefly interested ME – the Elizabethans, Monteverdi, Purcell.’99 Notes 1 Anthony Pople, ‘From Pastiche to Free Composition: R. O. Morris, Tippett, and the Development of Pitch Resources in the Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli’ in David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 29. For a discussion of Tippett’s ‘allusion to pre-existing music’, see, for example, Peter Dennison, ‘Reminiscence and Recomposition in Tippett’, Musical Times, 126 (January 1985), 13–18, and Arnold Whittall, ‘Resisting Tonality: Tippett, Beethoven and the Sarabande’, Music Analysis, 9/3 (October 1990), 267–86. 2 See Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 91; and David Clarke, ‘“Only Half Rebelling”: Tonal Strategies, Folksong and “Englishness” in Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 12. 3 See Kemp, Tippett, pp. 115–16. 4 Michael Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991), p. 5. See also, for example, Charles Reid, ‘Michael Tippett: Portrait of a Twentieth-Century Composer’, Radio Times, 13 February 1953, 5. 5 Tippett, interview with John Amis, Music Now programme, BBC, 1975 (The Michael Tippett Australian Archive, The University of Melbourne, Australia, T161 Cassette 2, side A, Item 3). 6 Ibid. 7 Kemp provides a more detailed account of Tippett’s earliest musical experiences, including singing in the school choir, piano and organ lessons, and of the influence of Malcolm Sargent and of one of Tippett’s English masters, Henry Waldo Acomb, who introduced Tippett to English folksongs, songs by Dowland and Ravel’s Mother Goose Suite (see Tippett, pp. 9–11). 8 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 14. 9 See, for example, ‘Gibbons Tercentenary’, Musical Times, 66 (July 1925), 637–8.

10 Tippett, interview with Amis. 11 Kemp, Tippett, p. 15. Kemp claims that Tippett’s choir was founded independently and that Tippett persuaded the Players to ‘combine with his choir’. The Minutes of the Oxted and Limspfield Players make it clear, however, that the choir was formed as a direct offshoot of the Players (Oxted and Limpsfield Players Minute Book, 6 October 1924, Surrey County History Centre). Unfortunately the Minutes rarely refer to Tippett and the activities of the ‘Musical Section’. 12 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 21; Kemp, Tippett, p. 18. 13 Tippett, ibid., p. 39. 14 Kemp, Tippett, p. 19; Robert D. Hume, ‘Beggar’s Opera, The’, The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1992), vol. I , p. 375. 15 John Gay, The Beggar’s Opera as it is Performed at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, with new settings of the Airs and additional Music . . . by Frederic Austen (London: Boosey & Co, 1920); Nellie Chaplin, ‘The Harpsichord’, Music & Letters, 3 (July 1922), 269–73. 16 Kemp suggests that in 1931, when Tippett conducted a performance of Handel’s Messiah with the original instrumentation, ‘he had little idea of the tradition of continuo playing’ (Tippett, p. 20). 17 British Library, Add. Mss. 72003–4. Tippett’s Village Opera, a combination of arrangements of the airs given in Johnson’s original and newly composed music, was performed on 19 and 21 April 1928. 18 See Kemp, Tippett, p. 20. A handbill for the concert is reproduced in Suzanne Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), Plate 6. 19 R. O. Morris, Contrapuntal Technique of the Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon, 1922). 20 Kemp, Tippett, p. 85. 21 See Chapter 4 in this present volume, and Suzanne Robinson, ‘From Agitprop to Parable:

65 Tippett and early music A Prolegomenon to A Child of Our Time’ in Robinson (ed.), Tippett: Music and Literature, pp. 78–121, for a fuller discussion of Tippett’s political activities and beliefs in the 1930s. 22 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 40. 23 Alan Bush, ‘Music and the Working Class Struggle’, Left Review, 2 (September 1936), 647, quoted in Robinson, ‘From Agitprop to Parable’ in Robinson (ed.), Tippett: Music and Literature, p. 81. 24 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 33–4. 25 Kemp does not identify any particular model for these movements (see ibid., p. 122), but Keith Elcombe reports that Kemp had told him, in conversation, that Tippett was inspired specifically by Byrd’s pavans (see ‘Keyboard Music’ in Roger Bray (ed.), Music in Britain: The Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), p. 236). See also Richard Turbet, ‘Miscellany’, Annual Byrd Newsletter, 2 (1996), 8. 26 Kemp, Tippett, p. 132. 27 Ibid., p. 115. See also Clarke, ‘“Only Half Rebelling”’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, pp. 1–26, for a fuller discussion of this work, which identifies folksong as its primary influence. 28 Morris, Contrapuntal Technique, p. 3. 29 A handbill for this concert is reproduced in Robinson (ed.), Tippett: Music and Literature, Plate 9. There may well have been other similar performances for which no records survive. 30 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 182–3. 31 For more on the history of Morley College, see Denis Richards, Offspring of the Vic: A History of Morley College (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1958). 32 Kemp, Tippett, p. 28. 33 Richards, Offspring of the Vic, p. 163. 34 Ibid., pp. 166–7, 187. 35 See, for example, Robin Goldsbrough, ‘The Early Music Renaissance: The Pioneer Work of Arnold Goldsbrough recalled by his Son’, Musical Times, 133 (October 1992), 507–9. (In many of the sources relating to Morley College, Goldsbrough’s surname is spelled ‘Goldsborough’.) 36 Anon., ‘Music at Morley Today’, Musical Times, 75 (October 1934), 895–7. This article also gives a summary of some of the larger works performed at Morley under Foster’s direction. 37 Morley College Annual Report, 1936–7, 3, Box IV/224/1/19–36, Lambeth Archives, Lambeth. 38 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 114. Tippett taught no classes at Morley, but was responsible for the ‘overall control of the

musical policy’ and conducted the choir (Kemp, Tippett, p. 43). 39 Charles Stuart, ‘Music at Morley’, Musical Times, 92 (September 1951), 396. 40 See, for example, Lewis Foreman (ed.), From Parry to Britten: British Music in Letters 1900–1945 (London: Batsford, 1987), p. 222. 41 Tippett, ‘A Notable Musician’, New Statesman and Nation, 29 (5 May 1945), 289. I am grateful to Helen Southworth, who is currently working on a biography of Allinson, for bringing this to my attention. Meirion Bowen has claimed that Tippett had not been familiar with Purcell’s fantasias when he wrote his own Concerto for Double String Orchestra, but this seems unlikely (Michael Tippett, 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997), p. 151). 42 Tippett, ‘Purcell Rediscovered’, Manchester Guardian, 4 June 1959, 6. For more on Intimate Opera, see Charles Stuart, ‘Frederick Woodhouse and Intimate Opera’, Musical Times, 92 (April 1951), 153–8. 43 For a general discussion of Purcell reception, see Andrew Pinnock, ‘The Purcell Phenomenon’ in Michael Burden (ed.), The Purcell Companion (London: Faber and Faber, 1995), pp. 3–17. 44 Tippett, ‘Purcell Rediscovered’, 6. 45 See RCM Concert Programmes Nos. 748–892, 1923–8, and Concert Programmes: Recital, Informal, Opera, 1925–8, held in the Royal College of Music Library, London. A Suite in C major by Tippett himself was performed on 23 October 1924. 46 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 115. 47 See, for example, ‘St Cecilia’s Day: Purcell’s Ode’, The Times, 24 November 1941, 8 and ‘Purcell’s Odes: The Way to a Revival’, The Times, 28 November 1941, 6. A flyer advertising the concert is held in the British Library, MS Mus. 291, fol. 35. 48 Anne Martin, Musician for a While: A Biography of Walter Bergmann (Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire: Peacock Press, 2002), p. 9. 49 Ibid., pp. 15–16. 50 Ibid., pp. 19, 23–5, 30, 35. 51 In Ian Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium on his 60th Birthday (London: Faber and Faber, 1965), p. 81. 52 Letter, Tippett to Douglas Newton, undated, British Library, MS Mus. 291, fol. 70v. 53 See, for example, John Amis and Walter Bergmann’s tributes in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, pp. 73 and 81–2. 54 In the preparation of this chapter, the Ernst Henschel (Henschel, Boxes 2–31) and Diana

66 Suzanne Cole Gordon (x.435/318) programme collections, both held in the British Library, and the Morley College collection at the Lambeth Archives (Box IV/224/4/3/1/13), were consulted. Many of the early concerts did not, however, have written programmes (John Amis, personal communication, 2 January 2001), and by no means all of the later programmes are in these collections. For a fuller discussion of the programmes given by Tippett at Morley College, see Suzanne Cole, ‘“Musical Trail-blazing and General Daring”: Michael Tippett, Morley College and Early Music’ in Robinson (ed.), Tippett: Music and Literature, pp. 149–73. 55 Stuart, ‘Music at Morley’, 396. 56 The scripts of these talks are held in the BBC Written Archives Centre, Caversham Park, Caversham (hereafter ‘BBC Written Archives’). 57 The editions were all published by Schott & Co. Ltd., London; the recording is Henry Purcell: Ode for St Cecilia’s Day (1692), Alfred Deller, soloists of the Deller Consort, Ambrosian Singers, Kalmar Chamber Orchestra of London, cond. Tippett, Nixa NCL 16092 (1956). 58 Martin, Musician for a While, p. 56. 59 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 116. 60 John Amis, ‘War-time Morley’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 73. 61 Wilfrid Mellers, ‘Tippett at the Millennium: A Personal Memoir’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 189. Possibly as a result of this performance, Alec Robertson asked Tippett, in collaboration with Hopkins, to prepare a radio script on early English keyboard music for broadcast in May 1943, but it was postponed, and appears not to have taken place (letter, Robertson to Tippett, 1 April 1943, RCONT1, Artists, Michael Tippett 1942–1951, File 1A, BBC Written Archives). 62 In an interview with Ian Kemp and Malcolm Rayment, Tippett recalls that he was unfamiliar with Gibbons’s fantasias when writing his Concerto for Double String Orchestra (Tippett, ‘The Composer Speaks’, Audio and Record Review, 2/6 (February 1963), 27). 63 For example on 8 October 1944 and 13 March 1945. Unfortunately the individual fantasias were not identified on the printed programmes. 64 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 134; and Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. 98 (see also p. 90). In the former, the letter is dated early 1942; in the latter, early 1943.

65 Tippett, ‘A Notable Musician’, 289. 66 John Amis, Amiscellany: My Life, My Music (London: Faber and Faber, 1985), p. 168. 67 Tippett, letter to Francesca Allinson, undated (March 1943) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 101. 68 Tippett, ‘The Madrigal in Italy and England’, 17 May 1951, BBC Written Archives. 69 Kemp, Tippett, p. 59. 70 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 158; ‘London Concerts: A Two-Months’ Summary’, Musical Times, 88 (February 1947), 71. 71 See, for example, William McNaught, ‘L’Incoronazione di Poppea’, Musical Times, 89 (June 1948), 186–7. 72 Kemp, Tippett, p. 179. 73 Letter, Tippett to Douglas (Den) Newton (8 May 1944), British Library, MS Mus. 292. Tippett himself often referred to these works as ‘madrigals’, complete with quotation marks. Kemp has criticized The Windhover for carrying this principle to extremes (see Tippett, p. 179). 74 Ibid., 8 May 1944 and 22 May 1944. 75 Kemp, Tippett, p. 180. 76 Ibid, pp. 180–1. Tippett himself referred to The Weeping Babe as a motet (see his letter to Douglas Newton (8 November 1944) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 179). 77 Letter, Tippett to Robert Ponsonby (28 July 1972) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), ibid., p. 23. 78 See, for example, Tippett, ‘Purcell and the Elizabethans: Gibbons’, 6 December 1947, 2 and ‘The Tercentenary of Purcell’s Birth’, 4 April 1959, 4, BBC Written Archives. 79 Byrd’s On this Day Christ was Born appeared regularly on the Christmas Concert programmes, together with the spurious canon, ‘Non nobis, Domine’, and An Earthly Tree was sung at Christmas in 1944, but I know of no other performances of Byrd’s music until Laudibus in sanctis was added to the repertoire in 1946. The Mass for Five Voices was also sung in 1948. Apart from Spem in alium, the only other works by Tallis I have located on Morley programmes were the motets In jejunio et fletu and Dum transisset Sabbatum, both of which were given once in 1946. 80 Tippett, ‘Purcell and the English Tradition: The Singing of the English Language’, 5 April 1947, 3, BBC Written Archives. The substance of this talk has been published as ‘Composers Past and Present: Purcell’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels: Essays and Sketchbooks of Michael Tippett (London: Eulenburg, 1980), pp. 67–76. 81 Tippett, note in String Quartet No. 2, Schott ED 10209 (London: Schott & Co. Ltd., 1944).

67 Tippett and early music 82 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 117. 83 See Kemp, Tippett, pp. 201–4. A conductus is a medieval song, usually using sacred text in Latin verse. 84 The Suite in fact revisited a great deal of the music from Robin Hood (see ibid., p. 297). 85 See Cole, ‘Musical Trail-blazing’ in Robinson (ed.), Tippett: Music and Literature, pp. 162–4. A letter from Cecil Kenworthy (widower of Beryl Kenworthy, Morley Choir member from the late 1940s to the early 1950s) to Robert Hanson (Director of Music), claims that from about June 1947, although his name continued to appear on flyers and programmes, Tippett no longer organized or conducted the Morley concerts (10 May 1999, Michael Tippett Archive, Morley College, Lambeth, Item 5). 86 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 158. 87 For more on this phenomenon, see Heather Wiebe, ‘“Now and England”: Britten’s “Gloriana” and the “New Elizabethans”’, Cambridge Opera Journal, 17 (July 2005), 141–72.

88 Kemp, Tippett, p. 296. 89 Tippett, letter to Anna Kallin (Niouta) of the BBC (10 December 1954) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 367. 90 Tippett, ‘The Composer Speaks’, 27. 91 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 493 and 489. I have not been able to identify the significance of the Arne quotation. Bergmann, however, did edit at least one other work by Arne (see Martin, Musician for a While, p. 55). 92 Kemp, Tippett, p. 296; Derrick Puffett, ‘Tippett and the Retreat from Mythology’, Musical Times, 136 (January 1995), 13. 93 W. R. Anderson, ‘The Edinburgh Festival’, Musical Times, 94 (October 1953), 473. 94 Kemp, Tippett, p. 302; Dennison, ‘Reminiscence and Recomposition’, 15. 95 Kemp, ibid., pp. 302–3. 96 Tippett, ‘The Composer Speaks’, 27. 97 Bowen, Michael Tippett, p. 194. 98 Dennison, ‘Reminiscence and Recomposition’, 18. 99 Tippett, ‘The Composer Speaks’, 27.

4 Tippett and politics: the 1930s and beyond JOANNA BULLIVANT

One doesn’t cease to be in some senses always a political animal.1

What did politics mean to Tippett? How important were his political activities to his creative work over the course of his life?* In Ian Kemp’s account, Tippett’s interest in music and politics was short-lived: a process of gradual disillusionment in the late 1930s gave way to broader pacifist humanism in subsequent decades.2 Certainly, Tippett’s active participation in politics can largely be confined to a period of involvement in party politics in the 1930s, while overtly political compositions – such as the chorus Miners (c. 1935) and the Blake setting A Song of Liberty (1937) – were minor works, few in number and never published. Major works that immediately followed this period explored themes like individual suffering and responsibility (A Child of Our Time, 1939–41) or human psychological ‘darkness’ and ‘light’ (both that work and The Midsummer Marriage, 1946–52). This broad summary, however, leaves important questions unanswered. Most importantly, the matter of how we should define ‘political’ is not clearcut even during Tippett’s period of political commitment in the 1930s. Not only did Tippett do little in terms of party-political activism, but he also engaged in a wide range of activities with cultural groups whose relationship to politics is often difficult to define. The London Labour Choral Union (LLCU), for example, was a federation of working-class choirs organized by two successive communist musical advisors (the composers Rutland Boughton (1878–1960) and Alan Bush (1900–95)), yet was run under the auspices of the Labour Party and contained members of various degrees of political commitment (or lack of commitment). Even Tippett’s ostensibly political compositions are limited in number, and in some cases the presence of overt political content is questionable, as shall be discussed further below. Nevertheless, it is premature to conclude from this that politics played only a minor role in Tippett’s development as an artist in this period. Firstly, this was a time in which Tippett extensively considered issues of world politics, the possibilities of socialism and the role

[68]

* This chapter was written during the tenure of a Leverhulme Early Career Fellowship at the University of Nottingham. I am grateful to Peter Wright, Thomas Schuttenhelm, Nicolas Bell, Tiffany Kuo and Harm Langenkamp for many helpful suggestions and thought-provoking discussions during its preparation.

69 Tippett and politics: the 1930s and beyond

of art and the artist in achieving political change. While previously we have been reliant on Tippett’s later accounts of this process, the recent availability of Tippett’s extensive correspondence with his contemporary and political antagonist Alan Bush allows us to chart the nuances of his evolving ideas as never before. Secondly, it is important to place Tippett’s political-musical activities within a context of experimentation and debate surrounding music and politics in 1930s Britain, in which Bush was a key figure. Not only were Bush’s ideas about music and politics much more sophisticated than has been acknowledged in discussions of Tippett, they also point to connections between ideology, composition and practical cultural activities which are highly relevant to understanding Tippett. The majority of the discussion that follows will be concerned with the presentation of Tippett’s ideas and activities within this broad context. While the 1930s are thus of primary concern in this chapter, also of great importance will be the consideration of the legacy of Tippett’s political activities in his later music. Tippett’s undoubted retreat from politics after the 1930s notwithstanding, the subject continues to arise in accounts of his attitude and music after the Second World War. Kemp has described how by 1949 Tippett ‘now understood “politics” in a different light’: For him, the priority was not to engage in party or national politics but to assert fundamental human and moral values. His ‘political’ activities were therefore devoted to the cause which most fully represented such values, pacifism, and to the creation of music which would, hopefully, be an active agent in sustaining them.3

While Kemp’s main point here is that Tippett had moved on from politics by 1949, he suggests, importantly (as elsewhere in the book), that Tippett’s political interests left a legacy in his later thought and works. Similarly, there has been much recent interest in achieving critical readings of the later works which capture both Tippett’s ongoing interest in specific historical events and social problems (Hiroshima in the Third Symphony (1970–2), race relations in The Ice Break (1973–6)) and his perception of such events as reflective of universal human qualities.4 The obvious question is, again, how we should understand ‘politics’ in these contexts. Clearly, in both examples Tippett is not advocating a party political line. Yet his references to contemporary events in both works and writings express his desire to help bring about positive change in contemporary life with regard to, among others, war, racial division and more specific issues like the use of nuclear weapons. Given the topicality of some of Tippett’s works (for example,

70 Joanna Bullivant

the pertinence of The Ice Break to the racial tensions of 1960s America),5 to what extent should his post-war works be considered part of a broad retreat from politics in favour of ‘fundamental human’ values? Moreover, in such an instance, should the scope of enquiry be limited to Tippett’s ideas and music alone? As shall be discussed briefly in the final section of this chapter, the relationship between political concerns and cultural institutions, patronage and reception in the Cold War era is a subject of growing musicological interest.6 Without questioning the sincerity of Tippett’s long-held belief in music that speaks to humanity as a whole, one issue to be considered is the extent to which such ideals were susceptible to appropriation in specific political contexts. While it is beyond the scope of this chapter to present a complete story, it is possible to suggest avenues for new scrutiny of ‘Tippett and Politics’ throughout his career.

The 1930s: parties and propaganda? Let us first of all lay out Tippett’s various activities in greater detail. His involvement with political organizations is obviously the most clear-cut evidence of political engagement, and this may have been more extensive than is usually surmised. He was only a card-carrying member of a political party for the few months in 1935 when he joined the Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB). However, Tippett also wrote to Bush c. 1936–7 that he was still involved in political work with a group and preferred ‘the severe training of my present group to the CP’, although he gives no indication of which specific group this was.7 Sam Bornstein and Al Richardson have indicated that Tippett had some dealings with various Trotskyist groups that sprung up in 1930s Britain. He was reportedly part of the Musicians’ Group of the Bolshevik/Leninist Group (known as the Militant Group) in the Labour Party, a Trotskyist group operating within the Labour Party.8 Tippett wrote to its leaders in January 1938 regarding the handling of an internal split (the ‘Lee affair’)9 and read their newspaper, The Militant.10 He may briefly have been a supporter of the slightly later group, the Workers’ International League, founded in 1937, a new group resulting from the split in the Militant Group.11 All of this indicates that Tippett’s interest in organized politics outlasted his membership of the CPGB. Nevertheless, there is nothing to suggest that he was very heavily involved with any of these groups (we know nothing, for example, about the nature of the work of the Musicians’ Group). These affiliations also reveal nothing about the relationship between politics and Tippett’s musical activities.

71 Tippett and politics: the 1930s and beyond

A more promising field of enquiry is Tippett’s range of cultural projects and activities in the 1930s. In 1932, he began conducting two Royal Arsenal Co-operative Society choirs in London, as well as the South London Orchestra for unemployed musicians. The latter marked the beginning of his association with Morley College, an institution for the education and enrichment of working people. In 1933 and 1934, Tippett participated in music-making at a work camp for unemployed miners in Boosbeck, Yorkshire. For the 1934 camp he co-wrote and composed the music for the ‘folksong opera’ Robin Hood. That year Tippett began to get involved with some of Alan Bush’s activities in the field of workers’ music. He assisted Bush that year with the Pageant of Labour at the Crystal Palace, a spectacle boasting some 1,500 performers which told the history of, and sought to promote, the trade union movement, and for which Bush composed original music. Tippett provided the South London Orchestra for the occasion and shared the conducting of the seven performances with Bush. He was also at this time, with Bush, involved in an unknown capacity with the left-wing American organization of workers’ music groups, the Workers’ Music League.12 In 1935 he joined Bush’s choir, made up of members of the LLCU, when they competed in the International Workers’ Olympiad in Strasbourg. On at least one occasion in the mid1930s, Tippett acted as adjudicator in LLCU competitions. In 1934 and 1935 he was involved with organizing two ‘concert-demonstrations’ – ‘a practical demonstration of the various ways in which music could be used to further the class-struggle’ – held at Morley College and involving the LLCU and other groups.13 The year 1935 also saw War Ramp, Tippett’s revolutionary play about the relationship between capitalism and war, performed in various Labour Party premises and produced by the Labour League of Youth.14 In 1936 Tippett helped Bush found the Workers’ Music Association and was a member of the first executive committee. Again, the significance of these activities is difficult to determine. On the one hand, in 1937, Tippett emphasized that ‘I do not do any political activity in my choirs – I am simply earning my living – as far as I know no one in my choirs knows what I am’.15 While this comment should not be taken at face value, it is important to note that Tippett’s political sympathies were Trotskyist and radical, while the cultural organizations with which he was involved represented a far broader range of opinion, and members were not necessarily politically engaged. Tippett’s 1937 statement also raises the question of what political importance he himself attached to some of this work. On the other hand, events like the concert-demonstrations as efforts to ‘further the class-struggle’ suggest a very strong link between practical music-making and political goals.

72 Joanna Bullivant

Table 4.1 Political (?) works of the 1930s Robin Hood: ‘folksong opera’ with David Ayerst and Ruth Pennyman (1934) Miners for chorus and piano (text by Judy Wogan) (c. 1935) A Song of Liberty for chorus and orchestra (text from William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell) (1937) Robert of Sicily: play for children’s choruses and small ensemble, sponsored by the Royal Arsenal Cooperative Society (RACS) (1938) Seven at One Stroke (1939): play for children’s choruses and small ensemble, sponsored by the RACS

Our final area of enquiry with regard to Tippett’s music and politics is, naturally, his relevant compositions, listed in Table. 4.1. The same questions I have posed in relation to Tippett’s party activism and politicalmusical activities are relevant here: in what sense are these works political? Given its text, Robin Hood presents the strongest case of political music. Tippett considered the work a reinterpretation of ‘the legend of the famous outlaw in terms of the class war then dividing English society’, apparent in such passages as the following: So God he made us outlaws To beat the devil’s man; To rob the rich, to feed the poor By Robin’s ten year plan.16

Yet how much importance can be ascribed to this work? With Miners (to be discussed further below), it was one of only two attempts on Tippett’s part to introduce topical content and incitement to action into his works. Other works are far more tenuously political. Neither Robert of Sicily nor Seven at One Stroke has a political subject matter. While A Song of Liberty’s pronouncement that ‘Empire is no more!’ had contemporary resonances, Blake was a favourite poet of socialist songbooks long before the radicalism of the 1930s.17 It is also important to consider the impact and dissemination of these works. None were published and performances were few. More significantly, even leaving aside the problems of establishing the extent to which Tippett’s work with the London choirs who performed Miners (and Robin Hood in its second production)18 was political, the context of the first production of Robin Hood at the Yorkshire work camps was ambiguous given the politics of the organizer, Rolf Gardiner. As Dan Stone has written, while Gardiner was not a member of a self-designated fascist group, his interests in the rural revivalism that was the main focus of the work camps was a cultural expression of far-right ideas about masculinity, race and nationalism.19 In 1933, Tippett’s first year in the camps, Gardiner was writing that the decadence of taste in the modern state must be

73 Tippett and politics: the 1930s and beyond

addressed through ‘the resumption by masculine leadership and by statebuilding forces of the musical life of the people’.20 Tippett’s politics were, of course, very different from Gardiner’s, yet their differences raise the question of whether the political content of Tippett’s work was lost in the circumstances of the work camp production, especially given the obvious potential of the subject of Robin Hood to appeal to a ruralist and nationalist ethos. And given that he was, as Kemp indicates, ‘guarded’ towards Gardiner’s ideas, we must also ask how seriously Tippett took Robin Hood as an attempt to fuse musical and political goals, or even more crudely as a political statement.21 If this, one of his most overtly political works, was unimportant even in those terms, did the political works have any lasting significance for Tippett’s growth as an artist?

Models for political music Having thus examined Tippett’s activities and works for overt propaganda, the evidence is scarce. Nevertheless, the incitements to action in isolated works and the notion of particular musical events contributing to ‘class-struggle’, for example, point to some sense of music and musical activities having some role to play in achieving political change. What now needs to be addressed, therefore, is Tippett’s conception of what this role might be, and here it is revealing to examine his models of political music in more detail. The two composers who strongly influenced Tippett in this area were the aforementioned Bush, and Bush’s own mentor in music and politics, Hanns Eisler (1898–1962). Both composers were communists and committed to musical composition and other cultural activities which directly related to their political work. Eisler, a frequent collaborator with Bertolt Brecht, was internationally renowned in workers’ music, for example directing the Strasbourg Olympiad in which Tippett competed,22 and present in England for periods in the 1930s. Bush, whose music was admired by Tippett in this period,23 had seen the premiere of Brecht and Eisler’s stage work Die Massnahme as a student in Berlin in 1930, and had been strongly influenced by Eisler’s music and ideas in his work with workers’ music organizations in England. Bush organized the first English performances of Die Massnahme, and one of the concert-demonstrations Tippett was involved with showcased Eisler’s music. The LLCU was involved with the performances of Die Massnahme and various other performances of music by Eisler and Bush throughout the latter part of the decade. While previous accounts of Tippett’s politics have acknowledged the influence of Eisler and Bush, Kemp in particular presents the long-term influence in somewhat negative terms.24 In describing A Song of Liberty,

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for example, he emphasizes Tippett’s independence from an example that is tantamount to musical propaganda – the mere simplification of one’s musical style under political pressure: Blake’s text, an encomium upon the French Revolution . . . is used by Tippett as an intimation of the socialist revolution he then hoped to be near at hand. This however is less important than his decision to turn to the allegorical and symbolic vision of Blake, rather than a contemporary writer specializing in topical content, and to compose in a style of his own, rather than adapt and simplify in response to political demands, as was the practice of contemporary composers such as Eisler and Bush.25

In the same vein, Tippett’s most Eislerian work (in Kemp’s view), Miners, is by the same token ‘characterless’. Tippett himself wrote on similar lines when he later described Eisler’s music as being ‘uninteresting musically’.26 In reality, both Eisler and Bush went far beyond mere simplification in their work linking music and politics. Certainly, topicality was desirable, but the rationale for this was more complex than the desire to set political slogans. At the heart of both composers’ varied political-musical activities (including stage and film work, pageantry, composition and practical work for amateur groups, and theoretical writing) lay the notion of creating an entire musical culture. This new culture would both help bring about, and eventually reflect, life following the anticipated imminent socialist revolution. While texts relevant to this goal were therefore very important, particular musical qualities were significant too. Firstly, Bush and Eisler endeavoured to foster music and activities that contrasted sharply with bourgeois culture, a criterion that had implications for performance style and context and for musical style. Eisler and Bush were concerned that new workers’ music should be modern, and thus appropriate to the contemporary situation, both through transformation of conventional musical function and the use of new techniques such as the twelve-note method.27 Eisler also sought to create music that promoted action, rather than the passive effect he perceived in bourgeois music; this is illustrated by his ‘Solidaritätslied’, which refers to the need to rise up against oppression in general terms, without specific topical allusions.

Politics and the self This brief account is not intended as an apologia for Bush and Eisler. Rather, their concerns regarding music and politics form a crucial context for understanding Tippett’s ideas, as becomes apparent if we now turn to Tippett’s beliefs as revealed in his letters to Bush in the late 1930s. The issue at the heart of the correspondence is the two composers’ respective

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Trotskyism and Stalinism. Following an initial spate of letters from 1934–6 which largely concern arrangements for their joint political-musical projects, the majority of letters from 1938–45 are heavily concerned with the theory and practice of their relative political positions, and most are by Tippett, attempting to bring Bush around to his views. Tippett’s views were in keeping with British Trotskyism in this period. Both Stalinists and Trotskyists laid claim to the true legacy of Lenin, and Tippett adhered to the Trotskyist opposition to Stalin’s policy of ‘socialism in one country’ and the belief that the Third International, the Comintern,28 had failed to bring about international socialist revolution.29 This task could now only be brought about by the Fourth International, an idea being mooted by 1933 but which was only formalized into an organization in 1938.30 Crucially, however, Tippett also subscribed to the Third International belief (shared by Stalinism) in the contemporary period as one of the disintegration of capitalism and imminent war leading to socialist revolution.31 While Tippett believed in the Fourth International as the ‘everlastingly new home of the real thing (International Communism)’,32 which would achieve mass popularity in the imminent anti-capitalist war, he also (at least initially) did not see the ultimate goal as the overthrow of Stalinism: I believe that the fusion of the two tendencies [Stalinism and Trotskyism], or the resolution of the argument is getting very near now – when the revolution is only weeks or months away the slogans coincide – or in the war we shall find our solidarity against the common capitalist recruiting dope. It seems to me important that we should keep in touch despite the difficulties, even because of them. There is the common faith underlying it all wh[ich] must be retained and nursed. That makes us better revolutionaries when we sink our differences behind the same machine-gun.33

The significance of Tippett’s belief at this stage in a ‘common faith’ becomes apparent when another dimension of his discussion of Stalinism and Trotskyism is scrutinized: his tendency to relate the opposition in his relationship with Bush, his own psychological development and his ideas about music. Late in 1936, Tippett described the differences between himself and Bush both personally and as revolutionaries: My rational guide to conduct is feeling (I am at present wrestling with the subjective problem of extracting aesthetic and social feeling from emotion . . . – I am out of my depth in abstract thought and somewhat afraid of it – just exactly as you are always best in thought and lost in feeling . . . I think I am therefore more in my element in the stormy, feeling side of the revolution – the mass emotion – which you really are secretly afraid of.34

Both in this letter and in subsequent ones, Tippett debated the extent to which his own affinity with Trotskyism and Bush’s with Stalinism

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reflected these personal attributes. While Tippett saw a precise correlation of Trotskyism and feeling as too simplistic, he did come to paint his differences with Bush as a projection of his internal psychological struggle.35 Around 1936–7 he wrote of going through a ‘sorting out of things inside’, from which he had concluded that ‘I have to learn to think, T-ism [Trotskyism] or no T-ism’: What I have been trying to express is that I know now that arguing with you is really inside myself all the time. Eros v. Logos (you reflect this too) how really either Stalinism or T-ism, or at heart somewhere is the dialectical Eros plus Logos – of Marxism. But my attempt to prove this for T-ism amounts to the old attempt to prove my Eros-ridden self to be complete – and your attempt vice versa comes across to me as Logos-dictation afraid of Eros . . . My job now is . . . to disentangle my Logos self from the mastery by Eros, and the fear of it etc, etc. As yet I have not succeeded in reaching any objective self wh[ich] doesn’t constantly fall back into the old internal split. It’s a vital necessity to wrestle with this problem and argument with you, as opposed to persuasion, is what I have got to learn to conquer, without splitting myself into two bits and submerging all in a well of emotion.36

In some ways, this letter confirms what we know about Tippett’s political and psychological development: it charts his gradual rejection of political involvement, in that he is prepared to sacrifice his Trotskyism for psychological balance. The discussion of finding wholeness rather than a ‘split’ self looks forward to the concerns of A Child of Our Time (hereafter A Child) and The Midsummer Marriage. Yet it is also striking that even when Tippett was still engaged in political work, his interest in psychology was not born of disillusionment with politics. Rather, from an early stage he viewed political beliefs as manifestations of deeper human impulses. Moreover, while Tippett’s condemnation of Stalinism was very real, he also viewed it (as personified by Bush) as reflective of a dialectic of the rational and irrational which was central to his own psychological growth. This in turn reflected his belief at this stage in the underlying ‘common faith’ between Stalinists and Trotskyists, and the hoped-for eradication of their differences in the coming revolution.

Music and politics in practice This evidence thus points to a strong connection between Tippett’s political beliefs and the psychological issues that would prove so central to later works. Yet there are also implications for understanding the relationship between politics and Tippett’s musical activities and works of the 1930s. While less extensive than the main dispute over Stalinism and Trotskyism, the Bush–Tippett correspondence also charts a serious

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disagreement concerning the LLCU. Tippett adjudicated at an LLCU event in 1937 and made a speech regarding the repertoire. As Tippett recounted it, he argued that (a) ‘art is art even in workers’ ensembles’; (b) ‘propaganda is not art ipso facto’; and (c) ‘the LLCU is not merely a newspaper, it is the means by wh[ich] certain information etc touches a vaster mass of people using the means of art to that purpose’.37 Bush replied that Tippett’s remarks had ‘only confirmed the sentimental romantics [among the LLCU members] in their reactionary inclinations’.38 He further implied that Tippett had threatened his work with the LLCU by performing sentimental repertoire (specifically naming the song ‘Dorothy’) and suggested that this disruption was the product of Tippett’s Trotskyism.39 Tippett rounded on Bush again by denying any political goal in his repertoire preferences: people coming to sing ‘Dorothy’ means almost nothing to me except bread and water and good-fellowship and I w[ou]ld think it much better if they went to the LLCU, Stalinist tho[ugh] it is – especially under the leadership of yourself who to me, have real revolutionary faith.40

It is easy to conclude from the two composers’ argument thus far that Tippett was making a defence of l’art pour l’art against Bush’s co-opting of music for propagandistic purposes. Tippett finishes his second letter, however, by stating that ‘I am taking Trotsky’s position on art and the revolution’ and accusing Bush of the primary flaw of denying human instinct and emotion in revolutionary music, citing Bush’s own song ‘Question and Answer’ as an illustration of this fault. This did not mean that Tippett simply embraced emotion as the guiding principle in workers’ music. Bush, again influenced by Brecht and Eisler, did indeed promote workers’ music that was anti-sentimental. On the basis that fascism was the ultimate manifestation of capitalist tendencies, both bourgeois and fascist aesthetics were perceived to promote passive emotional consumption of music based on an appeal to instinct. Bush and Eisler, on the contrary, sought to create workers’ music that fostered rational thought and (revolutionary) action. Eisler’s songs of this period are consequently characterized by sparse harmonization, marching basslines and the avoidance of any attempt to emotionally illustrate the text, Eisler preferring to simply set forth or even adopt an ironic distance from the words in his settings. Intriguingly, Tippett had written to Bush previously that ‘if you did succeed in getting the Choral Union to be like yourself . . . the irrational element in people would seek at all costs to find a way, and would lie undefended before fascist demagogy’.41 The parallels here with Tippett’s perception of his own irrationality are clear, and as in that instance, Tippett felt that what was needed was a balance, or rather, a dialectic,

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between opposing tendencies. Significant too is Tippett’s assertion that his position on art and revolution is Trotsky’s. While Tippett does not elaborate on the claim, the essence of Trotsky’s position as outlined in Literature and Revolution was that aesthetic value could not be reduced to political content, and that proletarian artists must be able to ‘absorb and make use of the cultural history previously withheld from them’.42 However, Trotsky also rejected formalism and supported the notion that art related to the age that produced it. These two beliefs – Tippett’s adherence to Trotsky and his belief in the necessity of balance between the rational and irrational – are central to his ideas about music and politics in the second half of the 1930s. Tippett still, as we have noted, believed at this stage in imminent socialist revolution and, following Trotsky and as he asserted elsewhere, in the notion that the composer ‘should be in some living contact with the age’.43 Yet what sort of music was appropriate to that age, and how should the artist take action? Tippett’s application of his analysis of the modern ‘split’ of the rational and irrational to both politics and workers’ music prompted him not to utterly reject Bush’s ideas about a rational basis for socialist music. Yet he was still unable at this stage to reconcile such a model of new and revolutionary music with his recognition of the ongoing power of the music of the past to move people emotionally. Perhaps this impasse, rather than ongoing disillusionment with politics, offers the best explanation for the weaknesses of Tippett’s most politicized works, as may be seen, for example, in Miners. The work has been described as ‘Eisler-ish’,44 yet it is in several respects strikingly different from the sort of Eisler songs Tippett would have known. Like several Eisler songs, there is a change from minor to major that sets a shift in the text from a description of the hardship of the miners’ lives to the need for unity. However, in the music and particularly in the text this is much more crudely done than in Brecht and Eisler’s songs, which were generally strophic and presented a constant and subtle alternation of exposing injustice and presenting solutions in action, often through the presentation of argument as in their ‘Lob des Lernens’ (‘In Praise of Learning’), performed by the LLCU in 1935. Miners is also in contrast to Eisler’s songs in that its suitability for untrained amateurs, or for non-concert performance, is questionable. There is an extensive piano introduction and several interludes into which fragments of the text are woven, again distinct from the driving rhythms of Eisler’s songs. This comparison is not intended to condemn Tippett’s work; rather it may be viewed as testimony to the uncertainty with which he created music which reflected his complex political ideas. This is salutary for understanding Tippett’s work in this period as a whole. Even when his Trotskyism was at

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its most ardent, he was never simply concerned with writing propaganda. In common with his models, Bush and Eisler, he believed in imminent radical social change and was interested in the notion of music and musical activities that both reflected and helped to achieve this. Where they differed increasingly was in their beliefs about the nature of such music, and how it is able (or ought) to influence people. If we understand the political in music as propounding a party line, Tippett was never a political musician. If, on the other hand, the political in music suggests a worldview that had aesthetic implications, we are closer to appreciating the nature of Tippett’s elusive artistic engagement with politics in the 1930s.

The legacy of the 1930s What was the legacy of this process of thought about music and politics in later decades? Already in the 1930s, Tippett related political beliefs and courses of action to deeper human qualities. What we see in the 1940s and after is that the exploration of human qualities became central to Tippett’s thought, while politics assumed an increasingly marginal position. As he wrote in 1945: ‘For me the language and ideas of Marxism are only one, and not the only one, apprehension of present social life. The centre of gravity, so to speak, has for me shifted.’45 In an article accompanying the first broadcast performance of A Child, Tippett wrote that the third part of the text spoke of possibilities arising from the story, but ‘not in any political sense: only in a spiritual or psychological sense’.46 In a 1963 programme note, too, Tippett reflected positively on the fact that the oratorio had outgrown its historical context: at a recent German performance the audience had responded to ‘the eternal tragedy of man’s inhumanity to man’.47 These views are also discernible in aspects of the work itself. We have already seen in the discussion of the 1930s Tippett’s belief in psychological imbalance between the rational and irrational. Yet whereas then Tippett saw this conflict as being vitally played out in the struggle between Stalinism and Trotskyism, in A Child the ‘split’ modern man is rather embodied in both the humanity and capacity for violence of the central figure. One of the key moments of the work is his statement that begins the final ensemble: I would know my shadow and my light, So shall I at last be whole.

Increasingly, as the talks and essays eventually compiled in Moving into Aquarius testify, Tippett viewed this psychological split as manifest in all kinds of dualisms. In a 1944 pamphlet, for example, he described the

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‘endless dualisms, of spirit-matter, imagination-fact, even down to that of class’ which had produced the ‘division’ of modern man.48 Tippett’s shift also casts light on his pacifism. In the 1930s he was not opposed to violence where it would bring about revolution; rather he believed the inevitable capitalist war would unite Stalinism and Trotskyism (when ‘we sink our differences behind the same machinegun’). He also wrote with reference to the Russian show trials of the rectitude of Lenin’s view that ‘once past the revolutionary terror of the elimination of the bourgeoisie, greater and greater democracy and liberty of opinion, parties and all are to be allowed and encouraged’.49 In contrast, by 1943 Tippett perceived violence and war to be a product of the imbalance of the divided modern man towards the material world and progress based on ‘technics’.50 The artist’s role was bound up with the pacifist’s position, as it was to promote imagination as the necessary spiritual balance to these tendencies towards violence. This sense of his artistic vocation as providing both critique and healing of the conditions of post-Enlightenment modernity was one that occupied him for the rest of his creative life. The breadth of Tippett’s purposes from the 1940s onwards should not, however, be taken as a complete rejection of his earlier, politicized outlook, as there are important points of continuity. As David Clarke has noted, Tippett’s critique of manifestations of modernity such as science, technology and, ultimately, war, amounted to a critique of the dominance of reason in modern life.51 This focus is already nascent in Tippett’s diagnosis of Bush’s Stalinism and approach to revolutionary art as disproportionately, and (potentially) dangerously, rational. Nor did he cease after the 1930s to include reflections on politics among the issues he was trying to address. In a 1944 letter, he wrote regarding A Child that the scapegoat with whom the work sympathizes was often whole classes of people: ‘Jews, Negroes – and in my opinion political groups like anarchists, Trotskyists’.52 While the letter ultimately makes clear Tippett’s now primarily psychological, rather than political, reading of the contemporary situation, he ends with a reference to his plans for The Midsummer Marriage by stating that ‘My “whole man” looks very much like Lenin’s dedicated revolutionary – and the impact such men might make on the change in the climate of opinion.’53 What this statement underlines is that both Tippett’s Trotskyist beliefs and his critique of modernity are conceptions of a historical moment of global proportions, and of the necessity of taking action to enact change. Tippett’s views evolved in that he ceased to believe that communism could bring about positive change, not because he had entirely rejected the ends envisaged by Marxism, but because ‘the methods are so uncivilized that the ends envisaged cannot any longer be

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encompassed’.54 More fundamentally, Tippett had begun to solve his quandary regarding what action it was possible for him to take. Where Bush still believed that music could rationally persuade people to achieve political and social change, Tippett now saw his role as contributing to a better society by restoring psychological balance between the rational and the imaginative. That such action might have a concrete impact in the political or social sphere was a possibility that Tippett still acknowledged: My belief in ideas and their force is simply my sort of political sense. I am pretty certain that the ideas I hold are those of a minority . . . But that is not the issue. They are in a portion of the human, particularly western, birthright of sensibility, and can neither be lost, nor forced on others. It happens to be my fate to incarnate them to a certain degree, and that may bring any possible political consequence. I cannot evade the fate, for fear of the consequence.55

Narratives of Tippett’s gradual achievement of maturity as an artist in the 1940s have rightly identified an important shift from specific political interests to a much broader conception of the modern world. What this chapter has aimed to do is to trace the nuances of that journey. As we have seen, in one sense Tippett was less political in the 1930s than may initially be apparent, in that his psychological interpretation of politics (and political music) laid the foundation for his later views. Yet equally, even after he ceased to believe in the power of politics to bring about real social change, Tippett remained conscious of the place of specific political events within the landscape of the modern age. He retained his sense that, say, Trotskyism exemplified deeper psychological impulses. His comments in the 1970s that ‘The outbreaks of student protest all over the world have perhaps less to do with any specific political issues than with a widespread impatience with a society that appears to have little time for dreams’ illustrate that this impulse to make connections between the psychological and the political stayed with Tippett in later years.56

Politics and reception There is another area in which we may continue to consider Tippett’s music and politics: that of the promotion and reception of his music. As this has so far been the subject of little research, I will present a brief snapshot of possibilities rather than suggest conclusions. Tippett’s postwar encounters with groups or events that involved politics were sporadic, and he himself was strongly resistant to involvement with politics. Nevertheless, it is notable that Tippett was courted by organizations promoting the political and cultural interests of both Cold War blocs. In

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1944 he was invited to sit on the Music Committee of the Society for Cultural Relations with the Soviet Union. While he declined on the grounds of a lack of time, he wondered whether the society had gained an impression that he was politically sympathetic to the organization on the basis of A Child.57 He was also invited (on the Soviet side) to be a delegate at the notorious Cultural and Scientific Conference for World Peace held at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York in 1949, but refused to be involved with such a propagandistic exercise. Tippett did, however, involve himself to a very limited extent with various organizations since linked to the US and British ‘cultural Cold War’. He was a member of the British Freedom Defence Committee, a left-wing civil liberties organization set up to defend individual freedoms in opposition to the communist-dominated National Council for Civil Liberties. Tippett’s Plebs Angelica (1943–4) was performed as part of the L’Oeuvre du XXe Siècle (Masterpieces of the Twentieth Century) festival in Paris in 1952, an event organized by the CIA-sponsored Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF). According to Frances Stonor Saunders, he was also sent roundtrip tickets for a subsequent CCF festival of modern music in Rome in 1954.58 In addition to these fragmentary instances of Tippett attracting the attention of organizations with political interests, a more substantial case study relates to Tippett’s reputation during and immediately after the war, given his prison sentence and status as a conscientious objector. As Lewis Foreman has revealed, at the BBC there was a range of opinions as to whether broadcasting, say, A Child was tantamount to endorsing pacifism, and as to whether a conscientious objector should be promoted by the BBC.59 More intriguing than the BBC’s decision to support Tippett is the fact that, with Britten, Tippett was one of the two composers most assiduously promoted by Britain in occupied post-war Germany, with A Child being performed in September 1946.60 While Toby Thacker sees the choice of two conscientious objectors as evidence of the apolitical British view of music,61 it is noteworthy that the BBC had already debated – and dismissed – the notion of A Child as a pacifist work. It is also significant that the chief criterion for the Allies’ selections of music for performance in occupied Germany was music that broke decisively with Nazi-period practices. Thus two of the primary categories of acceptable music were (a) music that had been banned by the Nazis on racial grounds, such as Mendelssohn, and (b) modernism.62 As Thacker describes, there were other agendas. One concern among the British, as amongst the other Allies, was to compete in promoting their own culture; the other was the belief that Germany required, in one contemporary British commentator’s words, ‘spiritual regeneration’ to achieve long-term peace.63 This is not to

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suggest that these various concerns coalesced into a definite agenda to promote Tippett’s oratorio. It is reasonable to suggest, however, that A Child was a work that, regardless of the composer’s pacifism, met these various criteria to an extraordinary extent. It had an anti-fascist and antiracist theme, it had proved remarkably accessible and yet was also perceived to be modern in musical language,64 a quality that, potentially, both contradicted Nazi policies and celebrated the achievements of modern Britain. The very brief examples just discussed do not, of course, present a very substantial body of evidence of official and institutional interest in the political value of Tippett’s music. Nor do they, crucially, suggest involvement on Tippett’s part in these kinds of political-cultural activities after the Second World War. Tippett’s belief in the breadth of the values his music embraced was sincere. Nevertheless, it is worth reflecting that key elements of his music – its perceived modernity, its protest against violence – were not necessarily universal in reception. Rather, elements of music may have had particular value at specific times to groups with particular political interests. While we may recognize Tippett’s diminishing interest in political activities, this did not necessarily render his later music immune from politicized appropriation. The nature and extent of any such appropriation, however, is a matter for further research. Notes 1 Michael Tippett, letter to Alan Bush (3 March 1945), Alan Bush Collection, British Library, MS Mus. 449: Correspondence with Sir Michael Tippett. 2 Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987). 3 Ibid., p. 49. 4 Most notably David Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001). 5 Kemp, Tippett, p. 462. 6 For an introduction to these issues see Peter A. Schmelz, ‘Introduction: Music in the Cold War’, Journal of Musicology, 26/1 (Winter 2009), 3–16. 7 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated (1936–7), Alan Bush Collection. 8 Sam Bornstein and Al Richardson, Against the Stream: A History of the Trotskyist Movement in Britain 1924–38 (London: Socialist Platform, 1986), p. 296. 9 See Sam Bornstein and Al Richardson, The War and the International: A History of

the Trotskyist Movement in Britain, 1937–1949 (London: Socialist Platform, 1986), p. 1 ff. 10 Bornstein and Richardson, Against the Stream, p. 284. 11 Ibid., p. 296. 12 Bush, letters to Tippett (29 October 1934 and 5 November 1934), Alan Bush Collection. 13 Kemp, Tippett, p. 33; Alan Bush, ‘Eisler Demonstration’, Left Review, 1/8 (May 1935), 330–2. 14 On War Ramp, see Kemp, Tippett, pp. 34–6. 15 Tippett, letter to Bush (30 December 1937 – Tippett’s emphasis), Alan Bush Collection. 16 Michael Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991), p. 42. 17 Chris Waters, British Socialists and the Politics of Popular Culture, 1884–1914 (Manchester University Press, 1990), pp. 108–9. 18 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 33–4. 19 Dan Stone, ‘The Far Right and the Back-tothe-Land Movement’ in Julie V. Gottlieb and

84 Joanna Bullivant Thomas P. Linehan (eds.), The Culture of Fascism: Visions of the Far Right in Britain (London and New York: I. B. Tauris, 2004), p. 192. 20 Ibid. 21 Kemp, Tippett, p. 26. 22 Albrecht Betz, Hanns Eisler: Political Musician (Cambridge University Press, 1982), pp. 147–8. 23 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, pp. 43–4. 24 See Kemp, Tippett, p. 33; Suzanne Robinson, ‘From Agitprop to Parable: A Prolegomenon to A Child of Our Time’ in Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), pp. 78–121. 25 Kemp, Tippett, p. 127. 26 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 44. 27 For further discussion of Eisler’s and Bush’s aesthetics see Joanna Bullivant, ‘Modernism, Politics and Individuality in 1930s Britain: The Case of Alan Bush’, Music & Letters, 90/3 (August 2009), 432–52. 28 The Comintern (Communist International) had been founded in 1919 with the expectation of bringing about international anti-bourgeois revolution and the founding of an international Soviet republic. 29 Tippett, letter to Bush (July 1936) in Thomas Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), pp. 123–4. 30 John Callaghan, British Trotskyism: Theory and Practice (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1984), p. 14. 31 Ibid., p. 7. 32 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated (1936–7?), Alan Bush Collection. 33 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated, Alan Bush Collection. 34 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated (late 1936), Alan Bush Collection. 35 Tippett talked in similar terms of other friends as projections of parts of his psyche. John Amis recalls learning of Tippett describing him as ‘simply a projection of my musical self ’. See John Amis, Amiscellany: My Life, My Music (London: Faber and Faber, 1985), p. 174. 36 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated (1936–7 – Tippett’s emphasis), Alan Bush Collection. 37 Tippett, letter to Bush (20 December 1937), Alan Bush Collection. 38 Bush, letter to Tippett (25 December 1937), Alan Bush Collection. 39 There are several works for various forces that Bush could be referring to, so it has not

been possible to identify the song precisely. However, Tippett later described his sympathy with amateur choirs in this period who ‘wanted to do Gilbert and Sullivan or Merrie England [Edward German’s opera]’ (Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 44). 40 Tippett, letter to Bush (30 December 1937), Alan Bush Collection. 41 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated (1937?), Alan Bush Collection. 42 William Keach, ‘Introduction’ in Leon Trotsky, Literature and Revolution, ed. William Keach (Chicago: Haymarket, 2005), p. 14. 43 Tippett, ‘Music and Life – 1938’, Monthly Musical Record, 68/798 (July–August 1938), 177. 44 Robinson, ‘From Agitprop to Parable’ in Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature, p. 86. 45 Tippett, letter to Bush (3 March 1945), Alan Bush Collection. 46 Tippett, ‘A Child of Our Time’, The Listener, 18 January 1945, 66. 47 Tippett, ‘The Nameless Hero: Reflections on A Child of Our Time’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels: Essays and Sketchbooks of Michael Tippett (London: Eulenburg, 1980), p. 195 (Tippett’s emphasis). 48 Tippett, ‘Contracting-in to Abundance’ in Moving into Aquarius, expanded edn (St Albans: Paladin Books, 1974), p. 23. 49 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated (1936–7?), Alan Bush Collection. 50 Tippett, ‘Contracting-in to Abundance’ in Moving into Aquarius, p. 23. 51 Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, p. 3. 52 Tippett, letter to Bush, undated (autumn 1944) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 133. 53 Ibid., p. 137. 54 Tippett, letter to Bush (3 March 1945), Alan Bush Collection. 55 Ibid. 56 Tippett, ‘Poets in a Barren Age’ in Moving into Aquarius, p. 154. 57 Tippett, letter to Bush (2 December 1944), Alan Bush Collection. 58 Frances Stonor Saunders, Who Paid the Piper? The CIA and the Cultural Cold War (London: Granta, 1999), pp. 222–3. 59 Lewis Foreman, ‘Forging a Relationship and a Role: Michael Tippett and the BBC, 1928–51’ in Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature, pp. 141–4. 60 Toby Thacker, Music after Hitler, 1945– 1955 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), p. 91.

85 Tippett and politics: the 1930s and beyond 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid., pp. 75–6. 63 Ibid., pp. 18–19. 64 Several of the early reviews of the work commented on the ‘intellectual’ or ‘spare,

linear and unsentimental’ qualities of Tippett’s style, descriptions widely applied to modern music in this period. See Kenneth Gloag, Tippett: A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 90–1.

5 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity from the First String Quartet to The Heart’s Assurance SUZANNE ROBINSON

‘Being gay,’ according to Tippett’s contemporary Christopher Isherwood, ‘has given me an oblique angle of vision on the world. Without it, I might never have been a writer.’1 Tippett was an artist self-identified as ‘queer’, yet he was never as forthright as Isherwood about the connection between sexual identity and art, preferring instead to emphasize the universal appeal of his work. And if the composer fails to draw attention to his sexuality, as Richard Bozorth suggests in a discussion of the early works of W. H. Auden, ‘it can reasonably be placed outside the bounds of meaningful critical or interpretive response to his work’.2 Such is the perceived disjunction between Tippett’s life and works that to many of his critics the subject of his sexuality remains ‘of limited interest’.3 Although Tippett’s homosexuality was an open secret as early as the forties – well-enough known that a fellow composer lampooned him as ‘Arse-over-Tippett’4 – there was no public outing until the appearance in 1984 of Ian Kemp’s study of the life and music.5 In 1997, by which time Tippett was a revered nonagenarian, his partner Meirion Bowen preferred to discuss Tippett’s sexuality in only the most epigrammatic terms: During his youth, Tippett became aware of his own homosexual inclinations and accepted them as an instinctive, perfectly natural way of expressing himself. He was undeterred by the legal prohibitions in his own country that forbade homosexual activity even in private. Blessed by good looks, charm and charisma, he was propositioned by many women and dealt with the situation as best he could, without wanting to hurt any one of them – though many often felt wounded by rejection so attached had they become to him.6

[86]

Reading this, it seems that issues of social propriety, censorship or the prospect of flouting the law troubled Tippett little, although Bowen does concede that for a time he was ‘vulnerable and guilt-ridden’.7 Further muddying the waters, Tippett’s autobiography, despite its unabashed frankness about circumcision and the priapic adventures of his dreams, commits more pages to his friendship with Francesca Allinson than to any with a man.8 Yet David Clarke in his review of the same book points to Anthony Clare’s ‘In the Psychiatrist’s Chair’ interview with Tippett dating from 1986 as evidence of more complex layers of autobiographical

87 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity

meaning.9 When Clare asked Tippett to explain the ‘deep wound’ he said he had suffered, he prevaricated.10 Moreover, when asked to identify what the ‘price’ was that he had been ‘willing to pay’, Tippett’s reply was: ‘Now that I am older I don’t quite know what I really meant.’ Perhaps, in old age and living in a society largely free from institutionalized prejudice, he had forgotten what it was like to be the member of an oppressed minority. But the habit of speaking without telling had not left him. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick argues that in the history of the closet, ‘even what counts as a speech act is problematized on a perfectly routine basis’.11 She quotes Michel Foucault theorizing that ‘there is no binary division to be made between what one says and what one does not say; we must try to determine the different ways of not saying such things . . . There is not one but many silences.’12 The inadmissibility of the authentic voice is a perceptible problem in the literature of Tippett’s generation of homosexual writers, who were compelled to cloak their expressions of personal experience in tropes that compounded the obscurity of their work. Without a legitimate discourse of their own, and in a post-Wildean society that endorsed the policing of private lives, such expressions had to be made within the parameters of the dominant discourse. The play of what is revealed and what is concealed, and of what can and cannot be known to the reader, is fundamental to an understanding of the undercurrents of works energized by difference. Marty Roth calls this ‘erasure’, when signs of homosexuality are both present and absent, ‘revealed only to be concealed through disavowal and concealed only to be revealed through the mechanism of the symptom’.13 In the works composed within the frame of this chapter, Tippett dealt with personal dilemmas by negotiating pathways between what can be said and what must be concealed. To look beneath what is said, and what has been said, is to see how his works have been shaped by homosexual identity and self-interrogation. While the first of them, the String Quartet No. 1 (1934–5, rev. 1943), is regarded as the first work of Tippett’s compositional maturity, it was also a significant step in a process of ‘coming out to oneself’ that was both life-changing and lifeaffirming.14

String Quartet No. 1 and A Song of Liberty: ‘For everything that lives is Holy’ From his schooldays, Tippett sought to ‘break free’ from his conventional middle-class background.15 The signs of rebellion he records in his account of boarding-school life were symptomatic of his awareness of difference.16 He refused to attend house prayers, engage in rough sports,

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play for hymns or join the cadet corps. He made clandestine visits to the local Anglo-Catholic church to observe the drama of the Mass and chose to read independently among the Greek classics. From this derived his love of ancient Greece and his appreciation of the Greeks’ ideal of male friendship, so antithetical to conventional morality in the West. Some years later he wrote to a friend, ‘I find for me that this man-love is hopelessly mixed up with Greece’.17 There was, he confessed, ‘a certain excitement in holding (even if you have no choice but to do so) the personal Greek-ness when you have accepted the outer social fact [of difference]’. But at fifteen his private ‘Greek world’ was irrupted when he was forced to report to the entire school the sexual behaviour of every boy of his acquaintance, including one with whom he had engaged in a sexual relationship. The result of this humiliation was that he left the school.18 Auden likened the public schools of his class and generation to a fascist state, parodying just such a scene as Tippett endured in ‘Address for a Prize-Day’ in The Orators (1931). The result of the draconian honour code in operation at Auden’s school, which required boys to rat on each other, had a detrimental effect, he later wrote, on ‘all those emotions, particularly the sexual, which are still undeveloped’.19 It also underlined how socially unacceptable same-sex relationships were – acts of ‘gross indecency’ between men were still punishable by two years’ hard labour and rates of conviction for those who reached court were extremely high.20 Tippett was as conscious of the illegality of homosexual acts as anyone else. Once, in the early forties, when he was shocked to hear that a friend had outed him at a public meeting, he reminded the friend that homosexuality was ‘a criminal matter’.21 While still a student, Tippett’s friendships were with theatre enthusiasts, not musicians – he names Aubrey Russ and Roy Langford as friends in the mid-1920s. With Langford he shared a flat and some youthful ‘experimenting in sensuality’.22 Through Russ, Tippett was drawn into Auden’s circle. Russ had been at Oriel College, Oxford, and in 1927 he introduced Tippett to David Ayerst, a former Oriel history tutor. Ayerst himself had been to Christ Church, where he formed a friendship with Auden. Sometime in spring 1932 Tippett met Auden at the home of his friend Bill McElwee, another Christ Church Old Boy (whom Auden had attempted, but failed, to seduce). As though a ritual of initiation, Auden showed Tippett proofs of The Orators, whose ‘hero’, The Airman, is implicitly homosexual.23 Some friends found the work difficult to comprehend; perhaps it was more accessible to Tippett than most others, but he managed to resist the blandishments (sexual and otherwise) of ‘the Wystan click’, as he called it.24

89 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity

The meeting with Auden was in fact eclipsed by another event: falling in love. In summer 1932 Ayerst introduced Tippett to Wilf Franks, a young Bauhaus-trained painter. For Tippett the meeting was ‘the deepest, most shattering experience of falling in love’.25 But Franks was ostensibly, and frustratingly, heterosexual. Tippett told Ayerst the relationship was ‘Illusion, love and altruism on his side – and for all I know it’s much the same on mine, with greater accentuation on some one of the characteristics’.26 He soon discovered how enervating the combination of intense physical desire and unrequited love could be. Tippett confided to Ayerst that ‘I shall be glad as the fervour of sudden physical desire dies away to something more placid – which it is doing slowly. Wilf is a hell of a mixture of love and altruistic friendship.’27 Not only was the relationship one-sided, Franks had no income beyond what Tippett could spare him and had no apparent inclination to earn one. Part of Franks’s attraction, though, was his working-class ordinariness, and the most intense phase of Tippett’s relationship with Franks coincided with the peak of his participation in left-wing politics and workers’ movements. In a climate of economic depression and chronic unemployment Tippett sympathized with ‘the underdog; the little chap; the ordinary soldier; the workman; the dopey; the child; the scapegoat’.28 Through Ayerst he became involved in work camps for the unemployed in Yorkshire. In the summers of 1933 and 1934 the camps gave him and Franks the opportunity to escape: alone, they went hiking in the Pennines with a tent. In this idyllic interval, and in a landscape of the rugged North, away from the intellectual and class-ridden South, Tippett spent some of the most blissful weeks of the relationship.29 In this climate, too, he began the composition of the String Quartet in A (later No. 1). Falling in love had allowed what he described to Ayerst as an ‘impulsive release of emotion’ and, as a consequence, ‘we are both less repressed . . . consequently more open and frank to one another’.30 The quartet was completed on 23 September 1935. Tippett was thirty and had finally composed a work that signalled his compositional maturity. Falling in love, he recollected, ‘was a major factor underlying the discovery of my own individual musical “voice” – something that couldn’t be analysed purely in technical terms: all that love flowed out in the slow movement of my First String Quartet, an unbroken span of lyrical music in which all four instruments sing ardently from start to finish’.31 The mood at the outset of that movement is one of sweet contentment, with melodic lines that soar ecstatically upwards in pitch and dynamic. It is not without tension, which builds in intensity to an extended fortissimo climax before abruptly subsiding to a more quiescent tranquillo section and ending with the same gentle appoggiatura in the viola with which it began. By contrast, the robust finale, metrically unpredictable and irrepressibly energetic, represents the sudden unleashing of Tippett’s

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rhythmic gift. Its blithe free-spiritedness is complemented by the intellectual rigour of fugue; both elements seem to hark back to the vitality of a golden age (encompassing the Elizabethans as well as late Beethoven) as an antidote to the present one. On the manuscript of this movement Tippett wrote a quotation from William Blake – ‘Damn braces, bless relaxes’ – those few words signifying the jettisoning of the restraints produced, as Blake makes clear elsewhere, by the words ‘Thou shalt not’.32 The full significance of the epigraph becomes clear in Tippett’s following work, a setting of Blake’s ‘A Song of Liberty’ from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Soon after the completion of the quartet, Tippett’s relationship with Franks began to fall apart. In about 1936 he wrote to Ayerst that Franks visited on weekends but they no longer slept together. ‘Suffice it to say that physically I’m very turned in on myself at home, very lecherous in the street after handsome young men, apparently longing to be married and with a home, but none of these stop the work which is at high pressure.’33 Setting Blake was a tribute to Franks, who worked with him on the text. But such was Tippett’s mental anguish that he decided he needed to see the psychoanalyst John Layard because, as he wrote to Ayerst, ‘I’m absolutely lost’.34 If the published sequence of letters to Ayerst is correct, some time during the composition of A Song of Liberty (1937) Tippett was introduced by Ayerst to Layard, who had been instrumental in enabling both Auden and Isherwood to come to terms with sexual guilt and repression.35 Layard was a Cambridge-educated anthropologist who, after a year of research in Malekula (Vanuatu), had returned to England and suffered a nervous breakdown, whereupon he became a patient of American psychotherapist Homer Lane. Lane believed that human nature was innately good and devised a doctrine of ‘Original Goodness’ that proposed complete freedom of behaviour and expression. Layard revered Lane and developed his theories into a theology in which God represents physical desires and the Devil the conscious control of them. He also subscribed to Georg Groddeck’s theory of the psychosomatic origins of illness, assuming that all disease was in some way the consequence of the subject’s selfdeception. In Isherwood’s transcription of Layard’s ideas, There is only one sin: disobedience to the inner law of our own nature. This disobedience is the fault of those who teach us as children to control God (our desires) instead of giving him room to grow. The whole problem is to find out which is God and which is the Devil. And the one sure guide is that God always appears unreasonable while the Devil appears to be noble and right. God appears unreasonable because he has been put in prison and driven wild. The Devil is conscious control and is therefore reasonable and sane.36

91 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity

For Isherwood, as for Auden, these were ‘life-shaking words’. Layard’s ideas owed as much to Blake as they did to Lane or to D. H. Lawrence, and as the seeds of Tippett’s own rebelliousness were ‘sown by Blake’ Layard’s ideas may have seemed to offer confirmation of the views Tippett had already formed.37 A Song of Liberty was completed, symbolically, on May Day in 1937. Blake’s text is a call to revolution: he identifies the sickness of Albion and exhorts ‘the citizen of London’ to recognize the forces of oppression that inhibit the growth of the (political) body. By recasting words from Revelation, Blake foreshadows a time when society would be released from the fetters of orthodox religion, when ‘the Priests of the Raven’ will no longer ‘curse the sons of joy’. The final line, ‘For everything that lives is Holy’, corresponds to Layard’s idea that desires are inherently good, and that repression is unwarranted. Tippett’s setting is an expression of the shedding of restraint: an emphatic arpeggiating statement in which, in Kemp’s words, ‘compressed musical energy is released in soaring intertwining contrapuntal lines’ (Ex. 5.1).38 By ventriloquizing Blake, Tippett harnessed an elliptical poetic language to his own political ends. But the work is as much a protest against Britain’s benighted history of social puritanism as it is a political manifesto.

A Child of Our Time (1939–41): ‘an impression of something suffered’39 Tippett’s relationship with Franks ended abruptly in August 1938, when Franks announced that he intended to marry. But it had been a festering sore well before that. In a letter to Ayerst from 1937 Tippett referred to the ‘intensity and pain’ of the experience, which made him ‘less sure and happy about myself’.40 He had no regrets – ‘it hardly matters if my life does get buggered up a bit in consequence [because] I have also gained in width and love’ – but all of the quandaries of homosexual identity now returned.41 ‘Queerness’ brought feelings of shame and inferiority. As he began to realize the cost that conscientious objection would bring he empathized more than ever with ‘the outcast and the scapegoats’.42 He could not bear the thought of ‘lads’ such as those he met in Yorkshire having to fight; nor could he countenance the annihilation of those children he had met on holidays at the Odenwaldschule in Heppenheim. Such was his identification with the oppressed that when he was finally sent to prison, after years of anxiety and confrontation, he felt he had ‘come home’.43 Only three months after the break with Franks, and during the few months that Tippett underwent formal psychoanalysis with Layard, he read newspaper reports of an attack on Ernst vom Rath, a German official

92 Suzanne Robinson Ex. 5.1 A Song of Liberty, ‘For everything that lives is Holy’, opening

at the embassy in Paris, shot by a seventeen-year-old stateless Polish Jew, Herschel Grynszpan. The boy seemed too young to have committed such an act, looking, as the Daily Worker reported, hardly more than thirteen.44 Separated from family members, who had been ‘driven like cattle to the Polish frontier’, the boy was quoted in the papers declaring ‘there was no other way to express my will’.45 Vom Rath died two days later, and on the following day German mobs took their revenge on Jews in the infamous

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Kristallnacht, sanctioned by Goebbels as ‘justified indignation’ for a ‘cowardly assassination’.46 Tippett immediately drafted the text of an oratorio documenting the historical moment. He included references to the ‘scapegoats’ of the Great War, the ‘starvation’ he had himself witnessed in the North, the ‘persecution’ and ‘pogroms’ perpetrated by Nazi Germany and the desperate state of dispossessed people at a ‘frontier’. All of this is, however, allegorical of the situation of the young homosexual in thirties English society, too young to have sat ‘the Test’ of masculinity that was the Great War, unfitted for the conventions of marriage and home, persecuted both in print and according to the law, and mired on the borders of acceptable society.47 Much later, when Tippett sent Layard the score of the completed work, he confided, ‘You will see a great deal of the roots [?] of the words, wh[ich] others will not & some of the metaphors will be comprehensible, wh[ich] others find meaningless. As you will see at once, there is a psychological as well as social & dramatic plane.’48 Layard, more than any other, would have recognized that ‘the child’ of the title is not only ‘a child of my time’, as Tippett told Anthony Clare, but Tippett himself.49 The music was composed after nine months of intensive, self-directed Jungian analysis of Tippett’s dreams – one final dream produced the release he needed to begin work. Certain isolated numbers present the autobiographical drama, and without clues provided by knowledge of Tippett’s own psychological journey much of it seems deliberately opaque. In No. 2 Tippett paints a portrait of psychological disorder, described in his notes as ‘the accumulation of unconscious, dark, destructive powers that burst up in man as a disease, war, revolution and so forth’.50 The ‘living God’, a figure that can be interpreted in Layard’s terms as the physicality of desire, has been entrapped. Equally, the ‘cancer’ that develops is, taking Groddeck’s view, symptomatic of a disordered mind.51 Here is the ‘darkest’ hour of the work, a morbid ‘turn’ from the E minor of the opening to a bleak E♭ minor. The interior drama is made more explicit in No. 6 when, after the tenor soloist (the boy) sings of his hunger in an unsullied minor mode, chromaticism infects his confession that he is ‘caught between my desires and their frustration’. The following line, ‘How can I grow to a man’s stature?’, is an impassioned fortissimo outburst that is a deliberate reminiscence of the sinister descending chromatic line of the theme of the earlier ‘Chorus of the Oppressed’ (Exx. 5.2 (a) and 5.2 (b)). Its awkward prosody and sinking spirits place his voice at odds with the simple gaiety of the habanera accompaniment. Here is Tippett drawing an analogy between the poverty and isolation of the dispossessed and the anguish of a boy forced to remain a boy. In doing so he appears to suggest a link between the state’s rapaciousness and its nurture of the forces of sexual repression.

94 Suzanne Robinson Ex. 5.2 A Child of Our Time: (a) No. 5, ‘Chorus of the Oppressed’, opening, sopranos only; (b) No. 6, tenor solo, ‘I have no money for my bread’, Fig. 46:5–9

In No. 17, ‘A curse is born’, the alto (the anima, who in Jungian terms is the feminine ‘soul’ of man) observes the consequences: the boy’s ‘other self’, which is ‘demonic and destructive’, overwhelms him. He shoots ‘the official’, who is not vom Rath but the boy’s ‘dark brother’. There is a remarkably similar scene in Auden’s play Paid on Both Sides, one that was added to the work’s first draft after Auden met Layard in Berlin in 1928. Auden’s plot is superficially a Romeo and Juliet-type tale of two feuding families: John, the son of one, falls in love with Anne, the daughter of the other. The origin of the feud – a correlative of Tippett’s ‘curse’ – has been lost to memory, leading John to search for it in a dream. The dream takes the form of a trial in which John is the prosecutor and a Spy (Anne’s brother) is the accused. John goes to shoot the Spy, an indication that he is ‘very very ill’.52 But a cure is promised. A ‘Man-Woman’ appears, a figure symbolically imprisoned by barbed wire who accuses John of ‘playing with himself’.53 Thus if there is an illness that needs a cure, Auden suggests that its basis is psychological and its symptoms are sexual. Unable to bear the accusations, John shoots the Spy, who is revived by a comic doctor. The dream ends when John and the Spy plant a tree (a sign that ‘Spring will come’) and John recognizes that he and the Spy are ‘sharers of the same house’ – two halves of a single personality.54 Afterwards, John and Anne proceed to marriage. But in a tragic conclusion that suggests the ‘cure’ was

95 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity

not a cure after all, the cycle of feuding is renewed by the families’ mothers. Whereas, through his dream, John had repaired his divided psyche, and thereby gained the hope of marrying, the action of the mothers ensures that the play ends with his death. As he does elsewhere, Auden blames mothers for their sons’ inability to grow up or out of a suffocating past. In his own case, he gave credence to the Freudian cliché that ‘the bugger gets too much mother love so sheers off women altogether’.55 Tippett’s relationship with his mother was similarly troubled – disclosing his sexuality to her produced an amnesia he alleged lasted for decades.56 That personal rift, and Auden’s/Layard’s interpretation of its psychological origins, clarifies why it is that in the oratorio draft of No. 6 (the boy’s expression of his sexual frustration) he complains that ‘Women have hold on my entrails’.57 Although Tippett omitted this perhaps too graphic line in the final version, it is the work’s mother (not Grynszpan’s sister as it was in reality) who writes to the boy, the mother he cries out to from prison, and the mother who confesses ‘What have I done to you, my son?’. There is no father figure in either Paid on Both Sides or the oratorio. Implicit in both works is not just the problem of the aetiology of same-sex desire but the problem of masculinity in a society that associated homosexuality with effeminacy. ‘All buggers,’ according to Auden, ‘suffer under the reproach, real or imaginary, of “Call yourself a man”.’58 Sensuality and emotion in a man were suspiciously feminine, which explains Tippett’s constant apology in his correspondence for his sensitivity, emotional fragility and impulsive sensuality. In the wake of Franks’s preference for heterosexual marriage, Tippett was only too conscious of his lack of conformity to the masculine norm, and what this denied him. His theorizing on the subject is poured into the oratorio ‘almost like revelation’ and more explicitly in his letters to Douglas (Den) Newton, a nineteen-year-old poet and conscientious objector whom he met in 1939.59 As an artist, Tippett knew he was pigeonholed as a feminine man – he told Newton: I feel that artistic creation is often so nearly polarized as feminine, as against the pure disembodied abstract intellect, that it’s hardly any wonder if artists turn out hermaphroditic in temperament from time to time. The real matter is to keep the polarity keen, and to learn to make value out of good sensibilities. I do get the repeated ‘dream-wish’ to be in on all the doings of the he-men and the womanizer, but it’s really nothing much more than the wish to be everything, have every experience.60

Wholeness, according to A Child of Our Time, can only be achieved when the anima is no longer denied (or imprisoned, as in Auden’s play). Then, ‘The soul of man is impassioned like a woman’ (No. 27). At first, however, the alto/anima’s angular vocal line perpetuates the slippery semitone-infested

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descent seen in Nos. 2 and 6. But, with the promise that ‘the soul’ will be ‘illuminated by the sun’, the chromaticism is displaced by diatonic F major. ‘Hope’ and ‘spring’ are declared in ecstatic upward leaps that coincide with an arrival in the key of A major. The boy does not find love or marry, and remains outcast, just as Tippett believed himself to be. But the ‘spring’ (or rebirth) he prescribes is more unequivocal than Auden’s because Tippett has achieved something more valuable: passage, in Blakean terms, from the state of Innocence to the knowledge of Experience.61 As Tippett explained to Layard in 1941, ‘The war happened for me inside, all the years with Wilf. Now it’s a different sort of war – I am at peace – voluntarily in a world where the demonic forces have been let loose, or broke loose again. Whichever way I travel I can’t in myself go under to them, that is all in the past.’62 He accepted the complementarity of masculine and feminine in himself, deciding, as he told Newton, that if the intellectual life was ‘active and virile, then sensitivity, the feminine within us, becomes eventually a source of width and strength’.63 ‘Anyhow’, he concluded with references to both Blake and Layard, ‘follow the instincts however they come out and take the joy as it flies’.64

The Heart’s Assurance (1950–1): memorial of the ‘personal wound’ A few months after completing the oratorio Tippett informed Layard that ‘Even the biggest price of all, the once shameful buggery, is [now] seen as the inexhaustible mystery, leading straight back to Hermes & the endless shadow world.’65 ‘Hermaphroditism’ was no longer a ‘stigma’ but ‘a fecundity’. John Amis recalls the thriving homosociality of Tippett’s home in the war years and that lovers were present from time to time.66 In 1941 Tippett dreamed of ‘a sort of gay and sensual notion of sexual life’ with the painter Karl Hawker (another conscientious objector).67 But Hawker married during the war, shattering that dream. In 1943, when Den Newton advised Tippett of a girlfriend, Tippett conceded his hurt, which was ‘simply the old sore, or wound that is for a second fingered’.68 Knowing he would be asked for an explanation, he deflected it with the remark ‘It’s all in the Child.’ Although not deprived of companionship he sometimes felt starved of sex, and confided to the now-distant Newton: ‘I fall for soldiers in the train – and even they for me – but they get out at other stations.’69 Over the course of the next ten years Tippett pursued an intermittent relationship with a young conductor, John Minchinton, but he too had girlfriends and eventually married.70 Occasionally Tippett’s friend Francesca Allinson shared his cottage, and although bisexual she attempted to persuade him of the possibility of having children together. She was three years older than Tippett, and they

97 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity

had many interests and convictions in common, including pacifism. But her health was increasingly depleted by the effects of goitre and in 1945 she committed suicide by drowning herself in the Stour. She left Tippett a note and a photo of them both with children taken on a visit to Germany, implying that another cause of her actions was that, in her early forties, she knew she would never have children. Her death was a cataclysm for Tippett. Questioning, as he did, whether he had contributed to her despair reopened a ‘personal wound’ that he knew would never heal.71 In 1950 he began a song cycle in Allinson’s memory, following her instructions to ‘keep a place warm for me in your heart’.72 Coincidentally, it is called The Heart’s Assurance. In a lecture from the 1970s Tippett referred to the ‘wound’ as a canker in the psyche.73 Tippett could not have been unaware of Auden’s ‘Letter to a Wound’ which forms a section of The Orators. The title of the letter is a pun on a literal wound, an anal fissure that Auden jokingly referred to as ‘the stigmata of Sodom’.74 Had it been a war wound, Auden might have boasted of it as the mark of a manly warrior. Instead, it was a guilty secret. ‘The surgeon was dead right’, he confides in the terms of a lover, ‘Nothing will ever part us.’75 Tippett’s notion of an ineradicable wound was drawn from the myth of Philoctetes, a Greek warrior who possessed a magic bow capable of ensuring victory in the war with Troy. But because of an incurable and putrid wound he is ostracized and abandoned on an island until rescued by a warrior wanting the bow. In about 1944 Tippett read Edmund Wilson’s essay ‘Philoctetes: The Wound and the Bow’, which develops the corollary that ‘genius and disease, like strength and mutilation, may be inextricably bound up together’.76 Tippett immediately wrote to Allinson of the myth’s potential for operatic translation. In reflections on the myth’s kinship to elements of the opera scenario he was then crafting he mused on the magic weapon as a ‘profound dream symbol . . . a sexual weapon & many other things (modern war & revolution)’.77 What most resonated with Tippett was Wilson’s explanation of the concept of a superior strength that is inseparable from some defect. Tippett, by referring to his own wound, was signifying something socially repugnant, even unspeakable, which can nevertheless be seen as a source of potency. The Heart’s Assurance began simply as a memorial to the dead, but the dead are, explicitly, ‘young men’. For his texts Tippett chose three poems (‘Song’, ‘Compassion’ and ‘The Dancer’) by Alun Lewis, a young Welsh non-combatant killed accidentally in Burma in 1944. A further two poems (‘Song: The Heart’s Assurance’ and ‘Remember Your Lovers’) are by Sidney Keyes, who died mysteriously at the age of twenty while serving in Africa. For some, Keyes was the most important poet of the war, allotting him a status comparable to Wilfred Owen and A. E. Housman,

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who Tippett cherished from the previous one. Both poets were pacifist by nature. Lewis is described as ‘a divided man’ struggling with the conflict between his active and contemplative natures, distressed at having to participate in war and being unable to pursue his creative work. Some said Keyes had a ‘split personality’, crazy ‘with the utter futility, destructiveness and emptiness’ of his life, for whom love was ‘a sort of battle and one that never brings any victory, but only unrest and passion’.78 Both poets wrote of the tribulations of love: Lewis left a wife in Wales and a lover in India, while Keyes was profoundly affected by the end of an affair that took place when he was a student at Oxford. The first, third and fifth poems are demonstrably poems of war, the first addressing a soldier-lad, the third depicting a wife tending the bloodied wounds of a dying man, and the last portraying young men ‘in the carven beds of death’. Each addresses the subject of love, predominantly that of husband and wife. Unusually, the voice of the last poem is that of the living, who remind already dead ‘young men’ of the love they shared. But whereas Tippett wrote publicly that this voice was that of ‘a young woman singing out over the Elysian fields to the young men in the fields beyond’, for him personally this voice was male.79 Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears premiered the work. Tippett wrote to Britten that he could ‘so clearly . . . hear Peter calling to the young men in the fields of death, even though formally it may be supposed to be a woman. I can’t quite tell why, but the man’s voice seems right-er – and Peter’s particularly.’80 The visual and audible double entendre of Pears singing in remembrance of war dead allows for a reading of the piece’s private as well as public meaning. Underlining the suggestions of homoeroticism that lie in Tippett’s imagining of its performance are the literal memories embedded in the music. The opening ascending fifth of ‘Remember Your Lovers’ is an unmistakable reference to the ‘Last Post’, and so to the fallen of the Great War. Its iridescent setting of the word ‘remember’ is an echo of the ‘magic’ of Purcell’s setting of the word and it was Allinson who had introduced Tippett to Purcell.81 Yet that relationship was chaste. The lovers Tippett himself remembers from the war years are those he brought ‘home’ into a ‘lust as bright as candle flame’ – not Allinson but men such as Hawker and Newton. For it was Newton who brought him the ‘pleasure’ that in the song is ‘pure and unmixed’ and it was in Newton’s arms that he recalled lying ‘happy as a child’.82 When the stuttering piano chords first heard on the word ‘remember’ culminate at the phrase ‘We brought you . . . home’ in a recognizable allusion to the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto, and so to one of Tippett’s personal ‘gods’, this ‘home’ with its consonant point of rest is identified as Tippett’s own (see Ex. 5.3). The song memorializes his own lost loves and suggests,

99 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity Ex. 5.3 The Heart’s Assurance, No. 5, ‘Remember Your Lovers’, bars 32–4

furthermore, that only memories and music survive. As Tippett told Layard, ‘my serenity and gaiety have always been at a price’, and this price was not just that as a pacifist and a homosexual he was obliged to sit ‘with the scapegoats & the outcasts’ but that as an artist he might have to surrender love itself.83 Tippett may have believed that his personal wounds would never heal, but it is plain that for him it was in music (as in Lewis’s ‘Song’) that ‘what’s transfigured will live on / Long after Death has come and gone’.

Afterword: ‘sheer old British battiness’?84 Through the 1930s and into the 1940s – emotionally turbulent years for Tippett – composition allowed him to explore or evaluate his states of mind. Expressions of love, loss, pleasure and sexual frustration are all present in the works of those decades, amounting to a kind of Bildungsroman of the modern homosexual. Reading those works now, with the benefit of personal papers and the insights of queer studies,85 allows a reinterpretation of the idiosyncratic language often mocked as an indication of Tippett’s ‘battiness’. But regardless of his detractors, Tippett was determined to sustain an element of ambiguity, if not mystery, in his works with poetic texts, and in the 1930s and 40s he was intent on discovering a method of ‘transmuting’ the personal through myth and metaphor, a method soon codified into a ‘rule’ that was to hold for the remainder of his output.86 In doing so, he arrived at a mode of communication that synthesized private and public worlds. The private remains, both present and absent: present to those privileged few who have access to its codes, and absent because it has not been declared and remains deniable. Yet as much as Tippett might have portrayed himself (and seen himself) as a loner, he was not the only left-wing homosexual artist formulating what Bozorth identifies as ‘a queer aesthetic with a political

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conscience’, as is shown by correspondences between Auden’s poetry of the thirties and A Child of Our Time.87 Nor is there any coincidence in the separation by only a few years of A Child of Our Time and Peter Grimes, works which both allegorize the oppression of the homosexual. If Philip Brett can marvel at how a work such as Grimes could have been written as early as 1945, how much more astonishing is Tippett’s mythologization of ‘queer’ experience in a work completed in 1941.88 But where Britten’s Grimes suffers an obliteration that the composer never experienced, the ‘hero’ of A Child (and Tippett himself) reaches a much more positive reconciliation of the psyche. The serenity that Tippett gained in the late 1940s was not won through the resolution of the personal or social dilemmas of his sexuality, but because he understood that what society considered disordered or even diseased could be the stuff of art. This ‘coming out to oneself’ was succeeded, eventually, by a coming out to society itself. If in very old age his ‘spectacularly camp’ appearance in ‘psychedelically swirling trousers’ was for Rupert Christiansen evidence that Tippett had ‘gone a bit potty’, he sensed there was every possibility that ‘it is with Blake and Yeats that his silliness more sublimely belongs’.89 Notes 1 Cited in Norman Page, Auden and Isherwood: The Berlin Years (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1998), p. 38. 2 Richard R. Bozorth, Auden’s Games of Knowledge: Poetry and the Meanings of Homosexuality (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001), p. 176. I am indebted to Bozorth’s study, which has provided the first part of my title. 3 Michael Kennedy, ‘The Effusions of a Fertile Mind’, Sunday Telegraph, 9 October 2005, 14. 4 The composer was Constant Lambert. See Geoff Brown, ‘Who’s the True Tippett?’, The Times, 8 January 2005, ‘Weekend Review’, 16. 5 Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (London: Eulenberg Books, 1984). 6 Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn (New York: Robson Books, 1997), p. 9. 7 Ibid., p. 16. Much later in his book (p. 247) Bowen points to ‘erotic exploration’ in works as early as the First String Quartet. 8 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991). 9 David Clarke, ‘Tippett in and out of “Those Twentieth Century Blues”: The Context and Significance of an Autobiography’, Music & Letters, 74/3 (August 1993), 399–411.

10 Tippett, interview with Anthony Clare, ‘“I was always willing to pay the price”’, The Listener, 116 (14 August 1986), 10–11. 11 Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet, 2nd edn (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), p. 3. 12 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurely (New York: Pantheon, 1978), p. 27, as cited in ibid., p. 3. 13 Marty Roth, ‘Homosexual Expression and Homophobic Censorship: The Situation of the Text’ in David Bergman (ed.), Camp Grounds: Style and Homosexuality (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1993), p. 270. 14 See Bozorth, Auden’s Games of Knowledge, p. 106. 15 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 58. The following discussion draws on two of my previous essays: ‘Tippett and “The Auden Generation”’, delivered at the ‘Nation, Myth and Reality: Music in the 1930s’ conference at the University of London in 1998; and ‘Love and Loss, Homosexuality and Pacifism in Tippett’s The Heart’s Assurance’, Context: Journal of Music Research, 22 (Spring 2001), 79–94. 16 Those Twentieth Century Blues, pp. 8–11.

101 ‘Coming out to oneself’: encodings of homosexual identity 17 Tippett, letter to Den Newton (21 October 1943) in Thomas Schuttenhelm (ed.), The Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. 159. 18 Those Twentieth Century Blues, pp. 8–9. 19 Quoted in Richard R. Bozorth, ‘Auden: Love, Sexuality, Desire’ in Stan Smith (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to W. H. Auden (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 182. 20 See Florence Tamagne, A History of Homosexuality in Europe (New York: Algora Publishing, 2006), p. 308. 21 Tippett, letter to John Layard (c. 1943), John Layard Papers, Mandeville Special Collections Library, University of California, San Diego. 22 Tippett, letter to Den Newton (29 October 1943), in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 160. 23 See, for example, Edward Mendelson, Early Auden (New York: Viking, 1981), pp. 110–11. 24 Tippett, letter to Layard (2 September 1942), John Layard Papers. 25 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 58. 26 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (1934) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 218. 27 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (1934), ibid., p. 219. 28 Tippett, letter to Alan Bush, undated (Autumn 1944), ibid., p. 136. 29 Marsha Bryant discusses the binary of working-class North and intellectual South in ‘Auden and the Homoerotics of the 1930s Documentary’, Mosaic, 30/2 (June 1997), 69–92. 30 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (1934) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 219. 31 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 58. 32 Blake, Europe, a Prophecy, 12.27–8. In the 1960s the words quoted by Tippett became a mantra of popular rebellion. 33 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (1937) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 229. I think it unlikely that ‘the work’ referred to here is the quartet, as the editor suggests, given its completion date in 1935. 34 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (mid-1935/6), ibid. 35 See Page, Auden and Isherwood, pp. 129–37. 36 Isherwood, quoted in Noel Annan, Our Age: Portrait of a Generation (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1990), p. 119. 37 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (1935) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 226. Andrew Elfenbein discusses how ‘the

love affair between gay writers and William Blake has been long and happy’: see Romantic Genius: The Prehistory of a Homosexual Role (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), p. 149 ff. 38 Kemp, Tippett, p. 128. 39 Tippett, letter to Alan Bush (20 September 1944) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 132. 40 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (1937), ibid., p. 229. 41 Ibid., p. 230. 42 Tippett, letter to Francesca Allinson, undated (1942), ibid., p. 95. 43 Tippett, quoted in Bowen, Michael Tippett, p. 24. 44 ‘Nazi Envoy Shot in Paris by Lad of 17’, Daily Worker, 8 November 1938. 45 ‘Envoy in Critical Condition’, Daily Telegraph and Morning Post, 9 November 1938, 13. 46 ‘German Mobs’ Vengeance on Jews’, Daily Telegraph and Morning Post, 11 November 1938, 17. 47 The oppression of a pacifist homosexual composer is the subject of Rose Allatini’s banned novel Despised and Rejected (1918); here, too, the hero is ‘outcast among men’, despairing of having been given ‘the soul of a woman in the body of a man’. A. T. Fitzroy (pseud.), Despised and Rejected (London: GMP Publishers, 1988), p. 107. 48 Tippett, letter to John Layard (28 August 1941), John Layard Papers. 49 Tippett, interview with Anthony Clare, ‘“I was always willing to pay the price”’, 10. 50 Tippett, ‘Sketch for a Modern Oratorio’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Tippett on Music (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 120. 51 Tippett wrote in ‘A Composer’s Point of View’ that ‘if the everyday life becomes too insistent, the imaginative life inside can behave like a disease’, which ‘may begin as lethargy, inertia, or melancholy. But it can well end in a real illness.’ (Tippett on Music, p. 4.) 52 Auden, Paid on Both Sides, in The English Auden: Poems, Essays and Dramatic Writings, 1927–1939, ed. Edward Mendelson, rev. edn (London: Faber and Faber, 1986), p. 9. 53 Ibid. 54 Ibid., pp. 15 and 11. 55 Auden’s 1929 journal, quoted in Mendelson, Early Auden, p. 59. 56 In 1943 Tippett wrote to Evelyn Maude of the ‘usual mother-ish moral reasons wh. spoilt so much of childhood’. Quoted in Kemp, Tippett, p. 486 n. 5.

102 Suzanne Robinson 57 Tippett, ‘Sketch for a Modern Oratorio’, p. 129. 58 Auden, quoted in Bozorth, ‘Auden: Love, Sexuality, Desire’, p. 180. 59 Tippett, letter to Alan Bush (6 February 1940) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 128. 60 Tippett, letter to Den Newton (22 May 1943), ibid., pp. 151–2. 61 See Evelyn Underhill, ‘Men and Books’, Time and Tide, 8 January 1938, 47, an article that Tippett read while preparing the text of the oratorio. (Time and Tide, a British weekly political and literary review magazine, was founded in 1920.) 62 Tippett, letter to John Layard, undated (c. 1941), John Layard Papers. 63 Tippett, letter to Den Newton, undated (1943) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 161. 64 Tippett quotes from Blake’s ‘He Who Binds’ from Gnomic Verses. He wrote these words in a love letter to Meirion Bowen at the outset of their relationship: see letter, undated (1964) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 402. 65 Tippett, letter to John Layard (23 February 1942), John Layard Papers. 66 John Amis, Amiscellany: My Life, My Music (London: Faber and Faber, 1985), p. 171. 67 Tippett, letter to David Ayerst, undated (1941) in Selected Letters, p. 235. 68 Tippett, letter to Den Newton (13 October 1943), ibid., p. 157. 69 Tippett, letter to Den Newton ([21] October 1943), ibid., p. 145. 70 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, pp. 226–7. 71 Tippett, quoted in Kemp, Tippett, p. 299. 72 Tippett, letter to Benjamin Britten, undated (1951) in Selected Letters, p. 203. 73 Tippett, E. William Doty Lectures in Fine Arts, 2nd series, 1976 (Austin: College of Fine Arts, University of Texas, 1979), p. 12. See also Derek Jones (ed.), Tippett’s Time (London: Channel Four Television, 1995), p. 10.

74 Auden, quoted in Humphrey Carpenter, W. H. Auden: A Biography (London: Unwin Paperbacks, 1983), p. 109. 75 The English Auden, p. 73, dated ‘?July 1931’. 76 Edmund Wilson, ‘Philoctetes: The Wound and the Bow’ in The Wound and the Bow: Seven Studies in Literature (Oxford University Press, 1941), p. 289. 77 Tippett, letter to Francesca Allinson, undated (1944) in Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 168. 78 Quoted in Linda M. Shires, British Poets of the Second World War (London: Macmillan, 1985), pp. 104–5. 79 Tippett, ‘Music and Poetry’ (1961), Recorded Sound, 17 (January 1965), 291. 80 Tippett, letter to Britten, undated (1951) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 203. 81 Tippett, ‘Music and Poetry’, 289. Meirion Bowen identifies various settings of this word in Tippett’s work, and their origins in Dido’s Lament. See Bowen, Michael Tippett, p. 74. 82 Tippett, letter to Den Newton (16 August 1944) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 174. 83 Tippett, letter to John Layard, undated (c. 1942), John Layard Papers. 84 Robin Holloway, ‘Splendid but Silly’, Times Literary Supplement, 27 September 1991, 20. 85 On the origins of queer studies in music, see the introduction to Sophie Fuller and Lloyd Whitesell, Queer Episodes in Music and Modern Identity (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002), pp. 1–8. 86 See Tippett, ‘The Birth of an Opera’ in Moving into Aquarius, expanded edn (St Albans: Paladin Books, 1974), p. 57. 87 Bozorth, Auden’s Games of Knowledge, p. 111. 88 Philip Brett, ‘Auden’s Britten’ in George E. Haggerty (ed.), Music and Sexuality in Britten: Selected Essays (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), p. 186. 89 Rupert Christiansen, ‘Madonna-like, or Just Gone Potty?’, The Spectator, 28 September 1991, 47.

6 Between image and imagination: Tippett’s creative process THOMAS SCHUTTENHELM

Tippett’s creative cycle

[103]

The music of Michael Tippett has often been described as visionary, an attribution acquired in part from the role imagery played in his creative cycle. Tippett’s ‘vigour’ as a creative artist can be measured by his ability to apprehend ‘images of abounding, generous, exuberant beauty’ while his progress as an artist is determined by the radiance with which these images are projected in the music.1 There exist pervasive and archetypal images that appear throughout Tippett’s oeuvre or that link two or more compositions. His operas contain a multitude of visual manifestations but of particular interest are the metaphorical (and sometimes programmatic) images that permeate his music for the concert stage, and provide a determining influence on both his creative cycle and the musical development of the specific composition. To appreciate how these guiding images originate and how they are manifest in his compositions first requires examining the general condition predating their appearance, then tracing them through the creative cycle, and finally to their projection in performance. The struggle all creative artists must endure is selecting the appropriate content for the desired conception. All too often certain cultural conditions can predetermine the selection. Tippett subverts these conditions by maintaining that his process of discovery was involuntary, and thus substitutes particular choices with universal alternatives. With his preternatural reach, he mined the Yeatsian ‘Great Memory’ for images of collective and universal value. As his creative vision gained momentum in the accretion of peripheral metaphors which aim to transcend the singularity of the image that served as catalyst, his creative cycle approached inevitability. If the preconditions of his creative cycle occasionally left traces on the work-as-artefact, his strongest compositions succeed by erasing the subjective tracks of the individual. Tippett’s progress as an artist narrates his struggle to achieve a position of depersonalization where access to the mytho-poetic content is a fluid exchange between composer and image, until the composer is completely subsumed by the creative cycle.

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Table 6.1 The five phases and conditions of Tippett’s creative cycle Phase

Condition

Precondition-Preconception Einfall-Experience Image-Accretion (creative process) Transformation-Notation (compositional process) Performance-Reception

absence acquisition accumulation transmutation projection

The absence, acquisition, accumulation, transmutation and projection of images were conditions in his creative cycle and had a determining influence on the conception, realization and reception of his compositions. Each condition had a significant role to play in his broader creative cycle which included five phases: Precondition-Preconception, Einfall-Experience, Image-Accretion (creative process), TransformationNotation (compositional process) and Performance-Reception. Table 6.1 summarizes how the conditions determine the phases of his creative cycle. To assess properly how the cycle gets activated, and the influence an image exerted on specific compositions, it becomes necessary to return to a point in Tippett’s creative development when the apprehension of the image was nascent but not yet available to the composer’s consciousness, and contains – in potentia – the details of the composition. Commenting on the works of Wallace Stevens, Harold Bloom writes: ‘A poem begins because there is an absence. An image must be given, for a beginning, and so that absence ironically is called a presence.’2 This applies equally as well to Tippett, whose compositions, with rare exceptions, resonate from a similar and distinctly contemporary ironical absence. Tippett’s appreciation for this concept dates back to his earliest student days, when he was studying Greek and classics at Fettes College in Edinburgh. The curriculum certainly included cosmogonies where he must have encountered the term χάος (chaos), which is related to the verb χαίνω (to yawn, or to gape). In a cosmogonical context χαίνω creates a space where χάος – an absence of order – exists. Tippett believed his role as a creative artist, the demiurge, was to fashion order from this condition: ‘I must create order out of chaos.’3 The absence (of order) necessitated a procreative response, and his metaphorical image-driven music was designed to reverberate in that condition. The most vivid manifestation of this absence was revealed in The Mask of Time (1980–2) in which the first section, entitled ‘Presence’, is filled metaphorically and literally with ‘Sound’ and then followed by ‘an extended instrumental “sound picture” of dispersal (consequent upon

105 Between image and imagination: Tippett’s creative process

some supposed explosion “in the beginning”) to one of stability (as of the galactic universe, the stars, and the sun). Here, the tradition of Purcell and Haydn seemed relevant: music can create order in the cosmos.’4 Two other natural phenomena that exert imagistic influence were ‘the frightening but exhilarating sound of the ice breaking on the great northern rivers in the spring’ and the experience of actually seeing Halley’s comet.5 But Tippett cautioned against describing ‘art as derived from nature’, where we risk losing ‘sight of the one absolute idiosyncrasy of art, that works of art are images of inner experience, however apparently representational the mode of expression may be’.6 These representations, however ‘natural’ they might be in origin, do not exclude depictions of historical or mythical events that exploit nature as a source for representation in the manner demanded by the concept of the artwork. Such an example exists in The Vision of Saint Augustine (1963–5). Tippett explains that: In the Confessions [St Augustine’s autobiographical work], Augustine describes the vision of eternity as completely silent and wordless. A composer sympathetic to Augustine’s preoccupation with the nature of time, wishing to describe this silent wordless experience through the sound of singing and instrumental playing, might use some of the techniques [already] discussed [glossolalia, una voce, and jubilus] – as indeed I did during the period composing the piece.7

Certainly, many of Tippett’s strongest projections occur in the works just prior to his conceptualization of Augustine’s ecstatic vision. Many of these appear in the form of abstruse introductory texts to his compositions, while others were used in the creative cycle and either subsumed into the process or suppressed when it was completed. One of the earliest examples occurs in his String Quartet No. 1 (1934–5, rev. 1943). The creative cycle for the quartet coincided with Tippett’s ‘deepest, most shattering experience of falling in love’ with Wilfred Franks, which he believed resulted in the discovery of his own musical voice.8 Tippett reflected: ‘all that love flowed out in the slow movement . . . an unbroken span of lyrical music in which all four instruments sing ardently from start to finish’.9 By the time Tippett came to revise the work, in 1943, his relationship with Franks had ended, and this is perhaps the reason why he removed the poem ‘Happiness’ by Wilfred Owen, which appears as a preface to the manuscript in its earlier version.10 This was followed by another strong allusion to an even stronger poetic influence: William Blake, whose fusion of image and word provided a perfect acoustic absence for him to fill. Tippett subsequently set A Song of Liberty (1937) from Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, but the line ‘Damn braces, bless relaxes’ appears in the

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manuscript to the finale of his String Quartet No. 1. The conceptual image can also be applied to his Piano Sonata No. 1 (1936–8, rev. 1942) and informs the creative and interpretive cycles to both compositions. The sonata, and the subsequent works that were composed in its wake, celebrate a ‘marriage’ of Blake’s Urizen and Los, which Tippett identified as the archetype for the creative artist, whose ability to apprehend the image and measure it into a poetic vehicle for others to experience is their primary mandate: ‘Let the Human Organs be kept in their perfect Integrity / At will Contracting into Worms, or Expanding into Gods.’ Tippett affirmed that ‘I cannot escape the special impact of any art which seems to be a product of a marriage’ – a process which continued throughout his creative development.11 Tippett’s next work, the Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9), has no such overt association, but its origin and manifestation are clear enough: Orpheus’s lyre – an image that ‘haunted’ his mind, and which represents both the creative artist and the sounds of the modern string orchestra.12 Then his most exuberant piece to date, and the one most universally appreciated, it is, paradoxically, the genesis of a deliberate conceptual ambivalence that pervaded his creative development. The concerto is a blend of abstraction and humanism, manifested in the two ensembles. These types of dualities were a ‘problem of abiding fascination’ for the composer, from which he could not escape and returned to again and again.13 When he did recycle the image, it was in The Mask of Time, but the ambivalence had receded and been replaced with ‘the triumph of Orpheus’s song, its eternal potential’.14 Conceptual ambivalence returns in his next work, the Fantasia on a Theme of Handel (1939–41), which integrates critical scenes from Samuel Butler’s dystopia Erehwon – the source of the Handelian quotation in its phantasmogorical transmutation. Except for the opening passage it was completely subsumed into the process and appears only as an interpretive association that gains integrity as it establishes deeper connections between the images of the Erewhonians and the treatment of the theme. All of his previous work culminates in A Child of Our Time (1939–41), a product of conscious technique and premonition that delivered a convincing synthesis of tradition and originality, an ideal marriage between abstraction and humanism, and provided him with primary and obsessive images of ‘shadow and light’ that would return again and again in his creative cycle and occupy him until more powerful and shattering ones replaced them. The String Quartet No. 2 (1941–2) is the conceptual counterpart to the oratorio, thoroughly absolute and excelling in its ambition without being monumental. A series of incidental pieces and vocal works followed, where the source of the commission or the text determined the image

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used throughout. Boyhood’s End (1943) seems to rise above the rest, as its narrative chronicles a loss of innocence that Tippett was experiencing. A prison sentence must have been as harrowing then as it is now, but somehow Tippett was not too stripped of his dignity, as he managed one last nostalgic look to a more innocent past before he took the strange leap into the magical forest of The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52). The strength of those images resonates throughout his oeuvre and is present even in a work as ‘late’ as the Triple Concerto for Violin, Viola, Cello and Orchestra (1978–9), which uses a quotation of the dawn music found in the opera. The Symphony No. 1 (1944–5) has no avowed programme, but Kemp identifies in it a subtextual commentary on the war.15 Considering the context of the creative cycle in which it was conceived and composed this seems likely, even if unsubstantiated. Closer study of the divisions of textures and the use of programmatic allusions, most notably a fanfare, seems to confirm this. The works that followed in the wake of the opera, such as the Piano Concerto (1953–5), are so strongly indebted to its imagery and influence they scarcely escape the associations. Neither the composer nor the compositions suffer from this condition. In fact, Tippett was that rare creative artist who could make such strong associations function as another layer to the multiplicities that informed and defined his works in the decade after the war, and the Piano Concerto was the first of such works that appear as offshoots of the opera. Tippett’s first attempts at extending the dramatic horizons of his operas began with the concerto. Here, his use of quotation and association establish a dependency that strengthens the shared imagery and anticipates his use of envoi in the song cycles Songs for Achilles (1961) and Songs for Dov (1969–70). As his ‘midsummer’ progressed into late, turning eventually into autumn, the metaphorical leaves began to fall from the trees in the magical forest. Tippett accepted this condition entirely and, echoing T. S. Eliot, reminds us how ‘it is vain to gum back the autumn leaves on to the trees’.16 From the exuberance of his first period he moved into a more ironic second where he rejected the strong affirmations of the past as naïve conventions unavailable to him in his present ‘barren age’. Instead, he indulged in an ironical ambiguity that allowed him to create music with undeniable transcendental aspirations while simultaneously challenging the general condition that made his compositions necessary expressions of the age. This ambiguity was indicative of a decentralized age which he believed defined the cultural condition. Within this he struggled to ‘create a world of sound wherein some, at least, of my generation can find refreshment for the inner life’, and ‘to try to transfigure the everyday by a touch of the everlasting, born as that always has been, and will be again,

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from our desire’.17 Although he never admitted to reading Adorno, Tippett located this decentralized age within Adorno’s der letzten Stufe der Dialektik von Kultur as described in his essay ‘Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft’.18 It was Friedrich Hölderlin who gave both a poetic voice to Tippett’s observations and the courage to keep searching for the image to accompany the age: When I have pondered on the actuality of Hölderlin’s ‘und wozu Dichter in dürftiger Zeit’, I am struck ever anew by the tremendous vitality and drive of the image-making faculty in man, which has since Hölderlin sustained, or rather forced, so many poets, painters, composers, to create in immer dürftigerer Zeit! – ‘in an ever more barren time’. Naturally enough, indeed, I wonder at it, for I suffer this drive, within my limits, myself.19

Tippett not only suffered the creative drive to fill the absence with an acoustic presence, he was also acutely aware of the conditions that made image-driven music so urgent for the ‘age’ in which he created it. The division between his desire and the cultural moment formed a defining part of the Precondition-Preconception: I believe we are in an age of paradox, absolutely and entirely. These paradoxes have lived me, without my being able to analyse them or even tell what they are. Still, I’ve suffered them. Now, it’s out of the violence of this division that I have to search for a metaphor, though not of union, I think. You accept it, be this as it is. It’s an acceptance of this and of that as a reality . . . In any case, it is also, autobiographically, an absolute necessity. I cannot produce the conceptual fertility without suffering constantly every paradoxical division I can make.20

Thus, Tippett both perceives and projects the paradoxical, a necessary ingredient to his ironical ambiguity.

From Einfall-Experience to Performance-Reception Tippett remained ‘curiously objective about composition’, stating: ‘I am the person to whom the inspiration comes, but I know I am not its originator.’21 Of course the multiplicities that resonate throughout Tippett’s music dismiss any single source as its originator, but the materia prima for a particular composition can often be traced back to an EinfallExperience that provided him with a guiding image. This experience was spontaneous and unwilled, presented as ‘a conceptual spark, and a spark of self-fertilization’.22 The origins of these images are as diverse as his oeuvre and their manifestation takes on many different forms. Some are used quite literally while others have a decidedly conceptual influence. Tippett

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acquired these images in many different ways, but they were most commonly assimilated through listening to music. Three such experiences rise above all others: hearing a broadcast of a concerto by Vivaldi (conducted by Amaducci) in which the ‘pounding cello and bass C’s’ are transformed into Tippett’s ‘own world’ in his Symphony No. 2 (1956–7);23 attending a performance of Pli selon pli by Boulez at the 1965 Edinburgh Festival which stimulated the beginning of Symphony No. 3 (1970–2); and listening to Solti rehearse Tippett’s own Byzantium (1989–90) which activated the creative cycle for The Rose Lake (1991–3). The last is certainly the most peculiar but it accompanies a period of self-quotation and uses a wide range of inter-opus references that dominate and direct his creative cycle. He was confident in his ability to transcend the initial Einfall and therefore remained remarkably forthcoming about which composers or pieces elicited the experience. An agon between the source and the music he composed in the wake of the Einfall-Experience might still exist, but certainly not as an anxiety. Rather, it is an assurance of influence that is often exhibited in the very title of the compositions, most notably the Fantasia on a Theme of Handel, Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli (1953) and the Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’ (1953–4). As previously stated, Tippett often found inspiration in nature, such as when he witnessed Le Lac Rose in Senegal while on vacation (which, combined with hearing Byzantium in rehearsal with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, gave him the necessary Einfall-Experience to envision The Rose Lake),24 and sounds such as the ‘peculiar, liquid tone’ of a nightingale, which makes us respond deep down inside. It may only be for a moment, when some quality in the night and the sound of the bird-song combine to make an especially intense image. At such time we respond. It is as though another world had spoken by some trick of correspondence between the outside and the inside. For the ‘thing’ inside only works if the proper image is offered from the outside.25

Literary stimuli (which often provide a visual image) worked in very much the same manner, and could imprint upon his imagination an image of such overwhelming power; the only way in which to release it was by creative transformation. The characters found in his operas were frequently derived from such sources: Sosostris from Eliot’s The Waste Land in The Midsummer Marriage; King Priam and cast from Homer’s The Iliad in the eponymous opera; and Mangus, as the modern incarnation of Prospero from Shakespeare’s The Tempest in The Knot Garden (1966–9), are three easily identifiable examples. But these were designed to represent archetypes with only loose associations to their literary

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originals. Theatrical works can more easily accommodate such projections, but Tippett did not limit this kind of representation to vocal works. Despite the images that pervade his music, and the associations they maintain, they rarely operate as programmes. Part of the ‘trick of correspondence’ resided in his ability to transform these images into metaphorically charged instrumental music that maintained traces of the original imagery. Two of the most compelling images derived from literature but transformed into ‘pure’ music are found in The Vision of Saint Augustine and The Blue Guitar (1982–3). In The Vision Tippett needed to depict the instrumental music the angels played, but ‘the harps, trumpets, tubas, and cymbals . . . are not those of any modern orchestra’.26 And thus the timbres he created to represent this music – ‘an imperfect echo of the angelic music (in eternity)’27 were metaphorical: ‘much of the extended instrumental coda to the second part of the work was suggested by the persistence of the athletic metaphor in Augustine – running to get away from time, running away from things as they were, running towards things as they will be’.28 The Einfall image for The Blue Guitar, a sonata for solo classical guitar, was derived from the words of a poem by Wallace Stevens (‘The Man with the Blue Guitar’) which Tippett cites in his preface to the score and which invokes images of ‘the lion in the lute’ and the ‘lion locked in the stone’.29 The lines serve as an introductory text for the first movement, which is aptly titled Transforming, and describe the process of turning the poetry into abstract music. Tippett identified with, anticipated even, Stevens’s own ‘realityimagination complex’.30 Both Tippett and Stevens agree that ‘For each individual the imagination comes first and the world afterwards. The baby, with its powerful but underdeveloped and imprecise senses and without any experience or understanding of the world, dwells in a fantasy realm. That is transformed only gradually into reality. This mutually enriching interplay between the imagination and reality is the process that creates the self and art.’31 In each of the operas, and the works that resonate in association, Tippett creates a messenger character that represents the creative artist: Sosostris in The Midsummer Marriage, Hermes in King Priam (1958–61), Dov in The Knot Garden, Astron in The Ice Break (1973–6) and Pelegrin in New Year (1986–8). As Tippett explained in an interview: ‘I guess all my operas have the one messenger who comes from the gods or whatever it may be, but perhaps comes from another world.’32 In his essay ‘Art and Man’ he wrote: ‘Hermes . . . speaks for me when he sings: O divine music, O stream of sound, In which the states of soul, Flow, surfacing and drowning.’33 Hermes appears in various guises throughout Tippett’s output, but perhaps nowhere more dominantly than as an archetype and originating

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resonance for the Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3), which begins with a strong allusion to his ‘divine music’. Although he understood that society’s mandate for an artist was to entertain, Tippett’s allegiance was to his creative impulse which originated from a world that was primary and obsessive.34 Despite living in a ‘barren age’ Tippett wrote: I know that my true function within a society which embraces all of us, is to continue an age-old tradition, fundamental to our civilization, which goes back into pre-history and will go forward into the unknown future. This tradition is to create images from the depths of the imagination and to give them form whether visual, intellectual or musical. For it is only through images that the inner world communicates at all. Images of the past, shapes of the future. Images of vigour for a decadent period, images of calm for one too violent. Images of reconciliation for worlds torn by division. And in an age of mediocrity and shattered dreams, images of abounding, generous, exuberant beauty.35

Vivid manifestations of this desire often appear veiled in a programme or guiding concept, such as the birth-to-death cycle found in Symphony No. 4 (1976–7) and the String Quartet No. 4 (1977–8), or the epochal cycles found in the Triple Concerto and The Rose Lake. But they differ slightly in that they are not strict narratives that dictate the progression of events in the individual compositions, rather they suggest metaphors – ‘power’, ‘radiance’ and ‘lyric grace’ – that associate a universal archetype with a particular resonance or timbre. These timbres typically originate in the operas but the imagery is perpetuated and often amplified in the instrumental works. For example, the ‘otherworldly’ horns heard at the conclusion of the second movement of Symphony No. 2 achieve a heightened exoticism gained from their appearance as signifiers of the magical forest in The Midsummer Marriage. The image of the creative artist is one of the strongest images projected in his oeuvre and is present in the dramatis personae in each of the operas, but it is also present as a conceptual construction, in the form of a dialectic on the origin of the artwork, in each of his instrumental compositions. Tippett confessed that ‘the people who’ve always been the closest to me [are] the professional healers, in a world that needs it. That may be the initial concept. Then you have to structure, and the structure would be the scenario. That’s a very long process indeed, because you have to try to put the jigsaw into position with your own imagination.’36 Tippett’s strongest projection of the image of the creative artist was appropriated from Yeats’s poem ‘High Talk’ in which ‘the whiffler stalking about on stilts in front of the circus parade is a perfect analogy for the human being trying to remain unswamped by the melee of experience, trying to assert an

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identity; it struck me also as the marvellous image of the artist, trying to put his message across.’37 Although the Einfall that initiated the creative process was often a singular and memorable experience, the creative cycle gains momentum through an accumulation of images that contribute to a multiplicity of images found at the core of Tippett’s compositions. He explained: For me plurality is inescapable, simply because, since the First World War, we have been living in an ironic world of fragmentation and self-doubt. Composers, like other creative artists – like all other human beings, for that matter – enter unavoidably into this ironic inheritance. To find those metaphors which are tough enough to set the eternal against that inheritance, to be re-sounded in London or New York or Tokyo, to seep under the Iron Curtain and be secretly taped by young dissidents – that is our task and our challenge.38

The spinning coin of originality and tradition constitutes a fundamental polarity in Tippett’s music and his reliance on image, forged into a ‘poetic vehicle’ such as an opera or symphony, mediates these exclusive positions. Tippett used his ironical ambiguity to avoid slipping into an entrenched ideological system of thought that might threaten to overdetermine his creative development, and while the diversity of his output remains problematic for some critics it is a testament to his ability to create ever anew and evidence of his creative confidence and visionary qualities which cut a path directly through the central art of his age. While the original image of the Einfall-Experience occupies a special place in Tippett’s creative cycle, it might eventually get subsumed into the broader process and dissolved into an archetype meant to represent a universal condition which the composition symbolizes through particular resonances. The third phase, or Image-Accretion (creative process), naturally followed the second: ‘Once the [conceptual] spark exists and the fertilisation is in process, then the accretion of images begins. Now, this accretion can come from dipping into the great memory, if you like. It comes in all sorts of ways. It comes quite subjectively. But that accretive process is fundamental.’39 It was also prolonged, and although he remained disciplined about it, he allowed it to progress involuntarily: I would never say, go into this as a deliberate act in order to discover. My acceptance of, or way down into, the collective unconscious – did I use it, did I know I was doing it, as a sort of calculated technique for producing revelation . . . no . . . [I]t’s not possible to say that you go to search for revelation. But if you allow the accretional process to continue to its finality, and follow it, then, with the act of forging and measuring, there’s a

113 Between image and imagination: Tippett’s creative process possibility that out of all that comes a work of art which has within it – I would hesitate to use the word revelation – apprehensions beyond other kinds of works of art in which we have a feeling that our apprehensions are concerned almost purely with aesthetics.40

These apprehensions are often recorded in his sketchbooks, and appear as metaphors that were retrieved by ‘dipping your hand into the great memory; not only your own memory, but the archetypal memory, and producing from this a set of metaphors which you hammer into’ music.41 They play a particularly influential role in the formation of the conceptual designs of his large-scale compositions. Tippett explained: ‘I have, in a sense, been drawn from time to time to these larger scale works which are multilayered, part of whose process must go on in an accretory process from inside what we call the collective unconscious.’42 What the creative artist retrieves ‘are not yet art. It takes a lifetime’s work to mould them into works of art. For this the artist can have no reward but the joy of doing it.’43 Behind this statement was a deeper awareness of the ‘disrelation’ between the creative artist and the public.44 Although Tippett desired to create music that had a profound and lasting impact, ‘wherein some, at least, of my generation can find refreshment for the inner life’,45 it must be through the ‘activation of the Great Memory: that immense reservoir of the human psyche where images age-old and new boil together in some demoniac cauldron’.46 Describing the prolonged Image-Accretion phase for Symphony No. 3, he explained that: The work took seven years of intermittent consideration and eventual creation. From such tiny noting of a future possibility I had to put down a kind of mnemonic shorthand, so that I could remember what I thought the structure of the whole work might be when I’d only experienced the initial moment of conception . . . a great many disjointed, unstructured notions have been noted in my own kind of verbal shorthand . . . the original spontaneous conception of ‘immobile’ polarized against ‘speedy’ (so ridiculously simple, but clearly having the power to initiate the creative process now apparently ready to being) was always the structuring factor.47

‘Immobile’ and ‘speedy’ were eventually transformed into the strong images ‘Arrest’ and ‘Movement’ which replaced the former ‘shadow’ and ‘light’. Tippett allied himself with other creative artists, especially poets, most notably Eliot and Yeats who used similar structuring factors. In an interview Tippett explained that: I’m in a tradition of writers and creators or whatever it is, in which the concepts come first, and then a lot of work and imaginative processes until eventually, when you’re ready, finally ready you look for the actual notes.

114 Thomas Schuttenhelm They are not entirely spontaneous, they then have to be found. The Anfall [sic] as the Germans would say, then has to happen. That is more difficult. Once there, by what ever means one uses, then as far as I’m concerned, I can proceed from the start to the end. I can even write it down in full score to go to be made into a vocal score and be printed act by act before anything further is done at all. I never have to go back.48

The concepts had to be clear and well defined before progressing onto the next phase (Transformation-Notation). He insisted that: For some artists – myself included – the concept underlying a piece and its formal proportions have to be settled before the detail of its notes and instrumentation can be finalised. I compose by first developing an overall sense of the length of the work, then of how it will divide itself into sections or movements, then of the kind of texture or instruments or voices that will be performing it. I prefer not to consider the actual notes of the composition until this process – elaborated in preparatory sketchbooks – has gone as far as possible. Finally the notes appear. During the preparatory stages, I find that the effort of articulating my imagination has allowed much of the precise detail to form itself subconsciously, so that I never have to struggle to find it.49

As images combine they lose their singularity but contribute to the overall force of the creative cycle. Regardless of their particular resolution, they are used obliquely and provide grist for the archetypes that are projected. These archetypes then suggest the particular metaphors which populate his scores. To complete the process the metaphors are then translated into music, notes and timbres, which retain their associations, and when applied to the compositional process exert a direct influence on the creation and development of the musical material. Once the accumulation of images and formation of concepts took on a critical shape, he entered into the Transformation-Notation (compositional process) stage, where the transmutation of images into music would begin. In a letter to Eric Walter White, written on 26 October 1965, he described a breaking point where ‘I expect I shall have to let the music start soon. But . . . that is always v. slow in accumulating.’50 Relating this to Symphony No. 3, he explained: ‘While holding these ideas in my mind over a period of years, allowing them gradually to grow, I come next to a moment when I had nearly everything in my mind except the notes. The symphony so far had a structure and balance; it had ideas about orchestration. Thus I could begin what is usually thought of as the composition. I began at the piano a search for the right sounds. Now I don’t find the precise sounds I want on the piano, but through the piano (this is after all a piece for an orchestra). But I can invent as though the orchestral score were in my head all the time.’51

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Determining a direct correlation between the image and the music is difficult to establish: ‘The process of transformation inside the psyche may be an easy one, or it may be exceptionally arduous. What is clear is that once that transformation has taken place, it is difficult to trace it back to its original stimulus.’52 Even when he provides the image and a conceptual map to retrace the steps, the process of transmutation is anything but routine: ‘Now when it gets transformed into music, that is something other. The image goes, disappears into the music.’53 Thus the images that get projected in the music may not resemble the image of its origin. When the Einfall-Experience could be traced back to a particular piece of music the transmutation process was even more critical because ‘if this process of transmutation did not occur, then you would not be aware of me as a composer at all . . . The blues in my Third Symphony would revert to being real Bessie Smith; the pounding C’s at the start of my Second Symphony might even become Vivaldi again! What I write sometimes borders on quotation.’54 According to Tippett the role of the creative artist was to ‘transmute the everyday for the sake of poetry’.55 He reminds us: ‘Our English word for poet comes from the old Greek word ποιειν [poiein], to make. The composer is in this sense a poet of tones. He makes structures of tones (and silences) which when performed appear as works of musical art substituting independently of composer and performer.’56 In a letter to William Glock he stressed the importance of using precise imagery to allow for a smoother process of transmutation: I am pretty sure that tones are an actual sensual image of the aesthetic, emotional experience, for the use of the composer, just as words are for the poet. Relations between tones may be abstractable a la Mathematics, but even then the choice of the relationships is still that of fashioning a concrete image. Even the ‘philosophy’ in Dante is made poetry by the constant use of precise images. Aquinas may have written only in concepts, I wouldn’t know: but Dante never. To depart very far from this sensuous precision is to end in confusion, both in criticism and in creation. What is needed is more precision in the image: it has been only too fatally easy in music to evade precision by every sort of nostalgic, sentimentality, ‘sublimity’, socialism, and whatever.57

The Transformation-Notation phase was a physical act – finding the notes on the piano and then placing them on the page – and was aided, in part, by the precision of his images and how developed the concepts were (including structure, instrumentation, genre and so on). If the EinfallExperience was spontaneous, and Image-Accretion more cognitive to conceptualize the parameters to match the chosen metaphors, then the last phase, the transmutation and notation of material, was the most

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consciously driven. ‘As a creative musician, I can designate two general categories of activity which enable me to capture and express this inner flow of experience. One entails spontaneity and accident; the other, a more self-conscious process of testing and measuring.’58 Spontaneity, distinct from choice, has the capacity to reveal authentic truths, while measurement is more consciously directed. Between the sketchbook and the manuscript the process was largely complete and little evidence of the transmutation was left on the pages. Tippett’s manuscripts exhibit a multilayered process that included visions and revisions, but once committed to the page he was confident the image was captured and transmuted. Measurement and testing was almost entirely an internal process associated with and submitted to a physical trial to determine its aesthetic standard. Describing this process he said: ‘The movements of the stomach or any other part of the nervous system, in response to the imagined music, is the somatic test of aesthetic validity within the combined psychosomatic act of creation – just as sets of gradually acquired intellectual judgments of formal patternings, of taste, of values, are the tests of the conscious mind.’59 This process continues in the next and final phase: PerformanceReception, where the images are projected in performance. Acknowledging this, he wrote: ‘I have to polarise these two, the irrational psychic instructions and the rational formality, in some such way that it’s set down finally as a collection of notes and instructions, but if they are heard in the concert hall, something of this strange transmutatory magical experience happens to you from the sounds you psychically hear.’60 Tippett understood the importance of performance, and therefore always left something pending: ‘the song if you like – that would depend always on performance, which is the real thing that happens in the place with the people . . . I’m trying to say that this is something special for myself. You can attempt to have a kind of non-living music, and various composers feel they can put it onto a perfect disc or something. I have no feeling like that at all. I like the performance, and each performer does it differently.’61 Despite his engagements as a conductor and interpreter, his interest in the music was almost entirely with its creation: ‘I have, in principle, nothing to do with the performance: my interest is simply with invention.’62 Once the composition was complete, fully emancipated from the creative cycle of the individual composer, it held no interest for him: ‘from my point of view of a composer, all is finished. When I conduct or even listen to my own works, it is as though the music has completely left me, the creator, and now has a life entirely of its own.’63 And in an interview from 1996 he maintained his objectivity: ‘It’s difficult. I’m outside the music I’ve made, I have no interest in it.’64

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Tippett’s disinterest and objectification culminated in his last composition, The Rose Lake. Meirion Bowen described it as ‘his most reticent piece, really, he’s almost saying he doesn’t exist. It reminds me of the Joyce Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man where the highest you aspire to as an artist is to be totally outside, independent of the art itself; you are simply there looking at it from all directions. You are detached from it completely. It’s there, the work. You’ve disappeared. He simply said: “bye, bye, I’m not there, it’s just the music”.’65 This was anticipated in Byzantium, which Tippett described as ‘an artefact: an artistic object in which all the emotion of the artist has disappeared inside’.66 But the creative artist was still ‘ambivalently’ present in the composition, most especially in the last lines – ‘Those images that yet / Beget fresh images’ – which ‘fascinated’ him, as he had yet to beget his last two compositions, pieces that would fully emancipate him from the creative cycle and thus arrive at the end of Eliot’s process of depersonalization.67 But The Rose Lake takes this concept one step further, not by concluding the progress of an artist but rather through a metaphorical depiction of an exit of the artist from the professional stage. In his play Amadeus Peter Schaffer depicted a fictional Mozart composing his own requiem, but Tippett might very well be the truest manifestation of this portrayal. Certainly the last images give pause: an onomatopoeic ‘plop’ into the lake followed by a bar of silence – a return to the metaphorical absence that was the origin of his creative cycle. Notes 1 Michael Tippett, ‘Poets in a Barren Age’ in Moving into Aquarius, expanded edn (St Albans: Paladin Books, 1974), pp. 155–6. 2 Harold Bloom, Wallace Stevens: The Poems of our Climate (New York: Cornell University Press, 1977), p. 375. 3 Tippett, ‘Poets in a Barren Age’ in Moving into Aquarius, p. 148. 4 Tippett, ‘The Mask of Time’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Tippett on Music (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 248–9. 5 From the Preface to The Ice Break, Schott ED 11253 (London: Schott & Co. Ltd., 1977). 6 Tippett, ‘Towards the Condition of Music’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 9–10 (original emphasis). 7 Tippett, ‘St Augustine and His Visions’ in Tippett on Music, p. 235. 8 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991), p. 58. 9 Ibid. 10 British Library, Add. Mss. 61748–9. 11 Tippett, ‘Too Many Choices’ in Tippett on Music, p. 296.

12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Tippett, ‘The Mask of Time’ in Tippett on Music, p. 254. 15 Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 197. 16 Tippett, ‘The Gulf in Our Music’, The Observer, 14 May 1961, 21. 17 Tippett, ‘A Composer’s Point of View’ in Tippett on Music, p. 6. 18 T. W. Adorno, ‘Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft’ [‘Cultural Criticism and Society’] (1949) in Prisms, trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber (London: Neville Spearman, 1967; Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981). 19 Tippett, ‘Aspects of Belief ’ in Tippett on Music, p. 240. 20 Tippett, E. William Doty Lectures in Fine Arts, 2nd series, 1976 (Austin: College of Fine Arts, University of Texas, 1979), pp. 12–13 (original emphasis). 21 Songs of Experience: Michael Tippett at Eighty Five [film], dir. Mischa Scorer

118 Thomas Schuttenhelm (Antelope West Productions and BBC/RM Arts, 1991). 22 Tippett, Doty Lectures, p. 10. 23 See Kemp, Tippett, p. 493 n. 21. 24 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 107. 25 Tippett, ‘A Composer’s Point of View’, ibid., p. 3. 26 Tippett, ‘St Augustine and His Visions’, ibid., p. 233. 27 British Library, Add. Ms. 72026. 28 Tippett, ‘St Augustine and His Visions’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 235–6. 29 Preface to The Blue Guitar, Schott ED 12218 (London: Schott & Co. Ltd., 1985). 30 Robert Rehder, The Poetry of Wallace Stevens (London: Macmillian Press Ltd., 1988), p. 150. 31 Ibid., p. 133. 32 Richard Dufallo, Trackings: Composers Speak with Richard Dufallo (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), p. 356. 33 Tippett, ‘Art and Man’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels: Essays and Sketchbooks of Michael Tippett (London: Eulenburg Books, 1980), p. 29. 34 See Tippett, ‘The Artist’s Mandate’ in Moving into Aquarius, pp. 122–9, and Doty Lectures, p. 5. 35 Tippett, ‘Poets in a Barren Age’ in Moving into Aquarius, pp. 155–6. 36 Dufallo, Trackings, pp. 356–7. 37 Tippett, ‘The Mask of Time’ in Tippett on Music, p. 248. 38 Tippett, ‘The Composer’s World’ in Keith Spence and Giles Swayne (eds.), How Music Works (London and New York: Macmillan, 1981), p. 356. 39 Tippett, Doty Lectures, p. 10. 40 Ibid. (original emphasis). 41 Ibid., p. 4. 42 Ibid., p. 11. 43 Tippett, ‘The Artist’s Mandate’ in Tippett on Music, p. 293. 44 See Tippett, ‘A Composer and his Public’ in Moving into Aquarius, p. 97. 45 Tippett, ‘A Composer’s Point of View’ in Tippett on Music, p. 6.

46 Tippett, ‘A Composer and his Public’, ibid., p. 281. 47 Tippett, ‘Feelings of Inner Experience’ in Mick Csaky (ed.), How does it Feel? Exploring the World of your Senses (London: Thames and Hudson, 1979), p. 176. 48 Dufallo, Trackings, p. 355. 49 Tippett, ‘The Composer’s World’ in Spence and Swayne (eds.), How Music Works, p. 348. 50 Tippett, letter to Eric Walter White (26 October 1965) in Thomas Schuttenhelm (ed.), The Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. 383. 51 Tippett, ‘Feelings of Inner Experience’ in Csaky (ed.), How does it Feel?, p. 176 (original emphasis). 52 Tippett, ‘The Composer’s World’ in Spence and Swayne (eds.), How Music Works, p. 347. 53 ‘Einfall’, radio broadcast talk, BBC Radio 3, 20 February 1995. 54 Tippett, ‘The Composer’s World’ in Spence and Swayne (eds.), How Music Works, pp. 355–6. 55 Tippett, ‘A Composer’s Point of View’ in Tippett on Music, p. 5. 56 Tippett, ‘Music and Life’ in Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels, p. 30. 57 British Library, MS Mus. 957, fol. 145. 58 Tippett, ‘The Composer’s World’ in Spence and Swayne (eds.), How Music Works, p. 347. 59 Tippett, ‘Feelings of Inner Experience’ in Csaky (ed.), How does it Feel?, p. 173. 60 Ibid., p. 175. 61 F. David Peat, Interviews with Composers: Sir Michael Tippett [online], 1996, www. fdavidpeat.com/interviews/tippett.htm. 62 Tippett, ‘The Score’ in Tippett on Music, p. 259 (original emphasis). 63 Tippett, in Songs of Experience: Michael Tippett at Eighty Five (see n. 21 above). 64 Peat, Interviews with Composers (see n. 61 above). 65 ‘Einfall’ (see n. 53 above). 66 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 106. 67 Ibid., p. 107.

PART II

Works and genres

7 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam IAIN STANNARD

Periodization may be, as David Clarke states, an ‘inveterate musicological habit’,1 but the bold steps taken by Tippett in his second opera King Priam (1958–61) signify a new direction that provokes direct questions of stylistic change and periodization.2 It is quite clear from the views of contemporary critics that it marked a clear turning point in Tippett’s career – and one that was not universally welcomed. The opera’s uncompromising, often stark musical language seemed such a reversal of the style of his earlier works that a contemporary critic, Scott Goddard, wrote: ‘the change is so great as to make one wonder how the two works [The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52) and King Priam] could possibly have emanated from the same mind’.3 Ian Kemp summarizes the more negative pole of the opera’s reception as follows: It seemed the product of change for change’s sake, sad witness of a misguided attempt on Tippett’s part to restore failing creativity by tearing his natural composing style from its roots and filling the void with all that was uncharacteristic of him – hard, intractable sonorities, an aggressively dissonant harmonic idiom and construction by means of stringing together gestures both crude and short-winded. Superficial, and on this level of observation, gauche echoes of the music of Britten, of Stravinsky (especially of Agon) and even of Webern gave substance to such criticisms.4

[121]

Kemp identifies a number of reasons for Tippett’s new style. He suggests that the main reason why King Priam represented such a change from his earlier opera – the predominantly flowing and lyrical The Midsummer Marriage – lay ‘hidden in the mysteries of his psyche’.5 However, Kemp goes on to provide three more ‘prosaic’ reasons: firstly, Tippett had fulfilled the compositional ambitions of his first twenty years or so of composition and chose to innovate rather than rest ‘on his laurels’; secondly, King Priam is the natural outcome of an accelerating stylistic development which continued throughout his works of the 1960s and beyond, albeit without such a clear schism; and thirdly, Tippett viewed his music as a ‘corrective’ to the prevailing ‘feel of our time’.6 Having written music against the backdrop of the Second World War and its aftermath, which obliged him to ‘raise his lyre against the shadows’, the works of the

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1960s were written at a time of ‘vitality and renewal’ financially and technologically. Yet the Cold War loomed in the background of this recovery: ‘It seems no accident therefore that precisely when the scars of war were being healed . . . Tippett should have forged the new language of King Priam, an opera about the inevitability of war, the destructiveness of personal relationships and the futility of illusions.’7 In response to Goddard’s statement, it could be argued that the works did emanate from the same mind; the challenge is in reconciling the considerable stylistic differences with a single creative source. In addressing these issues this chapter will be concerned with the identification of stylistic traits before and (mostly) after the change that King Priam represents. The characteristics identified by Kemp in the above quotation – ‘hard, intractable sonorities, an aggressively dissonant harmonic idiom and . . . stringing together [of] gestures both crude and short-winded’ – summarize some of the key changes in Tippett’s musical language. These changes will be tracked through three works from this stage of Tippett’s career, henceforth termed the ‘Priam group’ – the opera itself and two closely related instrumental works, the Second Piano Sonata (1962) and Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3). The following discussion will focus extensively on these two latter works as their conflict between new stylistic ideas and the use (or ‘abuse’, perhaps) of traditional forms is particularly revealing. First, however, it is necessary to summarize some of the key features of Tippett’s early style, as defined through the works prior to King Priam.

Features of Tippett’s early style Tippett’s earlier style is somewhat resistant to easy generalization. There are a number of key traits: complex, often asymmetrical rhythms; a tendency towards modal or pentatonic elements; a free-flowing lyricism that derives from various traditions, including amongst others folk music and Elizabethan madrigals; use of contrapuntal textures and layering of different thematic elements; and a tendency to reinterpret traditional forms. An example of the latter can be seen as early as in the First Piano Sonata (1936–8, rev. 1942), the third movement of which – a scherzo – is in sonata form, while the opening movement is a set of variations. However, it is in the Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9) and the Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli (1953), both of which can be regarded as being amongst Tippett’s best-known works, that his ‘early mature’ style is exemplified. However, for all that critics could, according to Kemp, complain of a ‘natural composing style’ being torn from its roots,

123 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam

the early works also betray decidedly anti-hegemonic tendencies. A Child of Our Time (1939–41), for example, is notable for its juxtaposition of spirituals with chromatic sections that Kemp likens to Wagner (Parsifal in particular).8 The richness of what Tippett wanted to communicate in the work is reflected in its stylistic heterogeneity and ability to capitalize on materials that were not entirely ‘his own’, such as the spirituals.9 Elsewhere amongst Tippett’s early works, the stately crotchet pulse and intensely expressive chromaticism of the slow movement of the Second String Quartet (1941–2) contrast starkly with the fluid rhythms and modal lyricism of the first movement. The aforementioned first movement of the First Piano Sonata is in itself a study in contrasts; from the relaxed syncopations of the theme, the subsequent variations proceed through arpeggios, hammered octaves, harp-like sweeps and a playful scherzando section through to the gamelan-inspired sonorities of the final variation. In his study of tonal structure in the Concerto for Double String Orchestra, Clarke discusses a significant passage in a letter written by Tippett to Francesca Allinson in 1941, which sheds some light on the existence of stylistic heterogeneity in his earlier works.10 Clarke sees in Tippett’s works a strong indication of ‘non-alignment with any prevailing ideology’, be it the ‘jazz-nostalgia’ of composers such as Walton and Lambert, the ‘German Schwermut’ of Elgar and Richard Strauss, or the ‘Celtic Twilight’ of Bax and others.11 Tippett’s position is not to reject these styles but to bring artistic integrity to them, arguing instead for an idiom founded in the music of both ‘town’ and ‘country’ – an Englishness ‘to be embraced without specious, nostalgic distinctions between urban and rural cultures’ – and for these roots to be brought to artistic maturity by being synthesized within an ‘articulated mastered form’.12 Clarke proceeds to analyse the Concerto’s tonal structure on the basis that the work reflects not only an effort to embed folk material within a ‘Beethovenian formal archetype’, but also an opposing tendency: to use the materials to challenge the totalizing potential of such a structure.13 While the tendency to draw from a wide range of musical resources and a resistance to totalizing strategies may have been preserved, even extended in scope in the works of the Priam group, it would be wrong to downplay the extent of the stylistic shift evident in these works overall. While certain developments were presaged in transitional works such as the Sonata for Four Horns and the Second Symphony (1956–7), it is clear that the musical language of King Priam did indeed mark a break with past practices, and in no uncertain terms. It is notable from the styles mentioned in Tippett’s letter that the music of his earlier period is defined by tensions against those prevailing models. Perhaps the change of style around the time of King Priam is, at least in part, to do with the extinction

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of some of those styles, or at least a reduction in their prominence. Tippett seems instead to have become more engaged with a continental modernism, and from this perspective it is not surprising that the works of this period bear comparison, if only superficially, to the rhythms and ostinati of Stravinsky, the pointillism of Webern and even the ‘motionless’ soundscapes of Boulez. If the works of the Priam group are to be considered a response to a new musical landscape, the way in which Tippett responded to the new stylistic and formal challenges of contemporary music in the late 1950s and early 1960s meant above all a radical re-engagement and reconfiguration of musical devices found in his earlier works, and with established forms and ‘archetypes’ of concert music.14

Gesture, defamiliarization, negation One of the most striking (and oft-commented-upon) qualities of the music of the Priam group concerns the gestural quality of the musical material. Gesture is not a musical ‘parameter’ as such, more a structural and thematic device that fashions parameters such as harmony, melody, rhythm, texture and structure.15 Tippett’s use of gesture and the ramifications of it, particularly for his purely instrumental works, are explained by his own programme note to the Second Piano Sonata: Everything in the sonata proceeds by statement. The effect is one of accumulation: through constant addition of new material; by variation and repetition. There is virtually no development, and particularly no bridge passages. The formal unity comes from the balance of similarities and contrasts. The contrasts are the straightforward ones of timbres and speeds. But there are also contrasts of function. Music can appear to flow; or to arrest itself, especially through the device of ostinato; or temporarily to stop in a silence. These kinds of contrast are used constantly.16

For Tippett, everything ‘proceeds by statement’. Each musical element is a self-sufficient unit, exploited for its timbral and sonorous qualities, not merely a germinal idea to be worked through in an organic structure. Later restatement of an idea might not be seen as development but more in the nature of a new perspective on the same idea. More evocative titles, such as Mosaics17 and Arrest and Movement18 were considered, titles that would certainly have alluded to the more experimental structure. However, Tippett chose not to employ what he later regarded as ‘fanciful titles’,19 perhaps out of a desire to engage with older structural norms, though arguably that engagement was (as is the case in the Second Piano Sonata) characterized primarily by negation.

125 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam

Tippett also felt perhaps that more descriptive titles would have brought him closer to contemporary musical trends than he felt appropriate. Even at their most extreme in the Second Piano Sonata, Tippett’s gestures do not seem emancipated from the past. Quite the opposite in fact; his music is dependent upon layers of accumulated meaning within the sounds, those meanings often being put into unusual contexts or juxtapositions with unrelated ideas; or even upon layering different gestures or styles, in order to generate new combinations and conflicts between them. It is a tendency, as Kenneth Gloag points out, that is comparable with one ascribed to Stravinsky by Louis Andriessen and Elmer Schönberger – an ‘attitude towards already existing musical material. This attitude can be described as the (historical) realisation that music is about other music.’20 The opening of the Second Piano Sonata provides a good example of Tippett’s use of gesture and of its relationship to the past (Ex. 7.1 (a)). It is an ‘attention’ gesture, reminiscent of the strident opening chords of his First String Quartet (1934–5, rev. 1943) albeit much more extreme in dynamics, register and harmony. What makes the opening of the Sonata particularly noteworthy is that there is a glimmer of familiar elements, but these are obscured by a combination of several aggressive and recalcitrant elements: the extremes of dynamic level (both the loudness and the intervening silences); the use of astringent chromatic harmonies to disarm a surprisingly tonal melodic line; the distance between the upper and lower parts; the use of whole-tone dyads which, especially in the lower register, generate a crude percussiveness. If taken in isolation, its melodic line could be seen as, if anything, over-familiar. The upper line in bars 2 and 4 consists of two melodic turns (labelled x in Ex. 7.1 (b)) which, if Ex. 7.1 (a) and (b): Piano Sonata No. 2, tonal ‘shadows’ in the Tempo I material, bars 1–4

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played one after the other without any harmony, might suggest a continuation along the lines of F–E♭–D–C–D, and a sequence well suited to a cycle of fifths in a development section could easily be imagined. Even the stuttering bassline of bars 2 and 4 is not entirely out of keeping with such a notion; a B♮ instead of B♭ in bar 2 would have provided a suitable semitonal lean back into the C which, underneath the melodic figure G–F–E–D–E, would have produced a dominant-tonic relationship somewhat akin to a perfect cadence. Maintaining that C, instead of going back to B♭ at the start of bar 4, would have provided the opportunity to resolve downwards to an F in a further dominant–tonic related figure. However, the actual move upward to a D instead of the theoretical F might be likened to an interrupted cadence (see Ex. 7.1 (b)). Yet it is discernible simply from listening to the piece that such congenially familiar underpinnings are anything but clear. Following the initial fortissimo chord (bar 1), the next three chords – which follow a brief but significant silence – resonate harshly with each chord containing at least one ic1 (semitone) interval (E–F/F–E in the first and second, F–F♯ in the third).21 After another pronounced silence (twice as long as the first) the effect is heightened, not by dynamic level, which is maintained at fortissimo, but by a repeat of the same melodic idea transposed up by a perfect fourth and the inclusion of more ic1-dominated chords. Another semblance of ‘normal’ tonal practice appears in the parallel thirds that feint to accompany the right hand’s melodic line, starting with E–C (bar 1), then followed after the long silence by G–E and F–D (bar 2). This is negated by the dissonant notes in the thumb below them before the thirds themselves fall away into ic5 (perfect fourth)-based chords E–B–A and D–G, though the thirds return with E–C at the end of this bar. Following on from Andriessen and Schönberger’s definition of the historical attitude towards musical materials, Gloag speaks of a tendency that is characteristic of Tippett’s ‘neoclassicism’: namely that the music’s relation to other music is a process whereby it is ‘constructed in relation to a past model but at the same time achieves a sense of distance (a process that is simultaneously both affirmative and critical)’. This, Gloag continues, ‘relates to the concept of critical distance or, perhaps more precisely, distance through defamiliarisation’.22 This description of defamiliarization is given in relation to Tippett’s Second Symphony, whereas the more extreme defamiliarization of the Priam group’s musical language veers towards negation: a destructive approach to familiar qualities of lyricism, flow and any lingering modal or tonal elements found in Tippett’s earlier works. Harsh gestures and mechanical ostinati abound, taking the place of the flowing, rhythmically organic lyricism of earlier works. The impression, from Kemp’s aforementioned summary, is that

127 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam

the negation of the lyrical elements, and along with it the rhythmic vitality and modal interplay, is what the critics found most difficult to accept in this music. Lyricism is not entirely absent from the works of the Priam group, however. The Concerto for Orchestra sets out in a highly melodic vein; Tippett himself wrote that the music of the first three groups of instruments in the work was to embody the concept of ‘melodic line’.23 Yet a comparison with the melodic style of an earlier piece such as the first movement of the Second String Quartet (1941–2) demonstrates the gulf that separates Tippett’s earlier melodic writing from much of what he wrote after ‘the great divide’.24 The quartet opens with a graceful and largely conjunct theme with nimble rhythms that do not always adhere to a consistent metre (Ex. 7.2 (a)). Syncopation is commonplace (though not always occurring at the same time in all parts) and cross-rhythms abundant (as a result of melodic interest being present in all instruments). The presence of D♯, A♯ and E♯ (in Violin 1 and the other parts) hints strongly at a major rather than minor modality despite the suggestion of the threesharp key signature. By contrast, the first phrase of the Concerto for Orchestra’s flowing flute melody favours wide intervals, starting out with a broken triad (C♯–A–E) followed by quartal (ic5) elements in bars 2–3 before becoming increasingly dissonant, concluding with an angular group – E♭–B–C–A♭ – at bar 4 (Ex. 7.2 (b)). Rhythmically it lacks the sprung, syncopated rhythms of the quartet, though it should perhaps be said that in this respect it is not a like-for-like comparison in terms of the mood the respective passages are attempting to convey. Something of the Second Quartet’s energetic syncopation is to be found from Fig. 17 of the Concerto’s first movement onwards. However, as is typical for the

Ex. 7.2 Comparison of melodic lines, (a) String Quartet No. 2, first movement, bars 1–5; (b) Concerto for Orchestra, first movement, bars 1–4

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period, it is somewhat more rhythmically terse than in earlier works, and, as earlier in the movement, the melodic line itself is somewhat angular. While the Concerto for Orchestra’s opening movement demonstrates that lyricism was not entirely swept aside by Tippett’s new music of gestures and ostinati, it again seems to be undergoing a process of defamiliarization to the point of negation. The flute’s melody at the start of the work seems to undergo a corruption of sorts as the relatively consonant triadic and quartal material slowly dissolves into inchoate jagged chromaticism.

New materials – or old materials, new contexts? While negation is a fruitful theme when addressing the musical language of the Priam group, what is also to be found is a melting pot of new musical materials. Most notable perhaps are pitch collections based on chromatic (ic1) and quartal (ic5) sets, the latter often being combined with triadic sets. Perhaps as a result of his wish not to follow directly the path of ‘German Schwermut’, use of chromaticism in the early works is relatively scarce. Where chromatic material does exist in earlier works its role is generally confined to transitional material, though there is occasionally more widespread use, as in the slow movement of the Second String Quartet – an almost uncharacteristic exploration of chromatic polyphony (Ex. 7.3 (a)). Such winding chromatic figures, based on chromatically neighbouring whole-tone dyads, become abundant in the works of the Priam group. The Tempo 7 section of the Second Piano Sonata, a quotation of a theme from King Priam and found once more in the finale of the Concerto for Orchestra (at Fig. 127), is formed from precisely this kind of neighbouring whole-tone dyad figure (Ex. 7.3 (b)). The difference in the functionality of such chromatic material suggests that a fruitful comparison could be made to the Second Piano Sonata’s Tempo 3 section which, having started out in the lower reaches of the piano with obsessive, hammered quaver notes based on the first three notes of D minor, steadily becomes infused with chromaticism, starting with the addition of F♯ to lend a discomfiting air by its juxtaposition to F♮. This escalates into wholesale chromatic disorder by bar 11 as the quavers continue to run amok towards the higher registers of the keyboard until it unwinds in almost the most unexpected way possible – with a straightforward C major scale which is ultimately capped by an incongruous C♯. Along the way, groups similar to the five-note collection from the Second Quartet (B–A♯–G♯–A–G, highlighted in Ex. 7.3 (a) with the bracket) can be isolated (see Ex. 7.3 (b); in this instance

129 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam Ex. 7.3 Comparison of chromatic groups, (a) String Quartet No. 2, second movement, bars 1–4; (b) Piano Sonata No. 2, bars 11–12

the two collections are direct intervallic inversions of the quartet’s fivenote collection). The identification of five-note collections here is perhaps opportunistic, extracted as it is from the middle of two different processes; it is hardly something that can be considered a stylistic marker. However, the comparison does point to a contextual difference between the use of chromaticism in the Second Piano Sonata and the Second String Quartet. The chromatic groups in the quartet are part of a larger thematic group which is exploited in a movement of studiously controlled polyphony, whereas in the Tempo 3 sections of the sonata the chromatic groups are part of a wild, somewhat aimless and potentially endless torrent of notes – endless because there is no strong sense of thematic or tonal referent until the C major scale suddenly interjects. Subsequent repetitions of the Tempo 3 section in the piece, most of which are in inversion, share broad features but the detailed workings of each section retain a certain unpredictability, with the exception of the verbatim repeat starting at bar 258. Another fruitful comparison can be made between the chromatic ‘wedges’ of the Second Piano Sonata’s Tempo 2 section and a somewhat peculiar passage of chromaticism (given the context) in the first movement of the Third String Quartet (1945–6) (see Exx. 7.4 (a) and (b)). The violin 1 line is almost identical to the Tempo 2 material, though the contexts are different: the Third Quartet passage has a transitional nature, whereas in the Second Sonata everything proceeds by statement (there are explicitly no bridge passages).

130 Iain Stannard Ex. 7.4 Chromatic ‘wedges’, (a) String Quartet No. 3, first movement, Figs. 7:9–8:2, violin 1 only; (b) Piano Sonata No. 2, bars 5–6

Pitch collections based on ic5 (perfect fourth) are also prominent in the Priam group, forming perhaps the most notable harmonic element along with increased chromaticism. But the use of ic5 pitch collections can be observed throughout Tippett’s early works too. In the Third String Quartet, for instance, the melodic use of ic5s in the main theme of the first movement is a by-product of the use of a pentatonic scale, F♯–B–A– E–D, with the ic5 elements F♯–B–E providing a melodic skeleton, and another ic5, A–D, neighbouring B and E (Ex. 7.5 (a)). As a germinal thematic element it is heard continually throughout the movement, for example transposed down to E–A–G–D–C two bars later. The ending of the movement demonstrates the manner in which these quartal elements combine with tonal ones. The first four notes of the pentatonic theme – F♯–B–A–E – are again heard, this time with a repeated E, which is harmonized by a C to provide a homely C major colour from a distant group centred on F♯ to finish the movement. Tippett continues to build upon use of quartal harmony in the 1950s; it is prominent in The Heart’s Assurance (1950–1) and, in particular, in the Piano Concerto (1953–5). Kemp notes the emergence – ever nearer to ‘the great divide’ – of a harmonic unit in the Sonata for Four Horns (1955) ‘stemming from a chord which telescopes tonic and dominant’. The sonority in question is heard at the outset: A♭–E♭–G–B♭. This harmonic footprint is one of the key elements to which Kemp was referring when

131 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam Ex. 7.5 Quartal groups, (a) String Quartet No. 3, first movement, Fig. 2:2–5; (b) Piano Sonata No. 2, bars 15–16; (c) The Heart’s Assurance, No. 1, ‘Song’, opening bar

stating that Tippett was using the piece ‘to make a crucial preliminary survey of the new ground he was shortly to occupy’.25 As Gloag notes, the Second Symphony continues this development, with both the beginning and end of the piece coloured by a structurally significant chord, C–G–D– A–C♯–E,26 a chord identified by Clarke as the ‘Z-chord’.27 The works of the Priam group continue the trend, with sections based on ic5 pitch collections often providing areas of stability or stasis within the more aggressive, dissonant sections. Ostinato material in King Priam is often based around quartal groupings, such as the pattern of notes in the flutes at Fig 10:3, which is based on the group C–F–B♭–E♭ and provides a contrast to the doleful, chromatic line of the oboe, while the piano heralds Hecuba’s arrival at Fig. 13 with a hammering semiquaver ostinato based around the ic5 set (B♭–E♭–A♭–D♭). The quartal construction of these groups provides harmonically functionless support that can continue as

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long as the dramatic action requires it. A similar pitch collection in the Second Piano Sonata’s Tempo 4 section demonstrates further use of ic5based material (Ex. 7.5 (b)). The section begins with a semiquaver ostinato which uses the entire Lydian pitch collection on G (G–A–B–C♯–D–E–F♯) within its first eight notes. The foundation of the group is a major 7th arpeggio – G–D–F♯–B – which imbues the section with a colour similar to the opening of the Concerto for Orchestra. The turnaround figuration displayed here from ascent to descent (note the ‘reversal’ patterns in Ex. 7.5 (b)) and combination of triadic and quartal elements are strongly reminiscent of the piano accompaniment at the start of the first song of The Heart’s Assurance (Ex. 7.5 (c)). The works of the Priam group, and arguably to some extent other transitional works such as the Second Symphony, mark a time during which triadic-quartal groups started to become significant, the basis from which themes, melodies and harmonic areas develop. They can be seen perhaps as a contraction of quartal elements arising from particular thematic configurations of the pentatonic scale, as in the Third String Quartet, or in the colouristic use of fourths in the Second Piano Sonata or The Heart’s Assurance. However, their use is generally confined to repetitive usage in ostinati, which are harmonically static, or as stable areas between harmonically ambiguous areas as in the Concerto for Orchestra. In relation to the sophisticated harmonic-contrapuntal structure and rich post-tonal palette of the Third Piano Sonata (1972–3), the use of triadicquartal combinations in the works of the Priam group might be considered a continuation of the preliminary survey of new harmonic ground that Kemp observed in the Sonata for Four Horns. Having hitherto discussed elements of fine detail in the form of gestures, themes and pitch collections, I shall, for the remainder of this chapter, consider the broader concerns of timbre, texture and structure.

Orchestration and timbre Tippett’s move to smaller, concertante forces in King Priam and the Concerto for Orchestra are described in some depth by the composer himself in a later essay, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’. Although parts of this essay were not published until 1995,28 the section of greatest interest here was first published in 1970,29 placing it ten or so years after the composition of the Priam group. The commentary is thus comparatively fresh, with a little historical distancing. Tippett places his innovations in terms of orchestration in the tradition of Stravinsky, emphasizing a highly relevant analytical detail raised by Eric Walter White:

133 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam As White has mentioned, Stravinsky became interested also in the concertante treatment of single instruments and small groups of instruments. And in his later works the orchestra was treated as a collection of chamber music groups. White concludes, ‘every time he wrote a full-scale composition, he deliberately rethought his orchestra’.30

Tippett seemed fond of the last point and clearly felt it to have had considerable similarities to his own aims, quoting it again after describing his approach to the orchestra in King Priam. A fulsome description of the innovations in the Concerto for Orchestra follows in the essay: its various combinations of brass, wind instruments and percussion in the first movement, with each combination being tied to one of nine musical ideas; the string section, left out of the first movement, returns in the second in a contrast between the ‘light’ violins with the ‘dark’ violas, cellos and double basses, the ‘light’ group being unusually threadbare to increase the contrast;31 the brass and percussion of the final movement recapturing the martial feel of King Priam. The benefit derived from such close attention to the timbral qualities of these instruments and the role of percussion is clear in later works such as the Third and Fourth Symphonies (1970–2 and 1976–7). The Concerto for Orchestra, then, continues King Priam’s focus on the individual timbral qualities of the instruments. The Second Piano Sonata, of course, is scored for one instrument but it is still a distinctly ‘timbral’ piece, the different types of musical material providing colouristic contrasts, and the First Piano Sonata’s utilization of stylistic contrasts in its variations movement demonstrates an early penchant for stylistic heterogeneity. The key characteristics in the Second Piano Sonata are the diversity of the materials and the exploitation of timbral possibilities. However, the radical slicing and juxtaposition of the diverse musical elements, when compared with the simple back-to-back large-scale sections of the First Piano Sonata, and of course the more aggressive and dissonant nature of much of the musical material, are what make the later piece so much more progressive, and indeed risky, from a structural point of view. Of particular note in the Second Piano Sonata is the Tempo 6 section, which is a large-scale formal unit of the piece – a slow movement – rather than a single musical topos that is simply part of a larger section. This section has a style that Tippett was cultivating as far back as the Third String Quartet’s slow fourth movement, whose stasis evokes Bartók’s ‘night music’. Kemp describes Bartók’s influence as going beyond mere superficial resemblances, citing it as a potent example of ‘one composer’s influence on another [being] at its most profound when transmitted in terms of an idea rather than stylistic mannerism. Bartók forced Tippett to consider the elementary but fundamental question of sound. And Tippett responded entirely in his own way.’32

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Tippett’s ‘night music’, then, is a significant developmental thread that runs directly from his earlier works, starting with the Third String Quartet, through transitional works such as the Second Symphony, to the works of the Priam group (in particular the Second Piano Sonata’s ‘slow movement’) and beyond to works such as the Third Symphony; it is a notion that fitted well with Tippett’s preoccupation with musical time, and his interest in timelessness as transcending that which is time bound. As a musical form, the night music is characterized by long periods of essentially static music based on short, repeated patterns – bell-like sonorities, murmurings and twitterings redolent perhaps of an enchanted forest. While the night music generally feels static, it does develop through a gradual build-up, through superimposition of other cellular ideas either new or drawn from elsewhere in the movement. The Second Piano Sonata’s Tempo 6 ‘slow movement’ is a prime example of the style, with initially four short fragments set one after the other (Ex. 7.6): a grumbling bass fragment (a) followed by bell-like triplets higher up the keyboard (b); then, a deep bass note sustained by a trill underneath chords related to those of the initial Tempo 1 section (c); and finally a punchy, rhythmic gesture (d), which combines the chordal structure of (c) with the rhythm of (a). Throughout the section these four fundamental units progress through slow changes in a manner quite distinct from the teleological sense of the term ‘development’. The first notable change is to theme (c) at bar 81, which rises by a fourth compared to its first appearance at bar 73, as per the ‘attention’ chords in Tempo 1 – compare bar 4 with bar 2 in Ex. 7.1 (a) – retaining also bar 4’s more piquant, ic1-based pitch content. The (d) theme at bar 84 follows on from this, being a perfect 4th higher than its first statement at bar 76. Structurally this is a significant design; it is as if a process involving juxtaposed elements (albeit ones interrupted by a significant silence, in this case) relates to a process later on whereby those elements are stretched across time with other thematic elements in between. Throughout the rest of the ‘slow movement’, the material of the four main themes is explored and other elements added, for example a diatonic five-note cluster enters at bar 86 and becomes a prominent addition between (b) and (c) materials. The chords of (d) are extended into a section based on echo effects at bar 109, with a chromatic gesture introduced at bar 112 which seems to be an introverted reflection of the Tempo 2 theme and perhaps a nod in the direction of Webernian pointillism (albeit a fairly rudimentary one). This chromatic theme is later infused into the middle part of theme (c)’s texture, thus representing another addition to that theme – an ‘accretion’ of a timbral element rather than a ‘development’ of the (c) material itself.

135 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam Ex. 7.6 Piano Sonata No. 2, bars 69–77, ‘night music’, main themes

The ‘night music’ strand of Tippett’s stylistic development is comparatively continuous in relation to other stylistic changes; a direct comparison between the slow movements of the Second and Third Symphonies alone might scarcely suggest to a listener that between their composition lay a stylistic ‘great divide’. The Second Symphony’s bell-like piano sounds, fragmentary melodic gestures (at first in the trumpet, backed by flute and clarinet), their block-like juxtaposition and slow build-up of ideas and thematic cells, undoubtedly look forward to the even more colourful palette of the Third Symphony’s slow movement.

Texture Tippett’s ambitions in the Second Piano Sonata were somewhat curtailed by the physical limitations of a single performer.33 King Priam and the Concerto for Orchestra, on the other hand, afforded the forces required for dense textures, for which Tippett was renowned in his earlier works. Particularly noteworthy here is his propensity for dense textures in which more than one element holds thematic interest. The opening of the Concerto for Double String Orchestra is a case in point. While the listener’s attention is perhaps drawn primarily to the Orchestra I theme at the start of the piece, the Orchestra II part is more than simply a bassline – it is thematically significant in its own right. Thus both parts explore different parts of the modal ‘nexus’, interpreted by Clarke as a gravitating towards two different tonal areas, one centred around the group A–E–D, where both themes start, the other around a contrasting G–C–F group.34 Furthermore, both parts contain complex rhythmic groupings that are independent of each other. The outcome of this is a somewhat fluid sense

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of interaction between the two lines, necessitating, to some degree, equal division of attention between the two. This characteristic is further developed in the works of the Priam group, with the exception of the Second Piano Sonata, mainly because of the physical limitations of its format. King Priam itself is often quite texturally sparse, but even where there are just two lines superimposed, it is frequently the case that the accompanying part carries its own melodic interest, to the extent that often the listener is asked to deal with the simultaneous occurrence of lines that are fundamentally irreconcilable. In the Concerto for Orchestra, however, the listener’s sense of orientation is challenged at many points by the different flows of the material when superimposed. The first ‘jam session’ in the Concerto’s first movement (starting at Fig. 12 and ending in the bar before Fig. 14) provides a suitable example (Ex. 7.7). At this point the flute and harp’s lyrical theme as played at the opening is offset against the other two groups heard in the first part of the exposition. The tuba and piano music enters a bar later, and is essentially a separate layer, although the tuba’s melody – a less distinct one than that of the flute – is unobtrusive, thus allowing the listener’s attention to remain primarily on the flute’s more characterful line. The two groups retain not only their instrumentation but also their pitch structure; no concessions are made – such as transpositions or other, more localized adjustment of pitches or sets of pitches – to adapt one group to its new, simultaneously heard companion. The flute and harp line still revolves Ex. 7.7 Concerto for Orchestra, first movement, ‘jam session’, Figs. 12–13:2

137 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam

around pitch material dominated by ‘sharp-based’ ic5 sets – C♯–F♯–G♯ and A–E–B–F♯ – with the tuba and piano occupying the contrasting C major triad over pedal B♭, with equally contrasting more ‘flat-based’ ic5 sets: C–F–B♭–E♭. With the entry of the third theme, that of the three horns, at Fig. 13, a brief cessation of the tuba and piano allows this single bar of the horns’ theme to be heard with just the continuing flute and harp line along with it. The gap in the theme of the tuba and piano prevents potential overloading of the texture by unveiling all three groups simultaneously at this stage, but it is only two bars later that they are all operating at once, working their way towards a climax. This is where the combination becomes slightly problematic, because each group has its own separate way of increasing its intensity. The horns (the third melodic subject), for example, have a repeated quaver pattern based on a melodic switch between major and minor thirds; as a lead-up to their own climactic material, marked appass. rettorico (Fig. 11) in the score as a mark of its impact, this alternation provides an appropriate crescendo of affect. In combination with the other two groups, however, the jam session simply comes to an abrupt end; to an extent, the tuba, with its alternations between F and F♯, snaps to what the horns are doing, but the flute and harp theme continues to develop in its own manner, unrelated to the other parts. The passage as a whole thus lacks the singular sense of intensification that may have come about if all the parts in the texture had been adapted to effect a single point of culmination. Already in his earlier works, Tippett cultivated a particularly strong sense of independence of line, through rhythmic and thematic means, as is made clear by Clarke’s discussion of the Concerto for Double String Orchestra. This polyphonic independence is, in the Concerto for Orchestra, applied to entire units of music, resulting in a kind of ‘polyphonic polystylism’ comprising distinct autonomous musical flows which fade in and out while other musical ideas continue unaffected.

Structure Inevitably, however, this created new structural challenges, with so many musical ideas struggling for primacy. Tippett’s solution to this in the Concerto for Orchestra was to split up the opening flute and harp melody and use these individual phrases to buttress the three development phases of the structure, developing the other themes in between. The effect of this is that the piece is structured around an ‘eternal return’ to its origin; whatever happens in between is fleeting and any sense of build-up or momentum, much of which is achieved by interjections of the three

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‘velocity’ ideas, is transitory. In this context, the movement’s enigmatic conclusion at Fig. 68 is fitting, although both the Second Piano Sonata and King Priam are characterized by endings that simply seem to fade out. Here, the flute, accompanied by harp and joined by a brief valedictory flurry from the clarinet, flickers into existence for just three notes of its now very familiar theme before abruptly ceasing mid-flow. The earlier reprise of the flute’s theme at Fig. 66 itself comprised only four notes. In terms of the passage of this theme throughout the movement, it is unusual in being at its most complete at the beginning of the piece. In a move that turns more familiar symphonic processes of affirmation through organic development resolutely on its head, the flute and harp theme is, after its fulsome exposition, dissected and thrown into a sea of other fragments before its decay and ultimate extinction in the latter stages of the piece. The third movement of the Concerto, free from the innovative but perhaps ultimately restrictive self-imposed thematic constraints of the first movement’s exposition, maintains a more consistent sense of forward propulsion as a result of its greater degree of structural freedom. Elsewhere, structural issues associated with self-contained gestures or ostinati are negotiated by juxtaposition and, in particular, alternation of contrasting ideas, rather than development of a single thematic idea. Again, this has its roots in earlier works, such as the transitional Second Symphony. At the outset of the final movement, an incisive dotted-note theme is heard in the strings and bassoon, backed by chords in the piano and harp (Ex. 7.8 (a)). This moment is followed by a sudden drop in dynamics as the three trombones enter with long chords accompanying a melody in the bassoon. The alternation of these two very different ideas continues with each developing thematically with each iteration until at one bar after Fig. 133 the trombones enter with the more percussive opening idea, resulting in a synthesis of sorts, after which the percussive material becomes an ever more becalmed accompaniment to decorative melodic figures in the clarinet. Edward T. Cone describes the juxtaposition of thematic units in Stravinsky’s music as a system of ‘stratification’, ‘interlock’ and ‘synthesis’.35 This method is based on a partial statement of a thematic element that then ceases and is followed by contrasting material, which in turn is followed by a return of the opening theme, which is further developed. The listener’s perception of the first material is effectively suspended between the cessation of one block of thematic material and the next statement, thus these non-simultaneous ideas are ‘cross-counterpointed’ with each other; the two different ideas are stratified, while iterations of the same material, separated in time, ‘interlock’ as a result of the listener’s comparison of one statement of a theme with an earlier or later one. Eventually the

Ex. 7.8 (a) Stratification–interlock–synthesis in Symphony No. 2, fourth movement, opening bar to Fig. 133:3; (b) Stratification–interlock in Piano Sonata No. 2, bars 15–61; (c) Stratification–interlock–synthesis in Symphony No. 4, opening bar to Fig. 3:3. All examples are reductions; rhythms retained for main themes only.

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development of the themes culminates in a synthesis of the two thematic elements. The two contrasting ideas in the final movement of the Second Symphony start to intermingle from Fig. 133 onwards, and in this sense there is a degree of synthesis. However, alternations in the works of the Priam group sometimes stand as isolated events. In the Second Piano Sonata, a notable alternation of two musical ideas occurs between the Tempo 4 and Tempo 5 sections, bars 15 to 61 (Ex. 7.8 (b)). Throughout this section the initial arpeggiated ‘running’ material of the Tempo 4 section is developed to a point at which it unfolds a melodic idea (bar 34) during its second repeat, while in between this the more martial Tempo 5 section provides a contrast. The Tempo 5 material halves in length on its second repeat, perhaps in deference to the Tempo 4 material that has become more melodically interesting. The third and final repeat of the Tempo 4 material omits the ‘running’ aspect altogether and commences straight away with the theme at a higher transposition. The melody cuts out mid-phrase at bar 61 with the jarring return of the Tempo 2 material, thus ending the alternation by sending the listener shuttling back to a much earlier, unconnected point in the piece. The exchange is, structurally, one of the more effective parts of the sonata, but taken as a whole it is difficult to discern the sense of overall formal unity Tippett claimed to be aiming for. Clarke pinpoints the problem: ‘The discontinuous musics of the Second Piano Sonata, which generate individualized pockets of consciousness, do not allow themselves fully to be given up into any such larger, single synthesis . . . [T]hey . . . strongly challenge the sonata’s ability to generate an image of integrated subjectivity.’36 Whilst the Tempo 4/5 alternation is effective, it is isolated; although it sets a precedent for other alternating groups – such as between Tempos 3 and 4 at bars 135–59 – the lack of a culminating synthesis at the time means that the exchange is in effect simply set aside as an ephemeral affair of no discernible narrative consequence. King Priam, of course, has the advantage of dramatic interplay to help provide structure. The action early in Act 1 is characterized by a number of essentially static ostinato patterns. These range from the sparse, scenesetting alternation of a plaintive, chromatic oboe line against the breezier quartal flutterings of flutes and clarinets between Figs. 10 and 12, to the later alternation between punchy staccato chords in the brass and a hammered sextuplet-semiquaver ostinato on the piano between Figs. 19 and 22 as Hecuba considers her uncharacteristic fearfulness in the face of troubling dreams. However, Priam’s more measured crotchet-based ostinato provides an anchor to this section, bracketing the alternating segments (along with a last statement each of the plaintive oboe theme and

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the flute and clarinet ostinato) with two statements: the first at Fig. 17 as mentioned before; and the second at Fig. 22 is an extended statement of the material. Thus, the section is sealed dramatically by the elongated Priam theme which forms a thematic stratum across the entire section, its catharsis paving the way for the next stage of the narrative (the consultation with the wise old man) to begin. The stratification-interlock-synthesis form can also be seen in later works. The opening of the Fourth Symphony is a suitable example and in this instance the drama is provided by the exchange without dependence on external narrative (Ex. 7.8 (c)). Here, the resplendent opening theme in horns and strings alternates with a gently pulsating ostinato in the clarinets and tuned percussion. A second exchange of the themes follows, each slightly increased in intensity when compared to the last – the horn theme being developed with an additional scalic ascent, the clarinet/tuned percussion theme ending on a higher, more dissonant chord. From here (at Fig. 2) the introductory section builds from a modified version of the horn and string theme. A new melody enters high in the violins before the clarinet and tuned percussion re-enter to complete the synthesis, all the instruments converging on another dissonant chord reminiscent of the two earlier endings to the clarinet and tuned percussion sections. Again this moment of catharsis provides closure to the section and it becomes a discrete structural unit. In passages such as these the experimentalism of alternations in works such as the Second Piano Sonata comes to full fruition as a structural device combining both balance of contrasts and unity of a larger manifold structure.

The influence of the Priam group Though this chapter has attempted to find roots, following ‘the great divide’, of Tippett’s new style in his early works, the purpose has not been by any means to argue that the change of style in King Priam was less severe in its effect than the critics judged it to be at the time. The denial of lyricism, the abandonment of the madrigalian rhythms and flexible modal pitch organization, and the adoption of harsh timbres and harmonies, of disjunct or fragmentary melodies, are among the characteristics that clearly mark a wholesale reconsideration by the composer of what he wished to communicate through his art and the musical materials, methods and structures he used to achieve those aims. It is more a case that amongst the many obvious differences both superficial and fundamental, certain traits remain consistent, and many of the new techniques derive from old ones, albeit in heavily refigured, often concentrated or corrupted

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forms. Tippett’s harmonic language foregrounds and develops features such as chromaticism, ic5 (quartal) groups and quartal-triadic compounds such that they start to become the foundation of a colourful post-tonal harmonic language rather than localized colouristic or tension-generating regions within a broadly modal or tonal framework. Juxtaposition of alternating ideas, heard not only in the Priam group but in earlier works such as the Second Symphony, becomes a key developmental strategy at first geared towards balances of opposites but in later works is reconciled to the idea of forward momentum and affirmation through synthesis. Layering of contrasting thematic elements, abundant in Tippett’s early works, is transformed into superimposition of entire musical streams. Common to the works of both before and after King Priam is an engagement with different, often disparate musical ideas and styles and a conflict between the inclusivity of heterogeneity and the exclusivity of formal unity. Notes 1 David Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 206. 2 Style in music is commonly understood as, in Robert Pascall’s words, a ‘manner, mode of expression, type of presentation’, which when viewed from a historical perspective becomes a ‘distinguishing and ordering concept, both consistent of and denoting generalities’ (Robert Pascall, ‘Style’ in New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. XXIV, p. 638); see also David Beard and Kenneth Gloag, Musicology: The Key Concepts (London: Routledge, 2005), pp. 170–3. 3 Cited in Richard Elfyn Jones, The Early Operas of Michael Tippett: A Study of The Midsummer Marriage, King Priam and The Knot Garden (Lewiston, Queenston and Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1996), p. 108. 4 Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (London: Eulenburg Books, 1984), p. 322. 5 Ibid., p. 323. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid., p. 324. 8 Ibid., p. 170. 9 For consideration of the appropriation and integration of the spirituals in this work see Kenneth Gloag, Tippett: A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999). 10 David Clarke, ‘“Only Half Rebelling”: Tonal Strategies, Folksong and “Englishness”

in Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra’ in David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 9–11. 11 Ibid., p. 10. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid., p. 11 ff. 14 The suggestion of archetypes of concert music is a reference to Tippett’s essay of that title: see Tippett, Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 89–108. 15 For an interesting set of insights into the importance of gesture more generally in music, see Anthony Gritten and Elaine King (eds.), Music and Gesture (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006). 16 Tippett, quoted in Colin Mason, ‘The Piano Works’ in Ian Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium on his 60th Birthday (London: Faber and Faber, 1965), p. 206. 17 Kemp, Tippett, p. 376. 18 Iain Stannard, ‘“Arrest and Movement”: Tippett’s Second Piano Sonata and the Genesis of a Method’, twentieth-century music, 4/2 (2007), 135. 19 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 95. 20 Louis Andriessen and Elmer Schönberger, The Apollonian Clockwork: On Stravinsky, trans. Jeff Hamburg (Oxford University Press, 1989), p. 100. See also Kenneth Gloag, ‘Tippett’s Second Symphony, Stravinsky and the Language of Neoclassicism: Towards a Critical Framework’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 93.

143 Tippett’s ‘great divide’: before and after King Priam 21 ‘ic’ stands for ‘interval class’, a term used to describe an interval in semitones and its inversional equivalent. Thus interval class 1 (ic1) is represented by the interval of a minor 2nd and its inversion, the major 7th. 22 Gloag, ‘Tippett’s Second Symphony’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 93. 23 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 94. 24 The term ‘the great divide’, used to describe Tippett’s change in style around King Priam, originates from Robert F. Jones. See ‘Tippett’s Atonal Syntax’ in Geraint Lewis (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M.: A Celebration (Tunbridge Wells: Baton Press, 1985), p. 128. 25 Kemp, Tippett, p. 311. 26 Gloag, ‘Tippett’s Second Symphony’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 91. 27 David Clarke, Language, Form, and Structure in the Music of Michael Tippett, 2 vols. (New York and London: Garland, 1989), vol. I , pp. 81–2. 28 ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 89–108. 29 ‘Michael Tippett’ in Robert S. Hines (ed.), The Orchestral Composer’s Point of View: Essays on Twentieth-Century Music by Those

Who Wrote It (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1970), pp. 203–19. 30 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 91. 31 Ibid., p. 94; note in particular the composer’s comment that ‘the light violins are never asked to match in weight the dark violas, cellos and double basses’. 32 Kemp, Tippett, p. 191. 33 ‘Because the work is for one player and one instrument there is little opportunity for the “climax” of a “jam session”, i.e. when the contrasting sections, or bits from them, instead of being just sequential, are made to appear together’ (Tippett, cited in Mason, ‘The Piano Works’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 206). 34 Clarke, ‘“Only Half Rebelling”’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 14. 35 Edward T. Cone, ‘Stravinsky: The Progress of a Method’ in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds.), Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky (Princeton University Press, 1968), pp. 156–64. 36 Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, p. 109.

8 ‘Symphonic music in our modern times’: Tippett and the symphony EDWARD VENN

In the penultimate section of his 1934 polemic Music Ho!, ‘The Symphonic Problem’, Constant Lambert outlines the challenges facing the postBeethovenian composer. Put succinctly, it is by the standard set by the greatest creations of Beethoven that any succeeding symphony must be judged . . . By giving to his themes a greater emotional content and a more contrasted individuality than we find in the symphonies of the eighteenth century he raised the problem – always present in the symphony but never stated so acutely before – of the clash between emotional and formal balance.1

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Going on, Lambert notes that the symphony had by the early twentieth century become ‘completely moribund’, with both the genre and its vehicle (the symphony orchestra) weighted by historical baggage, notwithstanding its late flowering in England (attributable to ‘making up for lost time rather than as a contemporary gesture’2). Only in Sibelius’s music, and in particular his Fourth and Seventh Symphonies, do we find ‘the answer to so many of the questions, both direct and implied, that have been raised’.3 It is striking just how many of Lambert’s concerns are reflected in Tippett’s contemporaneous (and unpublished) Symphony in B♭ (1933, rev. 1934). For Tippett, the experience of hearing all of Beethoven’s symphonies in 1923 ‘was devastating: Beethoven became my musical god and . . . remained so’.4 As a result, all of Tippett’s symphonies were composed in Beethoven’s shadow. Despite this, the influence of Sibelius proved to be crucial in the B♭ Symphony, both in musical character and in some of the formal and technical ideas Tippett employed in order to come to terms with the Beethovenian inheritance.5 A generation or so later, Hans Keller articulated the symphonic problem differently. Reflecting on Peter Maxwell Davies’s First Symphony (1973–6), Keller questioned what it is, in short, that makes something symphonic, particularly given ‘our age’s crisis of symphonism’.6 Keller concludes that the ‘definition and large-scale integration of the contrast between statements and developments’ best defines symphonic thought, irrespective of the precise forms or instrumentation that are employed.7 There are certain points of contact with Lambert in the invocation of formal functions (rather than

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balance), in the notion of contrast (be it emotional or structural) and in each writer’s desire to claim for his own period a state of crisis for the symphony. Yet there are also differences: Keller’s account unshackles symphonic thought from its historical origins in the Beethovenian tradition and admits other possibilities for its expression. The exploration of alternative forms of symphonic thought, ‘searching out new ways of intermingling the dramatic and the abstract’,8 was one of the motivations behind Tippett’s Fourth (and final) Symphony (1976–7), written shortly before Keller’s article was published. Once again, Sibelius forms a point of reference (as indeed, he did for Davies): the one-movement form that Tippett arrived at for his symphony, along with an underlying ‘birth-to-death’ expressive premise, has close connections to Sibelius’s Seventh Symphony.9 It is testament to Tippett’s exceptionally long creative life that his first and last symphonic essays should coincide with Lambert’s and Keller’s writings. More significant than these specific two authors – many writers have concerned themselves with the symphonic problem – is that Tippett’s symphonies play out the shifting dynamics of this problem over the space of forty years or so, supported theoretically by his own musings on the subject. Tippett’s decisive formulation of the symphonic problem as he sees it encompasses the sorts of arguments that both Lambert and Keller were making: What is meant by a symphony? Firstly, it implies a historical archetype from which we depart and return – for example, the so-called middle-period symphonies of Beethoven. Secondly, there is the notional archetype, permitting endless variations to the end of time – for example, the Mahler symphonies, or those of Charles Ives or Lutosławski.10

From this, it is clear that when Lambert invokes ‘the standard set by the greatest creations of Beethoven’ he is talking about a historical archetype, crudely understood as a four-movement orchestral work consisting of a sonata-allegro, slow movement, scherzo and weighty finale, characterized by a teleological drive spanning the work and a commitment to the resolution of opposites. Tippett appears to go further, however. Without wishing to pursue too doggedly the Jungian implications of the choice of the term ‘archetype’,11 it would appear nevertheless that there are more than just generic associations operative here: the historical archetype connects to, and articulates, something deep within us and is thus (paradoxically) timeless. In another context, he expressed it so: At least ninety-per-cent of all music lovers of all ages need the experience which great works of music in this humanistic tradition provide, just as theatre-lovers need Shakespeare. (In my private jargon, I call this the Shakespeare-Beethoven archetype.)12

146 Edward Venn

By way of contrast, the ‘endless variations’ permitted by notional archetypes, which provide, Keller-like, the opportunity to pursue symphonic thought via different formal and instrumental means, do not seem to offer the same collective certainties as the historic. The difference between the two archetypes can be illuminated through comparison with Tippett’s second and third rules of opera composition, from his essay ‘The Birth of an Opera’. On the one hand, Tippett notes that material based on traditions (that is, historically archetypical) leads towards ‘artistic imaginative experience[s]’ that are ‘collective’; on the other, the ‘specific twentieth-century quality is the power to transmute such material into an immediate experience of our day’ (that is, into a notional archetype).13 The more personal the transmuted material, the further it moves from collective experience. Thus Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which for Tippett first stood outside the archetypal middleperiod symphonies, in retrospect had the power to expand what is understood by the historical archetype (and thus became part of our shared experience).14 Yet in other liminal cases, no consensus can emerge: Bernstein’s description of Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du printemps (The Rite of Spring) as a symphony fails to ring true for Tippett: not because I have a true (for me) historical archetype to which I refer it and dismiss it, but because I dismiss it with reference to my notional archetype, which is probably not the same as Bernstein’s. My notion is no more valid, finally, than his.15

The idea of generic archetypes thus provides Tippett with a means of theorizing ‘the symphonic problem’ in his own works.16 On the one hand, historical archetypes provide a model or background against which his symphonies can be positioned and validated. On the other, the idea of notional archetypes provides justification for deliberate deviation from, and problematization of, the tacitly understood norms of the historical archetype. In this light, Tippett’s engagement with the symphony can be understood as more than just a move from ‘Hindemith classicism to more improvisatory structures’,17 but rather as a continuous questioning and interrogation of his symphonic inheritance, offering in turn individual and striking ‘solutions’ to the multiple problems that are posed by the genre, be they formal, expressive or in the integration of contrasts.

Symphony No. 1 Tippett described his first published symphony (1944–5) as ‘the culmination of a long period of struggle with classical sonata forms in the Beethovenian sense’, noting in particular his acceptance of the conventional sonata-allegro

147 Tippett and the symphony

first movement.18 Its remaining movements are respectively a slow movement, a scherzo and a fugue; the work is scored for a standard symphony orchestra. Superficially, at least, it thus belongs squarely within the tradition of the historical archetype. Yet as is so typical of the composer, such choices are simultaneously undermined by his tendency to strain against, or render ambiguous, the generic conventions he evokes. This much is apparent from the way that critics have been unable to agree on the nature of the work’s symphonism (or if indeed the work is truly symphonic at all). For Wilfrid Mellers, Tippett uses ‘counterpoint dramatically and therefore – in potentia – symphonically . . . though the [first] movement doesn’t function, like a Beethovenian allegro, as an interrelation of motifs and keys, the multiplicity of counterpoints does generate tension, and therefore drama’.19 Conversely, Arnold Whittall frames the oppositional qualities important for symphonism in harmonictonal procedures, such as in the first movement, in which the ‘principal dramatic conflict is . . . between tendencies towards tonal explicitness and tonal ambiguity’.20 Nevertheless, by describing the finale as ‘an attempt, it seems, to exorcize Beethovenian precedent by standing it on its head and drawing a concluding harmonic-tonal question-mark out of a driving contrapuntal argument’, Whittall, like Mellers, reads this symphony as a critique, rather than an acceptance, of certain Beethovenian precepts.21 Tippett mounts this critique in largely positive terms, seeking to renew the historical archetype contrapuntally, drawing on the rhythmic vitality developed in his First String Quartet (1934–5, rev. 1943) and Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9). It also derives from the composer’s studies of madrigalian, Purcellian and medieval traditions, each explored in the first three movements respectively, and the essentially vocal, if not dramatic, nature of these influences provides a necessary counterbalance to the Symphony’s often austere contrapuntalism. It is nevertheless significant that Tippett’s orchestration, which is designed primarily to set the counterpoint into relief, takes for granted the disposition of the symphony orchestra, guided by principles outlined by Rimsky-Korsakov and Cecil Forsyth in order to ensure balance.22 This demonstrates, along with the Beethovenian fugal model that provides the culmination of the work, that despite the enrichments offered by alternative models, Tippett in the final analysis remains committed to the fundaments of the historical archetype. The first movement is a virtuosic example of Tippett’s ability to shape extended paragraphs into a compelling design. These paragraphs are projected against the background of sonata form, if a little baldly: expository, developmental and recapitulatory functions can be found in the expected locations, though the transition back into the recapitulation

148 Edward Venn Ex. 8.1 Symphony No. 1, first movement, motivic material: (a) bars 1–4; (b) Fig. 3:6–9; (c) Fig. 6:1–4; (d) Fig. 8:7–10; (e) Fig. 9:4–7; (f) Fig. 12:2–5 (some expression markings omitted)

(Figs. 24:9–25:5), as prosaic as one can find in Tippett’s music of this era, is the only significant miscalculation in the movement. Such functional rigidity, overly constrained by Tippett’s historically archetypical treatment of ‘statement’ and ‘development’, is progressively challenged in the later symphonies. Despite this, the movement contains the seeds of particular tonal and motivic practices that can be considered as vital aspects of Tippett’s symphonic thought. These seeds can be seen in the exposition, from which certain ideas are reproduced in Exx. 8.1 (a) to (f). Unusually for Tippett, the traditional expressive and tonal contrast usually reserved for a

149 Tippett and the symphony Ex. 8.1 (cont.)

second subject group is delayed until the codetta (Ex. 8.1 (f)). In place of Beethovenian oppositions, Tippett presents a succession of broad openended paragraphs, subject to varied repetition rather than development, which build cumulatively towards the end of the exposition.23 Though the chain of ideas that results has a certain madrigalian quality, there remain nevertheless multiple motivic correspondences based on the thematic use of chains of fourths (motif x) and rising thirds or their inversion as falling sixths (motif y). Such connections, along with the driving contrapuntal energy, help establish continuity. The presence of chains of fourths both melodically and harmonically provides Tippett with an opportunity to extend both downwards (into ‘sharper’ regions) and

150 Edward Venn

upwards (into ‘flatter’ regions) for mild tonal contrast – compare the treatment of motif x in Exx. 8.1 (b) and (c). Such tendencies are counterbalanced with the frequent use of the pitches of motifs x and x1 (F♯–B–E– A–D) as invariants (Exx. 8.1 (c) and (e), and as the basis for overlapping entries, circled in Ex. 8.1 (d)), with A in particular providing both melodic and tonal centres of gravity. It is only in the codetta that an unambiguous pull away from A occurs, but even here it results from a reworking of the invariant pitches of x and x1 so as to emphasize B (see Ex. 8.1 (f)). This tonal shift is not definitive, however, for the development suggests on at least three occasions that A remains an important anchorage. Nevertheless, this tentative use of sharpwards and flatwards motion for centrifugal effect, along with referential pitches for the converse centripetal effect, becomes vitally important in the later symphonies. Though the expressive background for the slow movement is rooted in Beethovenian adagios, its technical basis is Purcellian; its ominous, threatening atmosphere, contrasting with the vital optimism of the first movement, has been compared with late Shostakovich.24 The movement consists of a ground bass with ten variations and a coda. Pairs of variations enable larger-scale dynamic shapings, reaching at times climaxes of almost Mahlerian intensity. Tippett’s tendency to treat the bass as an equal voice in a contrapuntal texture has led to criticism: the strong voice-leading implications of the ground (which in its initial formulation implies a motion from a B tonic to an F♯ dominant) raise expectations of a more thoroughly worked-out tonal argument than is ultimately provided.25 As noted above, however, it is characteristic of the symphony to render ambiguous such historical material, particularly through contrapuntal means (though these means themselves are historical in nature). Tippett’s idiosyncratic application of Pérotin’s ‘flying hockets’ to Beethovenian scherzo rhythms generates in the third movement a genuine and irrepressible momentum that is constrained only by virtue of silent bars and fermatas.26 Though the regular accentuation suggests that the historical archetype lies close to the surface, the methodical expansion of phrase lengths demonstrates that Sibelian influences had not been forgotten.27 The contrasting Trio picks up on the lyricism of the slow movement, though not its mood; its formal allusions to the Pavan create a connection to the Elizabethan madrigalisms of the first movement. Tippett respectively symbolized the contrasting moods and formal archetypes in the first three movements as an arrow, a circle and a star in a preperformance lecture given in 1945.28 (Quite whether these descriptions were as helpful to the audience as Tippett’s advice to ‘hang on tight – it comes out all right in the end’,29 is debatable.) The demands of the historical archetype to integrate these contrasts in the finale are answered by the intensification

151 Tippett and the symphony

of the contrapuntal argument in a double fugue (this has a Beethovenian precedent, in works such as the ‘Hammerklavier’ Piano Sonata, Op. 106). Though fugues are predominantly ‘development’ rather than ‘statement’,30 it is in this movement that we also get the closest analogy to the opposition of dynamic and lyrical material on which Beethovenian expressive rhetoric relies. The first theme is thus vigorous (the first five notes of the upper line a permutation of the fourths of motif x, transposed to begin on C♯), the second song-like (recalling the contours of the horn theme in Ex. 8.1 (e)), and the two are brought together – not entirely comfortably, as they increasingly grind against one another – to achieve a precarious balance in the coda. If A is taken as the tonal centre of the symphony, then the final repeated Es leave the work on a question mark, looking ahead to music – symphonic or otherwise – in which the contrasts between opposites are not given easy resolution. If this is symphonic, then it is a symphonism that seeks expanded terms under which ‘integration’ can be understood and realized, and as such the First Symphony throws down a gauntlet that is taken up in Tippett’s later essays in this genre.

Symphony No. 2 As with the First Symphony, the four movements of the Second (1956–7) indicate that the historical archetype was once again prominent in Tippett’s thinking. Comparison between the opening and closing bars of the work (Exx. 8.2 (a) and (b)) reinforce such suggestions: the way in which, for instance, the chord marked Z is transformed from a passing dissonance in Ex. 8.2 (a) into ‘one of the securest sounds in twentiethcentury music’31 in Ex. 8.2 (b) evokes the similar functional transformation in which the beginning of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony becomes the cadential gestures of its close. It would be dangerous to pursue such analogies too closely, however. Although Tippett regarded the first movement as ‘his most successful attempt at a Beethovenian sonata-allegro’ – and certainly it is the one that is least indebted to Sibelian developmental procedures – the means by which he achieves his own transformation are not those of the Viennese composer.32 Indeed, when Tippett describes the work as a ‘concentrated example of neo-classicism’,33 he is acknowledging that the symphony owes as much to the model of Stravinskian neoclassicism as it does to that of Beethoven.34 There are thus two distinct historical archetypes operative in the Symphony No. 2, and the work is on one level about the integration and balance of these models. The initial inspiration for the work – the experience of hearing pounding Cs in a Vivaldi concerto – is well known.35 What mattered, it seems,

Ex. 8.2 Symphony No. 2: (a) first movement, opening; (b) fourth movement, ending

153 Tippett and the symphony

was less the particular concerto itself, but rather the muscularity of the gesture; in terms of the Apollonian-Dionysian dynamic of The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52), the opening of Tippett’s Symphony belongs squarely in the latter category. Indeed, the experiences of the opera permeate the Symphony, such as in the Apollonian second-subject group of the first movement, and in the ‘magic’ piano, harp and celeste writing towards the end of the first movement that becomes increasingly important in the second. The slow movement, with its emphasis on contrasting blocks and timbre as a structuring device, is a vital precursor to King Priam (1958–61). Though the orchestration is more individual than in the First Symphony, informed by Stravinskian precedent, the internal balances and ultimately the retention of the large-scale contrasts between instrumental families (see Ex. 8.2(a)) suggest that Tippett remains wedded to the symphony orchestra as a historical archetype. The third movement explores additive rhythms in a scherzo. The final movement incorporates elements of the fantasy genre into the symphony, consisting of four discrete sections that nevertheless combine cumulatively into a powerful and satisfying climax. This observation deserves qualification: taken in isolation, the finale is too disparate, too self-consciously sectional, to be successful in its own right. In context, however, because each section offers tonal, timbral and thematic connections to previous movements, Tippett finds here a compelling solution to the ‘finale’ problem. The relationship between both symphonic and neoclassical archetypes, and indeed, something of the nature of the tonal argument of the work, can be inferred from Ex. 8.2 (a). The three layers, sharply differentiated rhythmically, timbrally and registrally, threaten from the outset to pull in different tonal directions, contributing significantly to the opening’s tensile strength and generating a rich and allusive harmonic language. The superimposed fifths of layers b and c (C–G–D) immediately suggest an ambiguous Stravinskian telescoping of tonic, subdominant and dominant functions – is this I and V in C major, or IV and I in G major? The chain of ascending fifths is extended further into sharper regions with the introduction of layer a and the addition of A and E (bar 7). The upper notes are turned into a major triad by means of a C♯. Together, the four notes in the violins (the upper notes of the composite chord Z) intensify the tonic-dominant ambiguities of the lower layers, now transposed to D (chord Z′). In his valuable analysis of the Symphony, David Clarke (from whom the chord labels have been borrowed) has demonstrated in detail how the tonal dynamics implicit in these opening bars play out across the symphony as a whole, metaphorically standing for the tonal arguments of the Beethovenian archetype.36 One way in which this occurs is in the expansion of the latent ‘sharpkey’ versus ‘flat-key’ quality of the opening (represented by the

154 Edward Venn

combination of A major and C major triads within chord Z) to generate a tonal argument in which the contrast between such tonal regions creates genuine tension and opposition. In the first movement, this coincides with thematic and timbral contrasts to differentiate strongly between firstsubject and second-subject material. The latter, first introduced at Fig. 9, explores the lyrical, ‘magical’ vein of The Midsummer Marriage; tonally, it hovers between E♭ and A♭ and thus maintains the tonic-dominant ambiguity of the opening, transposed to a ‘flatter’ harmonic region. The second movement is based primarily in the ‘flat’ keys, and similarly explores thematic contrast by virtue of a trumpet melody, enclosed in a halo of piano and celeste arabesques, alternating with a rich string idea. The scherzo positions the sharp-flat dialectic in the keys of D and E♭ (both important in the first movement). The final movement begins on E (the ‘highest fifth’ of chord Z) and reaches a lyrical climax (Fig. 169) with an extended melody in the strings in A♭, whilst the wind accompaniment remains fixed in the sharper regions of G and D. Out of this superimposition of tonal regions, the opening Cs of the work return for five cadential paragraphs. It should be clear, however, from the above account that the sharp-flat dialectic does not generate a teleological harmonic argument in which C is necessarily the logical conclusion (as is the case in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, for instance). Rather, it is the expansion across the work of the tonal tensions embodied in chord Z – recalling Stravinskian polarities – that allows chord Z to return in the final bars as a point of relative stability, poised between the extremes offered within the symphony as a whole, and able, if not to resolve the tensions, then to present a fruitful image of coexistence. This is achieved too by virtue of the use of pitch invariance, in part a means of constraining the tonal argument outlined above. On the one hand, the ascending fifths in chord Z are taken up as tonal centres. For instance, the pounding quavers of layer c in Ex. 8.2 (a) recur in the first movement on E (and then G, Fig. 16 and A, Fig. 46), with the tonal recapitulation on C at Fig. 33 and in the coda at Fig. 61. The asymmetric placing of these tonal centres around C (that is, respectively a major third higher and a minor third below) ensures that the theme retains its ‘sharp’ key associations. Conversely, the minor third above C (E♭) and major third below (A♭) become important for second-subject material. Similarly, the D of the scherzo also belongs to the opening bars of the symphony. On the other hand, such pitches also have a referential function: Clarke has noted the many recurrences of chord Z′, both in transposition, but more significantly at pitch, as a point of focus, and it can be argued that the elemental quality of open cello C strings – immediately audible whenever they return – is as vital an aspect of Ex. 8.2 as the tonal argument itself.

155 Tippett and the symphony

Timbre thus becomes an increasingly important element of articulating structure and expressive function within this work, as well as more generally in Tippett’s post-King Priam music. Thus, as with the First Symphony, the musical argument rests less on tonal integration per se than on finding a precarious balance between contrasting poles. This aesthetic affects all levels of the musical argument – it is to be found, for instance, in the superimposition of material that is tonally and timbrally distinct, without ultimately finding favour in either (as at Fig. 169).37 Yet this solution in itself is at odds with the heroic, unqualified statements of the historical archetype in which resolution, no matter how hard-won, is a necessary corollary of the expressive and formal qualities of the genre. Having come as close to this Beethovenian idea as his own musical language and beliefs could allow, Tippett claimed that he ‘was at last ridding [him]self of the historic archetype of the symphony and moving decisively towards the notional archetype’.38 This in turn became the project of his final two symphonies.

Symphony No. 3 Although the overall shape of the Third Symphony (1970–2) – two parts, containing analogues in the first to a sonata-allegro and a slow movement, and in the second a scherzo and fantasia finale – corresponds to the formal archetype explored in the first two symphonies, the work was conceived as a deliberate critique of the Beethovenian model, in which ‘affirmation had to be balanced by irony’.39 If the expressive, humanist underpinnings of the historical archetype no longer obtained in a century ‘which had seen two world wars, numerous revolutions, the concentration camps, the Siberian camps, Hiroshima, Vietnam, and much else’,40 then so too must one call into question its generic claims for communicative certainties, the vehicle by which it is communicated, and the very relevance of artistic statements themselves. Thus the work is Tippett’s first explicit attempt to compose a symphony within the framework of the notional archetype, in which the metaphysical status of the symphony as a genre is subject to scrutiny. Such metaphysical issues have direct musical parallels, for as noted above with reference to Hans Keller, the notional archetype is also a way of conceptualizing particular symphonic problems. The stimulus for the symphony in fact came from the contemplation of musical material: I was listening to . . . a very ‘motionless’ modern music: it hadn’t a harmonic or rhythmic or any other sort of drive that I could hear. . . . I kept saying to

156 Edward Venn myself ‘I don’t see how I could ever use this kind of thing for expressive purposes unless it were to be a piece based upon sharp contrasts’. And this suddenly clicked, and I knew that a symphonic work had begun.41

The lack of an indication that Tippett intended to integrate these ‘sharp contrasts’ is telling, and it soon became apparent that this very notion had became problematic: ‘It won’t be a “Beethoven symphony”, I know that, but in it I will be attempting to resolve all over again what is the nature of symphonic music in our modern times.’42 Part I begins, therefore, by presenting contrast: six bars of material for brass and percussion (designated ‘Arrest’), in which compression of energy is paramount, and nine bars primarily for wind and strings (‘Movement’) in which the release of energy is central (Ex. 8.3). Each of these ideas alternates with the other, ever expanding, until they are superimposed during the fifth ‘Movement’ section. The metaphors of Arrest and Movement have decreasing currency over the course of each reworking, replaced by a tendency towards statement (Arrest V is the first time that a ‘thematic’ idea is given unambiguous presentation in the Arrest sections) and development (‘Movement’ sections move towards thematic profligacy). Despite these contrasts, there are sufficient points of contact during the final superimposition (notably in phraseology) that the combination of music drawn from the ‘Arrest’ and ‘Movement’ sections makes musical sense, even if each layer is working towards slightly different functional ends. It is telling, nevertheless, that there is no resolution: at the climax of this superimposition, the music simply collapses into the Lento. In what sense, then, does the opening movement contribute towards ‘symphonic music for our time’? Ian Kemp argues that, considered in toto, the ‘Arrest’ sections and the ‘Movement’ sections each trace out vestigial sonata-allegro structures.43 Though Kemp cautiously qualifies his reading, it remains problematic: David Clarke has demonstrated how the pitch material at the end of each section connects to that of the succeeding one, indicating continuity as well as contrast between sections.44 Nor, for instance, does one ‘Arrest’ pick up where the previous left off, or give the unambiguous impression that the ‘Arrest’ material had been continuing ‘in the background’ behind a ‘Movement’ section.45 Rather, each recurrence of ‘Arrest’ and ‘Movement’ sections gives the impression of being a varied repetition of the preceding section: in this, there is some connection with the concept of ‘rotational development’ explored in Sibelius’s later symphonies.46 If attempts to project a sonata structure onto the first half of Part I are ultimately unconvincing, the fact remains that certain functions of sonata dialectic remain present – material is

157 Tippett and the symphony Ex. 8.3 Symphony No. 3, first movement, opening

presented as ‘expository’, ‘developmental’ or ‘recapitulatory’ without necessarily occurring in the expected place within a standard formal scheme.47 It is the propensity for the material both to summon and resist traditional structuring devices on every level that promotes and problematizes traditional sonata functions. The Lento provides a static counterpart to the dynamism of the Allegro. As with the Allegro, it is formally straightforward – a broad ternary form, contrasting static, high material (‘night music’ in a Bartókian vein) with a central section characterized by rich counterpoint in the strings. The final section presents an altered palindrome of the first, pausing to

158 Edward Venn

interject some of the string material. More so than in the Allegro, in which contrasts between instrumental families underpin thematic differences (see Ex. 8.3), the ‘night music’ teases out smaller chamber groupings from the orchestra, providing both expressive contrast and a questioning of the norms of the orchestral archetype. The scherzo that opens Part II presents five different types of music, clearly contrasted in tone colour and register, which are variously superimposed and juxtaposed. Although each music is clearly structured (usually in ternary form), the various superimpositions are organized in such a way that the first part of one might be heard at the same time as the middle section of a second and the final part of a third. Formal functions are rendered problematic: how is the listener to make sense of this except as a chaotic Ivesian welter of sound? Integration of contrasts, both timbral and formal, also becomes impossible. The scherzo culminates with final superimposition of all five musics (a ‘jam session’). As with the end of the Allegro in Part I, this textural saturation precipitates a crisis. It is here that the questions of Beethovenian affirmation and resolution that are addressed by the notional archetype become explicit, through the (in)famous summoning up of material and concepts from the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The first of the Beethoven quotations – the Schreckensfanfare – interrupts the point of highest tension in the scherzo. Whereas the impact of this fanfare in the Ninth Symphony depends on interruption of the transcendent calm provided by the end of the third movement, Tippett relies on the shock of the familiar, for his own material is far more discordant and explosive than the quotation he uses. (In this respect, the quotation can also be understood as ‘standing for’ violent interruptions in general.) A quiet response – Tippett’s own – follows, as if attempting unsuccessfully to come to terms with the outburst, leading into three blues songs in which Schiller’s conception of universal brotherhood is progressively critiqued. These songs – a slow blues, fast blues and slow blues – depict different aspects of the human condition, each touched by sorrow. Just as the historical archetype of the symphony comes under pressure in the Third Symphony, so too does that of the blues: the twelve-bar strophic structure in all three songs is blurred by virtue of a harmonic language that deviates substantially from its prototype, and cyclic patterns that cut across the background structure. Nevertheless, as an archetypal means of communicating both sorrow and compassion, the blues gains rather than suffers from this stylistic tension, which reinforces rather than alleviates the spiritual disconnect discussed in the libretto. The first song is modelled on a recording of the ‘St Louis Blues’ (1925) by Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong, with a flugelhorn providing an obbligato; its subject is sorrow.

159 Tippett and the symphony

The second is a boogie-woogie celebrating carnal desire, but as the boogiewoogie was a ‘practice by which you went down as low as possible . . . into shameless desperation’, physical pleasure (on its own) is clearly not the solution.48 The third song, the most subtle, sets the premise for the remainder of the finale: in the light of Beethoven’s Ninth, what place is there for those physically and mentally unable to participate in the universal brotherhood? This prompts a second Schreckensfanfare and a section, part of the ‘dramatic scena’ that crowns the work, in which material from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is recalled and savagely critiqued: placed against Tippett’s own expressionistic language, its tonal rhetoric appears ever more historicized and drained of power. Yet Tippett does not summon Beethoven in order to dismiss him: that would entail a move too far from the collective concerns of the historical archetype and a retreat into an incommunicative solipsistic notional archetype. Thus a third Schreckensfanfare ushers in the final part of the dramatic scena, a ‘Dream of Paradise Garden’, in which the sorrow of the blues intermingles with the fractured dream embodied by Beethoven, so as ‘not to let the ironies overwhelm the affirmations’.49 These states define the final alternations between stringent brass and tender string chords (Ex. 8.4), yet another ‘sharp contrast’, and a potent image of ‘realization, not resolution’50 that encapsulates Tippett’s personal renewal of ‘symphonic music for our time’.

Ex. 8.4 Symphony No. 3, fourth movement, ending

5 8 12 18 19

50

21

52

25 37 40 46

Table 8.1 Formal distribution of material in Tippett’s Symphony No. 4

33

4

Rehearsal Number

0

90 98

57 62 68 75 78 96

100

120

107

127

112

Collinson 1999

Exposition

Episode 1

Slow Movt.

Episode 2*

Scherzo

Bowen 1997 Introduction Exposition Link Development Slow Movt. Link Episode 2 Scherzo

Recap of Exposition

Coda

Link

‘collecting up’

Ep. 3

Bowen 1997

Rehearsal Number

160 164 165 169 170 159 137 139

154 155 144 146/148 147/149 150 151 129

178 183

Coda Recapitulation

Episode 3

Collinson 1999

162 Edward Venn

Symphony No. 4 Having proved to himself that notional archetypes, and the personal response that they represent, can nevertheless produce valid symphonic results, Tippett’s Fourth Symphony (1976–7) is a withdrawal from the grand premises of his Third. Instead his aims were more modest, though he continued to grapple with the problems of symphonic writing – how to articulate continuity and contrast, and above all how to integrate the formal demands of the historical archetype with elements of fantasy. The ‘solution’ posed in this symphony is that of a one-movement form (albeit with clearly demarcated regions providing archetypical functions; see Table 8.1). Commentators have tended to follow Tippett’s lead in dividing the structure up between areas that follow the historical archetype (broadly speaking, the ‘statement’ aspect of symphonic argument) and those that do not (episodes, likened by Tippett to the ‘episodes in a rondo or the fresh ideas being brought into play in a seventeenth-century fantasia’).51 This lead has been problematic on two counts: firstly, the precise boundaries of these sections are unclear (witness Bowen’s and Collinson’s divergent readings in Table 8.1);52 and secondly, Tippett’s distinction between archetypical and non-archetypical symphonic material (or ‘main and subsidiary lines of thought’53) does not reflect accurately the nature of the musical argument. The relationship between form and function, and how the thematic material articulates (or renders ambiguous) this relationship are, in essence, the symphonic problems addressed in this work. Table 8.1 is an attempt to capture diagrammatically something of the interplay between the generation of new ideas (the twenty-four columns represent distinct sections) and the underlying formal archetypes (in particular, the increasing repetition of material towards the end of the Symphony). Comparison between Bowen and Collinson’s formal outlines pinpoints a number of issues with the functional labelling of sections. It seems, for instance, that it is the varied repeat of Figs. 0 to 17 at 160 to 170 (overlooking the repetition of Fig. 18 at Fig. 159) that allows the former grouping to be called an ‘exposition’ and the latter a ‘recapitulation’, but this renders ambiguous the status of Figs. 144 to 159, which for Bowen consist of a ‘collecting up’ of earlier ideas that is neither (in his account) strictly developmental nor recapitulatory.54 Similarly, both authors follow Tippett’s lead in the broad location of Episode One (though the precise boundaries are uncertain), but neither are able to explain the developmental repeat of material from Fig. 4 (see Ex. 8.5 (b)) at Fig. 33 amidst otherwise ‘fresh’ episodic ideas, nor the reasons why these new ideas are

163 Tippett and the symphony Ex. 8.5 Symphony No. 4: (a) opening; (b) Fig. 4:1–2; (c) Fig. 5:1–3; (d) Figs. 6:3–7:1; (e) Fig. 8:1–2; (f) Fig. 12:1–3; (g) Fig. 57:1–3; (h) Fig. 62:1–4; (i) Fig. 100:1–2; (j) Fig. 112:1–4; (k) Fig. 129:1–3 (Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’)

later recapitulated themselves as if they were archetypical ‘statements’ (see Figs. 37 and 154). If repetition of material is one index of its non-episodic function, then the historically archetypical Scherzo and Trio (Figs. 100–27; see Exx. 8.5 (i) and (j)) represents a further formal challenge, as neither this, nor the related section between Figs. 129 and 137 that evokes the Gibbons Fantasia – which is also alluded to in his Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’ (1953–4) – recur (see Ex. 8.5 (k)).55 Of the three other ideas that

164 Edward Venn Ex. 8.5 (cont.)

are non-recurrent, beginning at Figs. 25, 46 and 75 respectively, arguments could be made that there exist sufficient motivic and thematic links between the ideas presented within them and those gathered in the final third of the work that explicit recapitulation is unnecessary to fulfil the requirements of the historical archetype. It is clear, therefore, that although the relationship between ‘fantasy’ elements and the four-movement historical archetype might have been a

165 Tippett and the symphony

stimulus for Tippett’s notional archetype, it does not necessarily provide a helpful model for approaching the work. In fact, as the broad outline of Table 8.1 suggests, a better way of thinking about the symphony might be as a loose arch form ABCB′A′, with each section beginning at Figs. 0, 57, 100, 137 and 160 respectively (though good arguments could be made for beginning the latter at Fig. 154). Such a form is neither unprecedented in the general literature,56 nor in Tippett’s own music: the slow movements of both the First and Third Symphonies allude to this. More tellingly, the form provides a vivid structural metaphor for the ‘birth-to-death’ narrative, described by Tippett as ‘the gentle sound of an organism coming to life at the start, a gradual expiration at the end, and something of the character of a violent storm in the main central climax’.57 Further evidence that Tippett’s distinction between ‘main and subsidiary’ ideas is problematic stems from the network of motivic correspondences between themes, some of which is presented in Ex. 8.5. Many of the ideas are drawn from his by now familiar symphonic stock: ascending and descending fourths and thematic uses of thirds rub shoulders with referential pitches and harmonies: chord Z′, transposed to A–E–G♯–B, is recurrent harmonically and melodically, with A and B being particularly prominent as focal pitches. The expressive character of the material itself is also relatively generic: the fanfares of Exx. 8.5 (b) to (d) do not belong amongst Tippett’s most inspired ideas, but nevertheless retain a clear structural and dramatic role by virtue of timbral, rhythmic and topical contrast with the material around them. More habitual than novel too is the tendency for melodic material to dissolve into nondescript semiquaver triplets that have a distinct ‘passagework’ character (see Exx. 8.5 (f) and (i)). Moreover, the method of preparing for new themes by introducing elements alongside the working out of previous material tends to undercut some of the dramatic contrast that might otherwise be generated, as can be seen by the preparation of the string theme at Fig. 8 in the accompaniment of the brass fanfares of Fig. 7 (Exx. 8.5 (d) and (e)).58 Timbre thus becomes a key means of differentiating between ideas and functions; a note to the score reveals that the Rimsky-Korsakov/Forsyth instrumental balances of his First Symphony remain central to his thinking here. Thus although the Fourth Symphony may not have the thematic economy of, say, the Second, its apparent profusion of melodic ideas (contributing to the impression of ‘fantasy’ within the work) should not obscure the concentrated motivic working that underpins it.59 None of the above is to deny that some of the musical ideas rank amongst Tippett’s best: in particular, the immediately gripping opening gesture (Ex. 8.5 (a)), so pregnant that it was taken up again in both the Fourth Piano Sonata (1983–4) and The Mask of Time (1980–2), announces a work of

166 Edward Venn

genuine symphonic scope. Thus by the closing bars, in which alternations between a calm brass chorale and the final manifestation of the bustling but ultimately static triplet demisemiquavers yield to an ambiguous chord on C♯, there is a sense that the expressive contrasts of the work have found a provisional equilibrium. It is typical, though, that this conclusion lacks the air of finality: ultimately, symphonic problems can never be fully resolved. Instead, Tippett, as in his previous symphonies, offers his own notional archetypes as a critique of historical archetypes, and invites us to reflect anew on these problems for our own time.

Notes 1 Constant Lambert, Music Ho! A Study of Music in Decline (London: Faber and Faber, 1934), p. 264. 2 Ibid., pp. 268 and 269. 3 Ibid., p. 276. 4 Michael Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991), p. 13. 5 See Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 78–80. 6 Hans Keller, ‘The State of The Symphony: Not Only Maxwell Davies’s’, Tempo, 125 (1978), 10. 7 Ibid. 8 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 100. 9 Tippett has described how the experience of hearing Colin Davis talk about this aspect of Sibelius’s Seventh Symphony ‘seemed just right for the symphony I wanted myself to compose’, not least in the example it offered for ‘new ways of intermingling the dramatic and the abstract’ (ibid.). 10 Ibid., p. 89. 11 Though Jung’s conception of archetypes evolved throughout his career, they correspond to aspects of the collective unconscious that underpin our psychic lives; they are revealed to us in certain symbolic forms and behaviours. See, for instance, Jung’s ‘Über die Archetypen des kollektiven Unbewussten’ in Eranos-Jahrbuch 1934, ed. Olga Fröbe-Kapteyn (Zurich, 1935), which we know Tippett had read by the late 1930s (see ‘Sketch for a Modern Oratorio’ in Tippett on Music, p. 168 n. 46; Tippett’s introduction to Jung is discussed in Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 62). 12 Tippett, ‘Some Categories of Judgement in Modern Music’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels (London: Eulenberg, 1980), p. 46 (original emphasis).

13 Tippett, ‘The Birth of an Opera’ in Tippett on Music, p. 203. 14 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 100. 15 Ibid., p. 90. 16 For an alternative reading of the notion of archetypes in Tippett’s thinking, see Alastair Borthwick, ‘Tonal Elements and their Significance in Tippett’s Sonata No. 3 for Piano’ in David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 117–44. 17 Arved Ashby, ‘Britten as Symphonist’ in The Cambridge Companion to Benjamin Britten, ed. Mervyn Cooke (Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 217. 18 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 92. 19 Wilfrid Mellers, ‘Four Orchestral Works’ in Ian Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium on his 60th Birthday (London: Faber and Faber, 1965), p. 168. 20 Arnold Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques, 2nd edn (Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 86. 21 Ibid. 22 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 92–3. 23 Anthony Milner makes a similar observation about the non-developmental aspects of Tippett’s material in this movement (see ‘Style’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 220). 24 Kemp, Tippett, p. 201. 25 For instance, Whittall claims that ‘it remains curiously detached’ (The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 86). 26 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 92. 27 Kemp, Tippett, p. 203. 28 Ibid., p. 198.

167 Tippett and the symphony 29 Cited by ‘F. B.’, ‘Michael Tippett’s Symphony’, The Musical Times, 86 (December 1945), 377. 30 Note Lambert’s description of the fugue as ‘continuous development’ (Music Ho!, p. 274). 31 David Matthews, Michael Tippett: An Introductory Study (London: Faber and Faber, 1980), p. 63. 32 Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997), p. 166. 33 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 93. 34 See Kenneth Gloag, ‘Tippett’s Second Symphony, Stravinsky and the Language of Neoclassicism: Towards a Critical Framework’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, pp. 78–94. 35 See Kemp, Tippett, p. 493 n. 21, and ibid., p. 87. 36 See David Clarke, Language, Form and Structure in the Music of Michael Tippett, 2 vols. (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1989), vol. I , pp. 78–117. 37 See Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 168. 38 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 93. 39 Ibid., p. 96. 40 Ibid. 41 Cited in Bayan Northcott, ‘Tippett’s Third Symphony’, Music and Musicians, 20/10 (June 1972), 30. 42 Cited in Richard E. Rodda, ‘Genesis of a Symphony: Tippett’s Symphony No. 3’, Music Review, 39/2 (May 1978), 110–16. 43 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 442–3. 44 Clarke, Language, Form and Structure in the Music of Michael Tippett, vol. I , p. 229. 45 Tippett, on the other hand, suggests that there might be ‘a kind of development, a continuity behind the blocks’ (cited in ibid.,

p. 246), though I would argue that this takes place in plain sight. 46 See James Hepokowski, Sibelius: Symphony No. 5 (Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 23–6. 47 See Clarke, Language, Form and Structure in the Music of Michael Tippett, vol. I , p. 248. 48 Kemp, Tippett, p. 417. 49 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 99. 50 Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 268. 51 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 100. 52 See Bowen, Michael Tippett, pp. 193–4, and Stephen Collinson, ‘“Significant Gestures to the Past”: Formal Processes and Visionary Moments in Tippett’s Triple Concerto’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, pp. 145–65. 53 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 100. 54 Bowen, Michael Tippett, p. 194. 55 The work in question is No. 8 of Gibbons’s Nine Fantasias in Three Parts (see Kemp, Tippett, p. 116). 56 There are precedents by, for example, Bartók (such as his Fourth and Fifth String Quartets) and Shostakovich (in, amongst others, his Thirteenth String Quartet). 57 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 101. 58 See Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 293. 59 Indeed, such motivic correspondences give the lie to Tippett’s claim that the material derived from the Gibbons Fantasia used in Sellinger’s Round is ‘as far away as possible from the main thematic material’ (‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 100): compare Ex. 8.5 (k) with Exx. 8.5 (a) and (j).

9 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple KENNETH GLOAG

[168]

This chapter focuses on works by Tippett that, as defined by their titles, indicate a relationship to the concerto genre. Such works do not trace a direct line throughout Tippett’s career, nor can they necessarily be seen to coalesce into a coherent grouping. However, they do appear at important points. The Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9) is a significant moment in the formation of Tippett’s early style. While the defining lyricism of that style reaches its point of fulfilment in the opera The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52), the Concerto for Piano and Orchestra (1953–5), in part through its close proximity to the opera, is a work that provides further reflections of that lyricism in a purely instrumental context. In contrast, the Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3) forms an important part of the group of works that comes in the aftermath of Tippett’s next opera King Priam (1958–61) and which signify a new, radical direction. The final work to be titled concerto, the Triple Concerto for Violin, Viola, Cello and Orchestra (1978–9), makes a highly distinctive contribution to the identification of Tippett’s late period, however that may be defined. In an essay titled ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’, written in 1970 and then added to in 1995, Tippett outlined his understanding of certain forms and genres, primarily the symphony, and the important distinction that he drew between ‘historical’ and ‘notional’ archetypes.1 In this essay Tippett also reflected on the nature of the concerto and the differing meanings and usages that have emerged from it and been attached to it: from the concerti grossi of Vivaldi and Handel through the classical three-movement concerto of Mozart and Beethoven to, finally, Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra. This historical trajectory of the concerto is reflected in Tippett’s own concerto-based works: from the concerto grosso reference in his Concerto for Double String Orchestra through the adherence to the classical model in the Piano Concerto to the Concerto for Orchestra and its seemingly obvious reflection of Bartók’s work of that title. If these three works make such recognizable generic references, then it is also possible to hear the Triple Concerto as alluding to, in its own distinctive way, both the concerto grosso (albeit a rather distant allusion) and the orchestral concerto.

169 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple

Concerto for Double String Orchestra The Concerto for Double String Orchestra was composed during 1938–9 and, along with the First String Quartet (1934–5, rev. 1943) and the First Piano Sonata (1936–8, rev. 1942), was the first defining moment in Tippett’s career. In the Double Concerto he established a distinct and confident compositional voice that projected individual, imaginative ideas about musical form and the development and transformation of thematic materials. As already indicated, the title is a reference to the baroque concerto grosso and the importance of textural and dramatic contrast in such works. As Tippett later recalled: ‘In calling the piece a “concerto”, I was harking back to the Concerti grossi of Handel, which I knew and loved.’2 However, Tippett was also relating to specific works from a rather different context: I attached myself partly to a special English tradition – that of the Elgar Introduction and Allegro and Vaughan Williams’s Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, both of which intermingle the intimacy of the solo string writing with the rich sonority of the full string ensemble.3

This ‘special English tradition’, which also includes Benjamin Britten’s then recent Variations on a Theme of Frank Bridge among other examples, is based on the texture of, as Tippett suggests, the relatively homogenous sound of a string orchestra, but also permits individual lines and specific dialogues to come to the surface. However, Tippett’s ensemble is of two string orchestras (hence the ‘double’ of the work’s title), a rather unique combination that suggests, of the works mentioned as part of this ‘tradition’, Vaughan Williams’s Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis (also composed for a double string orchestra) was of particular interest.4 The two orchestras of the Double Concerto are considered by Tippett to be ‘antiphonal groups’ rather than ‘vehicles for concertante writing, such as might be found in the concertino groups of Handel’s Concerti grossi’.5 The Double Concerto is, as the concerto grosso archetype suggests, in three movements, with the outer movements in fast tempi framing a central slow movement. While the use of folksong material will be significant, as will the sonority of the ensemble, Tippett’s acknowledgement of the importance the music of Beethoven held for him, and would continue to do so throughout his career, is a central factor in shaping the unique identity of this work: But the musical forms deployed in my Double Concerto were those of Beethoven: a succinct dramatic sonata allegro, a slow movement virtually

170 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 9.1 (a) and (b) Concerto for Double String Orchestra, first movement, opening

modelled on the song-fugue-song layout of the Andante of Beethoven’s String Quartet in F minor, Op. 95, and finally a sonata rondo with coda.6

The first movement may, through its ‘succinct dramatic sonata allegro’ formal shape, suggest a Beethovenian model, but it is realized in a highly distinct, individual way. The movement begins without introduction, moving directly and dramatically into the opening thematic statement (see Ex. 9.1). This moment also immediately indicates the separation of the two orchestral groups, with each having their own distinctive harmonic and thematic materials. The first orchestral group (hereafter orchestra 1) begins with a bold, assertive theme based around A (see Ex. 9.1 (a)). In contrast, the second orchestra (hereafter orchestra 2), whose introduction is slightly delayed in order to make clear the double effect of both texture and material, begins with a contrasting theme clearly centred on D, with the ornamental C♯ in the second bar helping to suggest D major as does the rise through F♯ in bar 4 (see Ex. 9.1 (b)).7 The coexistence of the two proposed pitch centres, A and D, results in an ambiguity about what the initial tonal centre of the movement might actually be. The distance between them is also accentuated through the

171 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple

articulation of the material as defined by performance indications. The theme of orchestra 1 is directed to be played marcato, which is contrasted by the espressivo instruction given to orchestra 2, resulting in a distinct difference in character between the two themes and their implied centres. The difference may have implications for an understanding of this opening material as constituting a first subject of a sonata form (the ‘succinct dramatic sonata allegro’), implications that lead Ian Kemp to the following conclusion: If a sonata-allegro consists of an argument between the passionate and the lyrical, the question arises as to how these two elements are to be presented. In the Beethovenian model they appear successively. In the opening theme of the Double Concerto they appear simultaneously. By his immediate telescoping of the dramatic, marcato ‘first subject’ of orchestra 1 with the lyrical, espressivo ‘second subject’ of orchestra 2 Tippett forfeits conventional means of structural articulation.8

On the basis of Kemp’s description it becomes possible to hear both thematic statements, and implied harmonic centres, as coming together, layering the first subject over the second, which is a radical difference to the succession of themes and keys within a classical sonata-form movement. However, there are moments of convergence between the two themes. The first arrives on D in bar 4 while both gravitate towards a point of arrival on A in the eighth bar. They are also effectively ‘unified’ through the dynamic energy of the music as signified by the Allegro con brio tempo indication that envelops both themes and their articulations. In practice the interpretation of these initial events, and the movement as a whole, must remain to some extent influenced by the composer’s own comments concerning the movement as being ‘mostly in A to start with, a kind of . . . [modal] A minor’.9 While Tippett does not provide a full justification for this description, it does direct our interpretation towards the importance of A in contrast to the reference to D, even if it is difficult to hear this opening, or the subsequent events (including the conclusion of the movement) in terms of A minor as such. If the combination of both harmonic and thematic gestures can now be identified as the first subject of a sonata form then the emergence of a second subject is now anticipated, but where it may come, and how it is recognized, is loaded with ambiguity. From Fig. 1 there is a sense of transition that leads to the introduction of seemingly new thematic material at Fig. 1:6 (see Ex. 9.1 (c)). This thematic gesture (orchestra 1) initially outlines a D major triadic shape which is later clarified by the vertical realization of a D major harmony at Fig. 2:11. These D references construct a frame around the G-based theme that emerges from Fig. 2:7. This

172 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 9.1 (c) Concerto for Double String Orchestra, first movement, Fig. 1:6–10

thematic statement comes closest to providing a second subject, but it is clearly derived from the first subject material, in terms of rhythmic shape as well as pitch, as presented by orchestra 1 (see Ex. 9.1 (a)). Following the apparent clarity of the initial contrast of themes within the first subject group the music has moved into a more seamless flow that actually begins to negate expectations of contrast. The resulting ‘absence of fully developed thematic contrast’ becomes, according to Arnold Whittall, one of two determining factors in the early, expositional stage of this movement, the other being the already highlighted ‘avoidance of firmly established tonal centrality’.10 The absence of such contrasts makes the identification of the subsequent stages of the proposed sonata form difficult, and also perhaps unnecessary. But the ongoing transformation of both thematic components of the first subject (see Exx. 9.1 (a) and (b)) from Fig. 4 intensifies the developmental process, while the return of this material to its original harmonic context around Fig. 8 surely indicates a process of recapitulation that is an expected feature of the form. Tippett’s description of this movement as being in ‘a kind of . . . [modal] A minor’ leads us to anticipate a move towards A as a means of concluding the movement. The first real evidence of this possibility comes with the powerful realization of an A major harmony at Fig. 11:4, and A is articulated as the melodic focal point. But the importance of A, however it may be qualified, is not defined until the very end of the movement, when it appears, somewhat belatedly, as the final harmonic event (see Ex. 9.2). Its positioning here has been preceded by the alternation of G and D as the bassline, with the repeated focus on G♮, rather than G♯, as the expected leading note within an explicit tonal context, reflecting Tippett’s own understanding of the final centring of A as ‘modal’. But it is also notable that the proposal of A minor needs to be qualified because of the avoidance of C in the chord, which would be required in order to confirm A minor, with A supported only by its fifth, E.

173 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple Ex. 9.2 Concerto for Double String Orchestra, first movement, ending

If this suggested modal character of this final A indicates some form of relationship to an English folk tradition then the melodic material of the central slow movement asserts that relationship in a more transparently obvious way. For Clarke, there are only two themes in the work that ‘explicitly adopt folksong models’, the first of which is the main theme of this movement, the other being saved for the conclusion to the work.11 This defining theme is based on the folksong ‘Ca’ the yowes’, which is in fact a traditional Scottish ballad. It is introduced by orchestra 1 as the first sounds of the movement and receives complementary support from orchestra 2. However, this only sets the scene for the introduction of a solo violin, with its individual ‘voice’ directly rendering the melody as lyrical song (see Ex. 9.3). This introduction has a certain harmonic ambiguity. The folksong material again suggests a modal quality and there is no defining harmonic progression as such. However, the melodic line gravitates towards D as its high point, and the motion around D in the violin 2 and cello parts of orchestra 1 provides a meaningful degree of focus on this pitch, which will eventually provide the first real point of harmonic clarification (see Ex. 9.3). Although D is the melodically defined harmonic centre it is surrounded by semitone clashes: C♯ against D (bars 10 and 12), C♯ against C♮ (bar 15). For Kemp, the ‘Englishness’ of ‘this gravely beautiful theme’ is

174 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 9.3 Concerto for Double String Orchestra, second movement, bars 9–24

derived from such clashes,12 while Andrew Burn is more specific, stating that ‘the aching semitonal clashes that underlie it [the theme] are peculiarly English, harkening back to Purcell and beyond’.13 While it is difficult to fully substantiate such claims, these clashes are important, not just because of any such implications and associations, but because they enhance the colour of the music and provide an, albeit subdued, sense of tension. We have already encountered Tippett’s own description of the layout of this movement as ‘song-fugue-song’ and the suggestion of the slow movement of Beethoven’s String Quartet in F minor, Op. 95, which follows this sequence of events, as a model. The relevance of this model becomes immediately evident. Following the arrival on the D major harmony as highlighted above, the music moves into a fugal texture (Ex. 9.4). From this point the remainder of the movement is conditioned by the development of the fugue subject until five bars after Fig. 18, when the end of the fugue and the return of the (folk) theme neatly overlap and intersect. This point of return begins to complete the tripartite ‘song-fugue-song’ shape of the movement. The ending is signified by a final statement of a D major harmony, but in a move that is similar to the conclusion of the first movement this is anticipated by C♮ rather than C♯ (Ex. 9.5). This central slow movement forms a powerful statement of Tippett’s increasing attraction to, and ability to spin, strong, elongated melodic lines which become a defining essence of his musical style at this point. This movement also, in retrospect, becomes the first in what Clarke describes as

175 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple Ex. 9.4 Concerto for Double String Orchestra, second movement, Figs. 15:11–16:7

Ex. 9.5 Concerto for Double String Orchestra, second movement, ending

176 Kenneth Gloag

a ‘great series of orchestral slow movements’ that extend through the symphonies, and includes both the Concerto for Orchestra and Triple Concerto and culminates in The Rose Lake (1991–3). Such movements ‘translate the humanising power of song into the language of instrumental music’,14 a description that is also a highly apposite summary of this particular movement. While the reference to C that participates in the conclusion of the slow movement may be essentially local, indicating a modal avoidance of the leading-note motion of common-practice tonality, it is notable that the conclusion of the third movement, and the work as a whole, is built on a sustained statement of C major. To retrospectively hear the previous reference to C as a long-range anticipation of this conclusion may be something of an over-interpretation, but it does provide an indication that Tippett did carefully conceive the work as a totality. Further indications of such compositional logic are also evident in the opening of this final movement. In contrast to the slow-moving textures of the second movement and its somewhat static conclusion, the final movement now begins with a bright, decisive gesture. Defined by a brief thematic motive, it is clearly centred on A as reflected by the repetitions of this pitch in the fourth bar. Although rather different in character to the opening events of the first movement, the now more explicit projection of A presents a harmonic association to that earlier moment. However, this A reference also acts as a prelude to the introduction of a main theme centred on G (Fig. 22:5), which brings both orchestras together and which can retrospectively be heard as a dominant preparation for the final C. The introduction of another new theme, now centred on A♭ as indicated by the change of key signature (Fig. 24:10), acts as a point of contrast to both the opening of the movement and the G-based thematic area, but it also conveys a sense of the familiar through its broad, lyrical contours. These moments, their thematic materials and harmonic centres, all of which are more clearly defined than the somewhat blurred formal parameters of the first movement, are part of an overall formal shape that Tippett described as a ‘sonata rondo with coda’. The sonata element is reflected through the contrast of two themes, that based on G and that on A♭ as outlined above and which correspond to first and second subjects of sonata form. However, Tippett’s suggestion of the rondo also captures something of the energy of this music as well as reflecting contrast of, and returns to, specific thematic gestures. The ‘coda’ part of this formal outline is provided by the big, broad theme that sings through the final moments of the movement and in doing so it helps confirm C as the harmonic conclusion to the work.

177 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple

Concerto for Piano and Orchestra Tippett composed his Concerto for Piano and Orchestra between 1953 and 1955. This is his only concerto for solo instrument and orchestra, the earlier Fantasia on a Theme of Handel for piano and orchestra (1939–41) being one notable exception for this combination of instruments, with the avoidance of such forces reflecting his lack of interest in virtuosic display, Tippett later writing that he ‘was not terribly in sympathy with the late Romantic confrontation of soloist and orchestra’.15 According to Tippett, the Piano Concerto ‘proceeds directly out of the world of The Midsummer Marriage’ and he goes on to describe the music of the Concerto as ‘rich, linear, lyrical, as in that opera’,16 while Whittall hears it, and also the Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli for string orchestra which was composed during the same period (1953), as being ‘touched by the same lyric spirit as the opera’.17 If the association with The Midsummer Marriage presents one context from which the Piano Concerto can be seen to emerge, then Tippett’s relationship to the music of Beethoven presents another, equally meaningful, starting point. Tippett recalled the initial motivation for the Piano Concerto, describing ‘its precise moment of conception’, which occurred ‘when listening to a rehearsal of Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto as played by [Walter] Gieseking on his return to England after the war. I felt moved to create a concerto in which once again the piano may sing.’18 Tippett’s Piano Concerto adheres to the formal and generic conventions of the concerto, consisting of three movements: the first is marked Allegro non troppo, the second (as expected) is the central slow movement and a fast finale concludes the work. However, it is notable that it is the experience of Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto that provides what Tippett defines as the ‘precise moment of conception’. The most notable feature of Beethoven’s concerto is its opening gesture. Eschewing the standard orchestral introduction it starts instead with the piano. Not in an obviously dramatic and virtuosic way, but quietly with the piano’s soft reiteration of a G major harmony. This gesture has a distinct lyrical quality that is surely a significant part of what captured Tippett’s attention and which is reflected in the opening of his own concerto. Tippett’s first movement also begins with the piano (see Ex. 9.6), which presents a quiet and subdued thematic statement that, unlike the Beethoven example, is supported by other instruments, albeit lightly. The flute also plays the upper line melody of the piano part while the bassoon and double basses provide harmonic support. The melody, which is based around a sequence of four notes – A♭, G, F, E♭ – and which is repeated to sustain a focus on A♭, provides an initial source idea that can be described as ‘germinal’ and which is

178 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 9.6 Piano Concerto, first movement, opening

subject to processes of expansion and accumulation as the movement unfolds. It is the singing, lyrical quality of this theme that brings The Midsummer Marriage to mind, as does the texture, the combination of instrumental sonorities, which is suggestive of certain ‘magical’ moments in the opera, such as the opening of the second act. This initial gesture, through its returns to A♭, participates in establishing this pitch as the harmonic centre for the movement as indicated by the key signature of A♭ major, which in part reflects Tippett’s engagement with Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 110 in that key. However, it is C as a sustained pedal note that provides the harmonic support given to the lyrical melody of the piano and flute parts. While this is consistent with an A♭ major tonality, indicating a first inversion of the tonic harmony, it does suggest a degree of instability and implied mobility. The conclusion of the movement returns to an A♭ harmony but C is still presented as the bass, having been sustained throughout the concluding bars. The final movement of the Piano Concerto transforms C from part of the initial A♭ harmonic context of the first movement into its own moment of radiant power. From Fig. 162 the piano part repeatedly returns to C as part of an arpeggio gesture that also involves an implied dominant harmony (G–D–G). C is repeated as a harmonic bass (Fig. 167), which then moves to repeated statements of G as dominant that extends to the final cadential gesture from G to C as the concluding event of the movement and the work. However, the clarity and security of this final C is obscured and questioned by the descending minor scale patterns and results in an ending that is ‘distinctly unstable’.19

179 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple

It is the central slow movement that brings the suggested associations with both Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto and The Midsummer Marriage most clearly into focus. The movement begins softly, with an introduction played by bassoons and horns. The rising motion of the individual lines creates a quiet but dramatic gesture that is again evocative of the often magical and mysterious sounds of The Midsummer Marriage. If this is dramatic so too is the contrast provided by the introduction of the piano which is marked by dynamic and textural contrast (Fig. 75). The piano part at this stage is decorative, continually moving but with little sense of what the melodic line or its harmonic direction may be.20 The melody is in fact carried by the flute, increasingly in dialogue with other instruments, and is another telling example of Tippett’s predilection for long melodic lines that have a strong suggestion of instrumental ‘voice’, even if, in this instance, its effect is somewhat obscured by the activity of the piano part. These reflections of The Midsummer Marriage coexist with the suggested reference to Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto. This reference is at its most clear, although still far from explicit, in the passage from Fig. 83 (see Ex. 9.7). At this point Tippett establishes a dialogue of contrast between the piano and blocks of orchestral sound provided by the strings. In this moment he translates the gestural, rhetorical qualities of the slow movement of Beethoven’s concerto, which is defined by a stark juxtaposition of piano and strings, into the context of his own soundworld.

Concerto for Orchestra While the Piano Concerto is in part shaped by its close proximity to The Midsummer Marriage, the Concerto for Orchestra, completed and first performed in 1963, forms part of a new direction initiated by the opera King Priam, which had been premiered the previous year. The opera has been described as marking a ‘radical change in Tippett’s development’, resulting in a ‘change of style’ that was ‘deliberate’ as well as ‘radical’.21 The works that come in the aftermath of the change signified by King Priam, including the Second Piano Sonata (1962) and The Vision of Saint Augustine (1963–5), as well as the Concerto for Orchestra, delineate this change. The earlier defining elements of Tippett’s style – lyricism, classical forms, tonal centres – are replaced by new interests, including fragmentation of texture, discontinuity of form, more harsh, astringent sonorities, as part of a new, more modernist context. The music of Stravinsky is now more evident as a reference point, which is first clearly articulated in

180 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 9.7 Piano Concerto, second movement, Figs. 83–84:1

Tippett’s Second Symphony (1956–7) with its reflections of Stravinsky’s own neoclassical symphonies; but, while it looks backwards to the innovative formal discontinuities of Stravinsky’s Symphonies of Wind Instruments, it is Stravinsky’s then more recent music, principally his

181 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple

Table 9.1 Concerto for Orchestra, first movement, formal outline (opening to Fig. 38) 1 ‘Lyricism’

Fig. 0–4 a 2 flutes + harp

4–8 b tuba + piano

8–11 c 3 horns

11–14 Combination of a, b + c

2 ‘Rhetoric’

14–17 d timpani + piano

17–20 e Oboe, cor anglais, bassoon, contrabassoon

20–23 f 2 trombones

23–25 Combination of d, e + f

25–28 g xylophone and piano

28–31 h clarinet, bass clarinet and piano

31–35 i 2 trumpets + side drum

35–38 Accumulation of g, h, i and e leading to Fig. 38 as point of formal division

3 ‘Speed’

ballet Agon, that is the most obvious source for Tippett’s post-Priam music, including the Concerto for Orchestra.22 Tippett described the Concerto for Orchestra as having some form of association with the traditional connotations and expectations of the concerto genre in that it is a ‘three-movement work with obvious references to both concerti grossi and display concertos’.23 The concerto grosso is suggested because of the importance given to specific groupings of instruments within the orchestra. While the references to ‘display concertos’ are perhaps less obvious than Tippett suggests, the various instrumental groups display their sounds, individually and in combination, in an often virtuosic manner. There are nine instrumental groups, ‘concertini’, that form Tippett’s restructuring of the orchestra.24 These groups, and their distribution throughout the first movement, are summarized in Table 9.1. In this table the instrumental group is defined and identified (a, b, c, etc.) and related to a specific position in the movement in terms of rehearsal figures.25 The first group consists of flutes and harp (a), the second of tuba and piano (b) and the third of three horns (c). Tippett describes them as being ‘concerned with melodic line’,26 which, for Kemp, ‘creates lyricism’.27 The operation of these groups is evident from the opening moments of the work. It begins with the combination of two flutes and harp (Ex. 9.8 (a)), which is then replaced by tuba and piano at Fig. 4 (Ex. 9.8 (b)). There is clearly a sense of disconnection between each group, with one ending before the next begins. This is already evident at the point at which the first combination – that between flutes and harp – concludes (see Ex. 9.8 (b), one bar before Fig. 4). Here the lines come together into a vertical harmony consisting of C♯, D and E, while the second group, tuba and piano, begins with new material that seems to be initially centred on

182 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 9.8 Concerto for Orchestra: (a) first movement, opening; (b) first movement, Figs. 3:6–4:5

B♭ (see Ex. 9.8 (b), Fig. 4). Following the presentation of each group they are then combined into what Tippett defined as a ‘development’ episode (from Fig. 11) – not the kind of development associated with Beethoven as a historical model: such episodes are ‘chiefly a matter of effective juxtaposition and “jam sessions” ’.28 They do not carry the improvisational

183 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple

associations of the jam session from within the practices of jazz music, but such episodes do pit the already familiar groupings against each other through the retention of the identity of each group within the new process of juxtaposition. If moments of textural contrast suggest a new conception of formal discontinuity in comparison with the development of thematic ideas in the Double Concerto, then, conversely, the initial concern with ‘melodic line’ does provide a degree of continuity with Tippett’s earlier music. This concern cannot be described as an expansive lyricism as such. But, at least at the outset, the flute part presents a clear sense of shape and direction to the line as it unfolds through a coherent six-bar phrase (see Ex. 9.8 (a)). It begins with C♯ falling to A and concludes with C♯ moving to D, albeit downwards. This pitch content suggests a move from A major to D, which could be heard as a reflection of a V–I progression in D, an interpretation that is reinforced by the beginning of the next phrase (Fig. 1), which now begins on D. However, when this line is situated against the background of the harp part, which is not congruent with such an interpretation, it is only possible to hear these tonal implications as suggestive hints that cannot be fully substantiated. Such hints continue at the conclusion to this initial grouping. The arrival on the aforementioned collection of C♯, D and E sustains a focus on D as part of this collection (see Ex. 9.8 (b)). It is also surrounded by neighbour-note motion – E♭ moving to D (flute 2) – while the harp part features C♯ as an implied movement upwards to D. The first three instrumental groupings and their role in defining a form predicated on textural contrast are, as already indicated, part of a larger picture – a ‘collage’,29 or ‘an elaborate kaleidoscope of superimpositions’,30 with the relevance of the proposed visual metaphors already evident from the synopsis given in Table 9.1. The second stage in this changing image is that presented by the next sequence of three groups, which involve timpani and piano (d) followed by a grouping of oboe, cor anglais, bassoon and contrabassoon (e) and then two trombones (f). For Tippett these combinations, and the music composed for them, are ‘concerned with rhythm and dynamic punch’,31 which Kemp hears as ‘rhetoric’.32 The three instrumental groups that form the third stage consist of xylophone and piano (g), clarinet and bass clarinet (and piano) (h) and finally two trumpets and side drum (i). For Tippett these three groups share a concern for ‘speed’, with this concern reflected in the now even faster change of ideas.33 In moving through these various instrumental groupings and the points at which they merge, or more accurately collide (groups a, b and c between Figs. 11 and 14, and then d, e and f between Figs. 23 and 25),

184 Kenneth Gloag

there is always a sense of flux, with the form of the music defined through juxtaposition and contrast rather than continuity and development. The clarity of the processes summarized in Table 9.1, following the coming together of groups g, h and i between Figs. 35 and 38, breaks down at Fig. 38, which marks a point of formal division in the movement. This point, and its difference to what has come before, is defined by the brief return to the opening material of the movement (see Table 9.1 (group a) and Ex. 9.8(a)). The return of this material is obvious. However, although this return is quite literal it is not complete, using only the first two bars of what was a larger melodic statement. It does not therefore signify a return to beginning as a moment of recapitulation but rather announces the start of another process of fragmentation and juxtaposition that does not follow the sequence of events established at the outset of the movement. This highly truncated version of instrumental group a and its material overlaps with group d (timpani and piano) and is followed in a sharp, abrupt juxtaposition with group e (oboe, cor anglais, bassoon, contrabassoon). This process of juxtaposing and superimposing fragments of the now familiar sonorities and material continues and intensifies throughout the remainder of the movement resulting in increasingly dense and complex textures. Of course, this could be a process without end; with such juxtaposition potentially endless the outcome is an essentially non-, or anti-, teleological formal structure. The moment of ending, not closure, is therefore somewhat arbitrary. When it comes it does so in the shape of another partial articulation of the opening gesture of the movement (see Table 9.1 (group a) and Ex. 9.8 (a)). It now feels as if it is suspended in midair, with the pitches held over as if still seeking some sense of resolution that can never come (see Ex. 9.9). The inconclusive nature of this ending is repeated at the end of the final movement, with sustained pitches (B♭ and E) contained within a diminuendo gesture that gives the impression of the music fading away to silence. The importance of contrast within the first movement can be extended to include the contrast between movements. Within the expectations of the genre contrast from one movement to the next is usually realized. However, the contrast between the first and second movements of the Concerto for Orchestra is more than just contrast of tempo and character. The central slow movement defines its difference to what has come before through the introduction of the strings and their domination of the sound of this music, with piano and harp being the only other instruments involved. As no string instruments have participated in the various instrumental groups of the first movement the power of contrast is assured. However, it is not a full body of strings as in a standard symphony orchestra, but a reduced force that again breaks down into specific

185 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple Ex. 9.9 Concerto for Orchestra, first movement, ending

combinations. This string sonority articulates another of Tippett’s long melodic lines, what Kemp effectively describes as ‘one long, continuous melodic line’ that is ‘very human music’.34 Although this is a highly appropriate account of what we hear in terms of a melodic line that is yet another suggestive hint of Tippett’s lyrical gestures from his earlier music, Kemp does not really define what he means by a ‘very human music’. But it may signify the vocal quality of melody, the instrumental song that has already been mentioned as a key characteristic of Tippett’s slow movements. Contrast is again generated by the move from second to third movement, with the final movement returning to a fast, assertive sound that utilizes juxtaposition of instrumental textures and which is based in part on material derived directly from King Priam.35

Triple Concerto for Violin, Viola, Cello and Orchestra The Triple Concerto for Violin, Viola, Cello and Orchestra was composed between 1978 and 1979 and was first performed in 1980. It is therefore contemporary with the Fourth Symphony (1976–7) and Fourth String Quartet (1977–8) and forms part of Tippett’s late, final period of creative activity. In his ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ essay Tippett articulated the problems he encountered in attempting to renew the concerto and, as we have already seen, his lack of instinctive sympathy for what he describes as the ‘late Romantic confrontation of soloist and orchestra’.36 In contrast to the perceived predictability of this ‘confrontation’ Tippett

186 Kenneth Gloag

was more interested in ‘the idea of using more than one soloist’,37 an interest that relates back to the Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli but also to the instrumental groupings of the first movement of the Concerto for Orchestra. The decision to have three solo instrumental parts may suggest that Beethoven’s Triple Concerto acted as a historical precedent and model for Tippett. However, in Beethoven’s Triple Concerto the three solo parts are that of the piano trio (piano, violin, cello), an already formed, recognizable chamber music grouping. For Tippett his three solo parts – violin, viola, cello – were not a string trio as such (‘the three players were to be real soloists, not a chamber music ensemble’38), and in part reflected his experience of works such as Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante, which features violin and viola solo parts, and Brahms’s Double Concerto for violin, cello and orchestra. The other significant, formative factor in the Triple Concerto was provided by Tippett’s experience of visiting Java and Bali shortly before commencing work on the concerto and the experience of hearing live performances of gamelan music, which is reflected in specific, primarily percussive, instrumental sonorities in the work. Tippett’s Triple Concerto consists of three movements, which suggests the historical archetype of the concerto genre, but they are linked by two interludes into a continually unfolding work. This concern with connection is also evident in the Fourth String Quartet and the Fourth Symphony, with all three late works reflecting what Kemp defines as the ‘cyclic archetype’,39 in that each work features linking of sections, or movements, into an unfolding whole while also being concerned with a metaphorical cycle; in the case of the Triple Concerto that cycle is described as ‘a natural cycle from one day to the next’,40 although it is perhaps difficult to always hear the formal and thematic processes of the work as leading inevitably towards interpretation via that particular metaphor. The Triple Concerto begins with a brief orchestral introduction based on E as its point of harmonic focus, which will also act as the concluding harmonic centre of the work. This is quickly followed by the introduction of the solo viola at Fig. 1. As well as introducing the viola as an individual ‘voice’, this is also the point at which Tippett introduces an inconspicuous descending motive that will gain in significance as the work progresses.41 It is notable that the initial expositional moments of the concerto feature each of the three solo instruments as individuals rather than in dialogue or as a group, with Tippett’s description of this beginning as a sequence of ‘three cadenzas’ accurately reflected in what we hear in the music.42 The first point at which they come together occurs at Fig. 6 (see Ex. 9.10) which is also a direct reference to a key moment in the Fourth String Quartet

187 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple Ex. 9.10 Triple Concerto, first movement, Fig. 6:1–4

(Fig. 124 of the quartet), with this reference to the quartet being an intentional strategy on Tippett’s part and one which he draws attention to in his ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ essay.43 For Tippett this becomes a very important passage in the Triple Concerto. It comes again towards the end of the first movement (Fig. 57) and returns towards the end of the concerto (Fig. 155) in order to signify ending through return to beginning, which does give some substance to the metaphorical description of the ‘natural cycle from one day to the next’. Between this beginning and end of the work, and the cyclic process that connects them, the central slow movement provides the conceptual and musical core. Beginning at Fig. 79, this very slow, still texture is defined through an F major tonality. The theme played together by the solo violin, viola and cello (at Fig. 80) circles around the pitches of an F major triad – F, A and C – with B♭ added as a passing decoration (see Ex. 9.11). The sustained F as the harmonic bass supports this beautiful, lyrical theme. This material, both melodically and harmonically, could not be simpler. But the transparent simplicity of this moment not only provides a point of central contrast to the rest of the work, it also, more significantly, suggests a gesture of nostalgia through which Tippett looks back to his own earlier – tonally centred, thematically lyrical – musical language. If this is the central point of the work it is not the only one to articulate such retrospection. In the second interlude, as preparation for the beginning of the third movement, Tippett quotes directly from The Midsummer Marriage. At Fig. 123 the solo violin part restates the theme from the conclusion of The Midsummer Marriage, also played by solo violin, which represents the ‘dawn chorus’ (Fig. 498 of the opera).

188 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 9.11 Triple Concerto, first movement, Figs. 80–81:2

For Clarke, through this quotation ‘the concerto stages a rapprochement with Tippett’s past’.44 In making these gestures towards Tippett’s own past the status of the Triple Concerto as a late work is confirmed, but they do not necessarily position it as a summation and nor do they in any way weaken the individual identity of this work. These moments of retrospection remind us of the plurality of Tippett’s musical world as, in the context of this discussion, defined through the intermittent but meaningful engagement with the concerto as a historical, generic archetype. Notes 1 See Michael Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 89–108. 2 Ibid., p. 92. 3 Ibid. 4 However, more generally, Tippett remained highly ambivalent about the influence of

Vaughan Williams. He declined the opportunity to study with the older composer while a student at the Royal College of Music and suggested a greater interest in the music of Holst. For some further commentary on Tippett’s relationship to the music of both Vaughan Williams and Holst see David Clarke,

189 Tippett and the concerto: from Double to Triple ‘“Only Half Rebelling”: Tonal Strategies, Folksong and “Englishness” in Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 3–4; see also Tippett’s essay on Holst in Tippett on Music, pp. 73–5. 5 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 92. 6 Ibid. 7 In this chapter individual bar numbers are inserted only to aid discussion of specific points at the beginning of movements. Elsewhere references are based on the rehearsal numbers in the scores. 8 Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 139–40. 9 As cited in Clarke, ‘“Only Half Rebelling”’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 12. 10 Arnold Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques, 2nd edn (Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 53–4. 11 Clarke, ‘“Only Half Rebelling”’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 20. Clarke also makes the point that while there are only two such examples of folksong models in the work, ‘many of its remaining thematic constituents are based on related melodic configurations, whose common source is the pentatonic scale’ (ibid.). 12 Kemp, Tippett, p. 143. 13 Andrew Burn, CD liner notes to Tippett: Concerto for Double String Orchestra, Chandos (Chan 9409) (1995). 14 Clarke, ‘Between Hermeneutics and Formalism: The Lento from Tippett’s Concerto for Orchestra (Or: Music Analysis after Lawrence Kramer)’, Music Analysis, 30/2–3 (July/October 2011), 315. 15 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 101. 16 Cited in Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 155. 17 Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 153. 18 Cited in Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 155. 19 Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 158.

20 For an interesting perspective on decoration in this work see Kemp, Tippett, pp. 282–5. 21 Ibid., p. 322. 22 For further discussion of Tippett’s Second Symphony in relation to Stravinsky see my ‘Tippett’s Second Symphony, Stravinsky and the Language of Neoclassicism: Towards a Critical Framework’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, pp. 78–94. 23 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 93. 24 Ibid., p. 94. 25 Whittall uses a similar labelling system to identify and define this material. See The Music of Britten and Tippett, pp. 194–6. 26 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 94. 27 Kemp, Tippett, p. 381. 28 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 94. 29 Kemp, Tippett, p. 380. 30 Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 194. 31 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 94. 32 Kemp, Tippett, p. 381. 33 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 94. 34 Kemp, Tippett, p. 385. 35 For comments on the King Priam references see Kemp, Tippett, p. 385 and Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997), p. 178. 36 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 101. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid. 39 Kemp, Tippett, p. 478. 40 Ibid. 41 For further analytical discussion of such details in this work see Stephen Collisson, ‘“Significant Gestures to the Past”: Formal Processes and Visionary Moments in Tippett’s Triple Concerto’ in Tippett Studies, pp. 145–65. 42 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 102. 43 See ibid., pp. 101–4. 44 Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 213.

10 The four piano sonatas: past and present tensions ALASTAIR BORTHWICK

I feel music generally should be apprehended immediately and without analysis.1

[190]

Uniquely in Tippett’s output, the piano sonatas offer a single genre in which to trace his development according to distinct stylistic periods. Sonatas Nos. 1 and 2 (1936–8, rev. 1942, and 1962) each appear early in defining periods of his compositional life, while his Sonatas Nos. 3 and 4 (1972–3 and 1983–4) follow on at intervals useful for tracing Tippett’s development towards the lyricism that characterized his final works, but which appeared without the radical stylistic shift associated with his opera King Priam (1958–61). This is not to say that Tippett’s music from the 1970s and 1980s avoids new stylistic directions but rather that the changes his music underwent during those decades depend to a greater extent on the summation and synthesis of his musical past than on being a reaction to it, as King Priam had been.2 The relationship between Tippett’s stylistic periods is one axis of the tension to be discussed in this chapter. For a composer whose longevity and interest in the world-at-large enabled him to respond to a century of unprecedented social, political and technological change, the study of intra-oeuvre stylistic differences carries a greater significance than might otherwise be the case. But the historical past also concerned Tippett (notably that of middleperiod Beethoven, as well as the more distant musical past of Byrd and Purcell), to an extent revealed by his Jung-inspired conceptual framework consisting of ‘historical archetypes’ (the established norms of historical composition) and ‘notional archetypes’ (an individual composer’s subjective response to, and employment of, those established norms).3 Tippett’s tendency to intellectualize his compositional activity in this way had a demonstrable impact on his work, the effects of which are evident at as basic a level as the genre category of his Sonata No. 1 (see below). Perpendicular to this historical/personal timeline is the tension resulting from relationships with styles of music, or even particular pieces, more or less contemporaneous with the music Tippett happened to be writing at any given time.4 His wideranging interests ensured that these connections were unusually diverse. The challenges this presents to musical integration are obvious and the sonatas provide a measure of the degree to which this integration was achieved in his different stylistic periods.

191 The four piano sonatas: past and present tensions

As a composer who frequently wrote about music, including his own, using a mode of discourse that reverberated with musicological resonance, Tippett inevitably influenced the analytical and critical literature that emerged in response to it. His CD liner notes to the Paul Crossley recordings of all four sonatas, which reuse notes from earlier recordings, have been a reference point for a number of commentators.5 His reflections set some of the parameters which musicologists can hardly fail to respond to and, as part of a poietic analysis, they provide a valuable starting point.6 In Tippett’s comments on Sonata No. 1 the technical issues emphasized include the integration of stylistic elements, relationships with historical forms and the problem of genre, and quotation from the music of others. In Sonata No. 2, quotation is once again referred to but this time with reference to his own music. The function of thematic statement (and its implied negation of development), the accumulation of material, techniques of contrast, flow and repetition are also identified. At the time of writing this sonata he saw it as a preparation for unspecified larger-scale compositions (his Concerto for Orchestra followed a year later (1962–3)). Concerns about the genre of his Sonata No. 1, and the issues that contributed to Tippett’s uncertainties over it, are reiterated in the discussion of Sonata No. 3; and there is mention of Sonata No. 2’s avoidance of bridge passages and development. These recollections function as a preface to his judgement of Sonata No. 3 as a ‘summation’ of previous approaches. This overview-type comment aside, Tippett’s main technical focus in the notes on the sonata relate to its three-movement form, identified as sonata-allegro, variations (on a chordal sequence, although the variations are too elaborate to be considered as a Chaconne in any straightforward perceptual way) and toccata. Concerns about historical precedence emerge once more in his notes on the five-movement Sonata No. 4 which – like his first sonata – was conceived as a different kind of genre (a set of bagatelles, rather than a fantasy). The particular ‘tonal relations’ and ‘varied speeds and styles’ used in the sonata are identified as the forces responsible for this reconception. The re-emergence of quotation (or ‘final echo’, as he puts it) from his Symphony No. 4 (1976–7) receives comment, and the new (to Tippett) emphasis on the piano’s resonance, particularly as effected by the interactions of the three pedals, is noted. This emphasis on sound can be related to Tippett’s final technical comment on the sonata: The music of the whole sonata is chiefly lyrical: a continuous flow of sound which sweeps up the constructional procedures into itself.

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This is apparently flow without arrest, an overarching lyricism that leads to the integration of the technical parts. Of all the comments made by Tippett on the four sonatas this one seems to encapsulate his aesthetic priority: musical integration despite the competing tensions arising from form (notional and historical), style (whether by allusion to the music of others or self-reference), contrast (as a response to the Beethovenian sonata-allegro, of which flow and arrest is but one instance) and the qualities of sound (from the resonance of the piano to the ‘sound’ of his Fourth Symphony echoed in Sonata No. 4). This final quality is not made especially explicit in the notated score and depends more on the experience of listening to the music which, as the quote at the top of this chapter indicates, is also a priority for Tippett. These four sonatas have all received a significant degree of analytical attention and I do not propose to add to this in any systematic way.7 Instead, the emphasis will be on engaging with these tensions through the subjective experience of listening to the music.8 In this chapter, the axis of time and the tensions it contains, as described above, will be used to support the engagement with the aesthetic and technical features Tippett himself identifies in relation to the four piano sonatas. In doing so, part of the pathway Tippett took from his early acknowledged ‘neoclassical’ works to his closing period of late modernism will be illuminated, and questions such as whether this pathway was necessarily one of progress addressed.9

Down on the ranch and other places: Sonata No. 1 The difficulty surrounding the classification of Sonata No. 1 was not related to uncertainties over the sonata-allegro movement. Tippett’s understanding of this form as an archetype in the 1930s was consistent with the definition he gave in the notes for Sonata No. 3 some forty years later: a ‘statement of contrasted materials – argument – restatement (decorated)’. The problem was with the archetype of the sonata itself which, starting with a set of variations, ‘seemed at variance with the strictly classic notion of how the movements of sonatas and symphonies should run’. It was not a problem that persisted for long and by the 1942 edition the original ‘Fantasy Sonata’ had become Piano Sonata (though not yet Sonata No. 1!). But what constituted a sonata for Tippett when he finally resolved to use the title? Sonata No. 1 did at least contain a sonata-allegro, but this criterion would not necessarily be met in all the subsequent sonatas.10 And in terms of the balance and integration of the First Sonata as a whole it is questionable whether a sonata-allegro should

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have been included at all. Its displacement to the third movement, as Kemp has observed, was forced on Tippett (once the decision to include it had been made).11 But such a displacement is not without consequences. While it preserves the movement-to-movement contrasts of tempo and character, the strength of the intra-movement contrast between the first and second subject groups in the third movement (followed by their subsequent development) is difficult to separate psychologically from the historical archetype of an opening movement, even allowing for its reduction in length compared to a first-movement sonata-allegro. It is a tension with large-scale disintegration tendencies. This appears to be at odds with Tippett’s own assessment of the sonata as ‘the first work where the various personal stylistic elements are almost completely integrated within the one piece’. Both Kemp and Whittall cast doubt on the overall integration of elements in the sonata. For Whittall, ‘the sonata may not be a completely satisfactory synthesis of its diverse sources and stimuli’,12 but both find more to praise in individual movements than in the sonata as a whole.13 Tippett’s explanation of the initial title was that his earlier conception of the sonata had been ‘over strict’. Indeed, it was so strict that it was limited to Beethoven as the embodiment of classical norms. Other classicalperiod composers provided historical archetypes that might have acted as a precedent. Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A, K. 331 is the all-too-familiar example. Not only does it start with a set of six variations, but in its third (and final) movement (the Alla Turca) – which like Tippett’s final movement happens to be a rondo – the imitation of Turkish Janissary bands provides a parallel with Tippett’s allusions to Indonesian music in Variation 5 of the first movement, Scottish folk music in the second movement and American popular music in the fourth movement.14 There is no suggestion here that Tippett somehow modelled his sonata on Mozart, but as a shared archetype the connection brings a number of pertinent issues into focus. Why is it that Mozart’s allusion to a remote style has not attracted criticism but Tippett’s has? One reason might be to do with the quantity of the allusions. Kemp has described the first movement alone as ‘a kind of world tour, both geographically and chronologically’,15 and this does not include the references to Gaelic folk and American popular music in later movements. For Mozart, in an era when Turkish music was a fashionably exotic part of European culture, the inclusion of Janissary music in the finale is a well-judged crowd pleaser, a built-in encore.16 Other musical topics that are woven into the musical surface conform to established styles and are structurally integrated, although whether the modern listener is as attuned to the differences between topics as Mozart’s audiences were, and how that affected their reception – according to a different set of aesthetic values – is difficult

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to ascertain, and far beyond the scope of this chapter.17 In terms of the scope of Tippett’s ideas in this sonata – many of which are full of the kinds of exuberance, pathos and joy that are part of the sonata’s appeal, and helped to establish him as an emerging, distinctive voice – one possible conclusion is that the change in title does not reflect an underlying change in conception: in one sense the work remains a fantasy sonata, one from the early stages of compositional maturity where it is still sometimes easier to have a new idea than to work on the structural integration of an existing one. As a criticism this is most appropriately directed at the sonata as a whole. Within movements Tippett clearly attempted to integrate the diverse elements. The variation form used in the first movement, by its very nature, provides some kind of overarching integration, especially as Tippett does not stray far from a Beethovenian archetype of the form, and even the harmonic contrasts are connected by a pivotal pitch D, whether as dominant or mediant of major or minor tonalities. Is this sufficient to hold the diverse elements together? A strong sense of connection is established but the absence of goal-directedness in the variations as a whole implies that the ‘world tour’ could have continued and that, in some ways, its ideas – for all their interest and vitality – were arbitrary. The integration of ideas in the second movement hinges on a subtle distinction between what, according to Tippett, is a song form ‘using’ the Scottish folksong ‘Ca’ the yowes’ but, according to Whittall, is an allusion to it.18 Kemp’s helpful projection of the notes of ‘Ca’ the yowes’ onto Tippett’s melodic line appears to make the extent of the connection clear; but how deceiving the notation can be.19 Listening to a recording of ‘Ca’ the yowes’ and then Tippett’s use of it serves to demonstrate how even slight alterations of melodic lines removes their identity.20 Intervallic additions to, and rhythmic modifications of, the opening melodic figure remove important cues to musical recognition. In this case, the allusion is more notational than perceptual. Tippett’s alterations of the folk melody seem to be motivated more by an attempt to integrate the lyrical song with the melodic material used in the contrasting contrapuntal section.21 But the integration itself struggles to rise above being purely notational and the movement remains sectional. Despite the displaced appearance of the sonata-allegro, the thirdmovement Presto – in isolation – is the most integrated movement in the sense that it is stylistically focused and formally balanced. The Beethovenian contrast between the passionate and lyrical themes is effective and the subsequent unfolding stylistically coherent. Early references to the opening movement’s theme and the Indonesian music from Variation 5 risk setting the movement up as a finale, which contributes

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to the overall destabilizing effect again, but within the movement itself the reinforced octave repetitions of the opening theme grow naturally out of the preceding material.22 Proportionally, the movement is short (a fifth of the sonata’s total duration). While this undermines the conventional role of a sonata-allegro as the dramatic focus of the sonata, in the context of a third movement – which in this case also functions as a scherzo – it could be seen as an attempt to compensate for the ‘opening-movement’ archetype that the form would otherwise suggest. Alas, the tension between dramatizing the sonata-allegro and the requirement to reduce the power of the opening-movement archetype cannot be resolved and, despite the appeal of the movement in isolation, it remains a weakness overall. The final movement, a kind of ‘rodeo rondo’, shows Tippett at his most populist. Well-timed manipulations of sectional proportions, particularly the extended development of the second theme that delays the return to the final rendition of the opening theme, keep the listener on the edge of his saddle. At times, fragmentary references in developmental passages to themes seem too gestural and disconnected, but overall – like Mozart’s Alla Turca – it is a satisfying final movement. If its populist qualities have created something for everyone to dislike then it could be argued that, like the sonata as a whole, it foreshadows the kind of postmodern conception of music that Tippett resisted in his final late modernist period.23

A Trojan Horse: Sonata No. 2 The differences between the music announced by King Priam and that which preceded it have received frequent comment. In relation to instrumental music the comparison can be summarized as set out in Table 10.1.24 Tippett’s comments on Sonata No. 2, when contrasted with the features in Sonata No. 1 set out in the previous section, make his awareness of the scale of change apparent: The work issues from certain procedures in the orchestral piano part of ‘King Priam’, and from the formal dramatic structures of that opera. I have used two short quotations from this piano part to build two sections of the piano sonata. But the form of the sonata is the more important derivation. Everything in the sonata proceeds by statement. The effect is one of accumulation; through constant addition of new material; by variation and repetition. There is virtually no development and particularly no bridge passages. The formal unity comes from the balance of similarities and contrasts. The contrasts are straightforward ones of timbres and speeds. But there are also contrasts of function. Music can appear to flow; or to arrest itself

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Table 10.1 Stylistic differences in Tippett’s music, pre- and post-King Priam Pre-King Priam

King Priam to The Knot Garden

Functional dissonances Tonal teleology Long paragraphs Development/unfolding Polyphony

‘Higher consonances’ Structural discontinuities/juxtapositions/circularity Short sections Statements/gestures Superimposition/accumulation/musical mosaics

especially through the device of ostinato; or temporarily to stop in a silence. These kinds of contrasts are used constantly.

Tippett goes on to describe how some of the technical differences between Sonata No. 2 and King Priam arise out of the nature and number of instruments deployed. Significantly, the rapid juxtaposition of ideas replaces superimposition as a means of varying texture, in a way necessary to build a ‘jam session’, for instance: an exchange of vertical for horizontal density. Although Tippett does not comment (either here or anywhere else in a significant way) on the changing face of contemporary British music from the late 1950s onwards – notably the influence of the so-called Manchester group of Harrison Birtwistle, Alexander Goehr and Peter Maxwell Davies and their move to align themselves with the European avant-garde – the shift of balance from continuity to fragmentation in King Priam and after does demonstrate a sympathetic and relatively sudden response on Tippett’s part to European aesthetics that marks him out from his British near-contemporaries, such as Alan Rawsthorne, Howard Ferguson (who effectively withdrew from composition in the late 1950s) and even Benjamin Britten.25 But characteristically, it also demonstrates a commitment to embrace the past – including his past – even as he sought to resist it: continuity is far from abandoned entirely. Kemp has provided a comprehensive illustration of Tippett’s points, and more besides, in his analysis of this sonata.26 In terms of the tensions being examined in this chapter, though, the questions that need to be addressed are more relational. The differences exhibited by this stylistic shift could conceal the elements of continuity that exist as part of Tippett’s musical identity.27 The practice of quotation is one instance of this referred to by Tippett. Unlike at the time of writing Sonata No. 1, Tippett had access to a musical past that he himself had both constructed and acknowledged as his own – nearly three dozen works were composed between the first two sonatas. This opens up the possibility of self-quotation, which potentially strengthens his individual identity rather than diminishes it. And so it is in the references to King Priam found in Sonata No. 2. The particular

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quotations refer to the war music of Hector and Achilles from Act 2. These quotations are two among some twenty ‘gestural units’, as Kemp describes them, found in the sonata. They exist within eight larger sections, each associated with its own tempo marking. At most, this succession of statements amounts to a caricature of a sonata exposition, and their reworkings in the course of the piece are a mere suggestion of a three-‘movement’ sonata.28 In terms of magnitude, they vary in size much like the topics that might form a narrative in a classical-period sonata. Some have a fleeting existence, while others persist in prolonged flowing or relentless passages. In two senses, both by association, these gestural units make all the other units ‘dramatic’ too. Firstly, their chromatic-note cells underpin the intervallic content of the piece overall; and secondly, they are associated with each other by their close proximity which imparts a sense of them being dramatic too, like characters, moods and events forced together on the battlefield of Troy. It could be argued that this second point underlies the intellectual need for the particular quotations: quoting from his instrumental music, or not quoting at all, would have undermined the sense of dramatic intent. Unlike the topics of the classical style, these gestures do not generally have pre-existing cultural archetypes of the ‘extra-musical’ variety to which Tippett can now refer, such as ‘learned style’, ‘Sturm und Drang’, or (noting that Troy is generally believed by archaeologists to be in modern-day Turkey!) ‘Turkish music’. Nor are references to the popular and folk traditions of Scottish, Indonesian or American music admitted in this sonata. Tippett has to establish the extra-musical context afresh, which he does by quoting from King Priam. Listening to Sonata No. 2 as a piece that relates to the dramatic world of its operatic progenitor suggests a music that bristles with topical variety as much as its classical-era predecessors. In some cases, the gestural units can even be identified with classical topics. The most obvious instance of this is the fanfare unit that appears in the Tempo 5 music, but allusions to march music (at the very least, a quick march) can also be imagined in the Tempo 3 section.29 In topical terms, then, Tippett’s Second Piano Sonata is closer to the classical model than his first. Nor is this affinity limited to topical content, but the other signifiers of neoclassicism – where they do exist – are countered by the opposing forces listed above. Although teleology is absent overall there are large-scale gestures that either convey a sense of moving towards an end-point, or present an atemporal tableau of the music with signifiers of the endings that fall short of actually being functional endings. The most blatant of these is the emphatic version of the opening Tempo 1 music that appears in the closing bars, an insistence on being in C (through chordal repetitions) that contradicts the tonal

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organization of the intervening music, and does not attempt to be a resolution of the preceding material in any way. In textural terms, the increase in horizontal density towards the end (the ‘accumulation’ that Tippett refers to, the solo instrumental equivalent of a jam session) gives a stronger perceptual shape to the Lisztian (in terms of archetypal form) single-movement sonata, a sense of large-scale continuity; and pitchcoherence is produced by the embedding of the Hector/Achilles motive in other gestural units, albeit a coherence that falls short of actually being a unifying device. And finally, larger-scale groupings of tempi evoke a sense of directional time (as for instance in the change from slow to fast speeds up to the appearance of the Tempo 6 music) even if these are ultimately undermined by what can be heard as a circular form produced by the beginning/end associations noted above. However, none of these connections amounts to more than a gesture in the context of mostly nonfunctional harmony, or the sectional discontinuities produced by the absence of bridge passages and the juxtaposition of ideas. Perceptually, the differences overpower the connections with Tippett’s earlier neoclassicism.

Being Beethoven: Sonata No. 3 At a technical level, Tippett’s comments about this sonata relate mostly to its form, which consists of three movements (fast-slow-fast) that are to be played as ‘a single unbroken piece’ (an intention notationally indicated by the single bar-number sequence), evidence that the movements can be perceived as sections linked by, among other factors, similar tempi (however different the ‘speeds’ judged by patterns of duration turn out to be) and pitch-contour patterns.30 Other technical aspects about each movement of the sonata are expressed succinctly by Tippett himself:31 The first fast [movement] is a sonata-allegro, i.e. statement of contrasted materials – argument – restatement (decorated). The middle slow is a succession of 17 elaborate chords and 4 variations of this succession. Each variation lifts the succession a minor third higher, thus retaining in variation 4 to the initial level . . . The second fast is an ABA shaped toccata, where B is the mirror form of A1, and A2 is A1 shortened and with a coda.

In comparison with his comments on Sonata No. 2 these observations are strikingly conservative, as his judgement that the sonata is ‘more of a summation than a novelty’ also testifies. But this is not a negative

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judgement – the summation is accompanied by enrichment. More than either of the preceding sonatas, and even the one that follows it, this sonata – composed in the shadow of his Symphony No. 3 (1970–2), with its quotation from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony – is the closest Tippett comes to a Beethovenian model. For a piece that in most ways belongs to a soundworld far removed from Beethoven’s this might be a surprising impression, especially if, by ‘summation’, Tippett is referring to his own particular development, as the sum of the previous sonata parts does not suggest he could have arrived at a Beethovenian culmination. In many ways, Tippett’s Third Symphony is a more obvious summation of his musical voice up until the early 1970s since it contains prominent features from both the pre- and post-King Priam periods. The tonal lyricism of the Lento section in Part I and the quotation from, or allusion to, remote styles of music (blues as well as Beethoven) in Part II are strongly connected with Tippett’s practices from his earlier period; while the ‘jam session’ of five different musics, each associated with a particular instrumental group, is rooted in the music of the post-King Priam period, especially the Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3). As summation of his previous practices, as well as a Beethovenian culmination, it is in the formal balance of Sonata No. 3 that a resolution of these apparent divergences is to be found. Even within this limitation there are clear nonconformities as far as the Beethovenian model is concerned. At most, there are three movements (unless there is just one divided into three sections, as discussed above), so on the largest scale the emotional balance of the sonata, without a scherzo, differs from most Beethoven sonatas. But the movements that do exist exhibit a close affinity to their corresponding classical counterparts. The first movement is unambiguously a sonata-allegro, as Tippett describes it above, and not merely in the sense that it is a gestural reference to the past – the proportions between the statements of contrasting material rely on the extended unfolding of thematic ideas (twenty-one bars and sixteen bars respectively) and other proportions follow on similarly. The sense of fragmentation that distanced the preceding sonata from historical models is absent throughout all three movements. Long paragraphs have been re-established. And although a bridge passage does not exist in a harmonic sense, the function of a bridge is embedded in the textural shape of the first subject: the contrary movement from the extremes of the piano’s register reaches over a bar of silence to be resolved symmetrically by the beginning of the second theme, a dyad which then fans out to cover the full range of the piano. The contrast between groups itself is one of kinetic versus static states, but as an abstraction of the passionate and the lyrical it remains a close parallel. And while the second movement departs from classical norms in its use of

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variations of any kind, even chordal ones, the homophonic emphasis of the movement – itself partly a contrast to the contrapuntal texture of the first movement – does suggest a closer affinity, even in the absence of lyrical melody. Finally, it might be wondered whether the toccata third movement, texturally closely related to the first movement (which is clear from the beginning of each), is a kind of structural pun on the idea of a rondo. Its ternary form derives from a middle section that is a literal retrograde of the first section, leading to a shortened version of the first section. This palindromic device was also used in Symphony No. 3’s ‘night music’, and night-time is, of course, a recurring phenomenon produced by celestial circular motion. However tenuous, as a notional/historical archetypal pair, this connection between the palindrome and a rondo’s thematic recurrence might be, symmetrical and cyclical patterns are embedded in the sonata as a whole (as the examples above illustrate). But on balance, the connection with the post-King Priam music is far stronger than the connection with historical models, as far as circularity is concerned: Sonata No. 2 suggests a circular form (see above), and The Vision of Saint Augustine (1963–5) makes extensive use of cyclical patterns, for instance in depictions of eternity.32 It is at the level of phrasing that Sonata No. 3 reveals its most significant connections with historical archetypes. In the first movement a pattern of pairing references to historical voice-leading figures (e.g. appoggiatura, echappée and cambiata) at phrase and especially section beginnings, with tonal triads (major, minor, augmented or diminished) at phrase or section endings is established from the start. Chordal punctuations often involve the kinds of higher consonances identified by Whittall and the specific harmonic constructions (the so-called Z and Z′ chords) identified by David Clarke.33 The pattern is systematic enough to qualify as a syntactical function.34 Less perceptibly, the central movement traces tonal triads at middleground levels; and the final movement embeds triads in its toccata ideas, providing intervallic and harmonic coherence. But these connections to the past are not sufficient to recreate it. There is a sense of classical proportion and shape, but for all the voice-leading and chordal allusions, the unfolding surface – and the means by which the proportions and shapes are produced – are indeed a summation of Tippett’s music up until the end of the 1960s. The distinctive identity of the piece depends on this summation: it is Tippett being Beethoven but in his own way. If this way involves excessive stylized abstraction – calculated transpositions, literal retrogrades, multiple variations of chord sequences according to predetermined numerical schemes – then that might be the price of containment, a Beethovenian exoskeleton housing the beating heart of Tippett.

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Being Tippett: Sonata No. 4 Like Tippett’s First Piano Sonata, his Fourth was conceived as something else: this time a set of five bagatelles to be connected by ‘tonal relations’ balanced by variations of speed and style. Tippett’s concern for historical precedence is expressed negatively by the noted absence of five-movement sonatas within the repertoire of the piano. The effect of this five-movement form on the balance of the sonata, seen by Tippett in general as leading to a ‘prominence’ of the third movement, ‘either of display or intensity’, is considered: the sonata consists of a succession of alternating slow/fast movements, the pattern of which is projected onto the middle movement itself which – as befits its slow tempo – is one of intensity rather than display. The relative stress of the other movements follows from this pattern; the first movement acts as a Prelude to the second and the fifth is ‘more contemplative, a theme and four variations’. At face value, this arrangement of movements appears to have retreated from the classical balance of Sonata No. 3. Parallels, from specific pitch connections in thematic material to comparisons of form, can be made with Beethoven, as Whittall has explored in relation to the finale of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 109, which is also a set of variations. But Whittall speculatively cautions that Tippett ‘decided to incorporate an ambivalent allusion to the Beethoven finale . . . mischievously inviting the unwary to assume that the former might be held to serve as model for the latter’.35 And so it is with the preceding four movements, and thence the sonata as a whole. In general, Tippett’s connections with himself seem more significant than those with others in this final sonata. The ‘final echo’ of Symphony No. 4 in the third movement of the sonata is one indicator of this introspection (much more so than was the case in Sonata No. 2 where self-quotation was countered by an equally reactionary response to his pre-King Priam music, a partial rejection of self ). The series of four extended, and different (though not – in the case of the first three – necessarily contrasted) ideas in the first movement do not amount to a sonata-allegro, but the return to the opening three ideas after the longer (contrasting) middle section establishes a ternary form on a relatively large scale. The connections between the ideas are largely harmonic, with some textural similarities (chords as the product of dyadic counterpoint) and recurring rhythmic patterns. Even the opening wholetone sonorities function as a departure point for harmonic alterations to produce the resonant and often spacious chords that permeate the music overall, and that are epitomized by the final chord of the movement (which is also the opening chord of the third section, and its reappearance in the final section).36 Tippett comments on the importance of piano

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resonance in this sonata and his exploration of this (to him) ‘new element’ following discussions with Paul Crossley. The sounds are reminiscent of chords accompanied by upper- and lower-resonances in Messiaen’s harmonic language, but the particular qualities which simultaneously embrace and resist tonal chords are quintessential Tippett: tensions between the chords’ inner dissonances and the resolutions that are not specifically implied, but are nonetheless present, characterize the sonata’s harmonic language. The first and last movements are the most striking in this respect. Differentiation of the piano’s registers by dynamic layering, which was initiated in the sonata’s opening bars, along with sudden dynamic variations, is explored more fully in the second movement. As a feature of Tippett’s piano writing this is a welcome innovation, and one that is central to his exploration of piano resonance. Indeed, the emphasis that is given to the interplay between dynamic differences and spatial separation in this movement is more significant than the supposed tempo differences: medium slow to medium fast both, in the end, seem to be overlapping temporal fluctuations around medium. Predetermined number sequences, of the kind that Tippett used to structure the middle movement of his Third Sonata, emerge once more in the central movement of this sonata with its five sections of A1 (26 bars), B1 (19 bars), C (35 bars), B2 (16 bars) and A2 (27 bars), a replication of the overall five-movement design. The outer sections contain inner variation achieved by the extension and embellishment of constituent figures and gestures, which accounts for the differences in lengths when the ideas return. But the five phrases of the middle section (which further subdivides into five lots of 2 + 5 bars) seem weak in comparison with the earlier sonata, and ineffectual as the sonata’s centrepiece. The fanfare figures and hammered octaves, which together fully account for this section, evoke a drama of some kind, but the intention is unclear. The maestoso quality of the opening section (which has a dotted-note compound rhythm produced by the addition of distinct dyadic lines) provides a possible link with the fanfare figure, but overall this is no ‘Trojan Horse’ sonata. The music that opens and closes this movement – the symmetrical trace from unison out to minor sixth at the start which reappears as a clear tonal progression at the end (albeit as a layer within a higher consonance) – connects with the opening of Symphony No. 4, Tippett’s essay on life from birth to death,37 but this is hardly a basis for a dramatic narrative overall in the way that quotations from King Priam were for Sonata No. 2. Contrapuntal symmetry returns in the unambiguously fast fourth movement, not quite on the scale of the Third Sonata (particularly its first movement) but expansive enough to allow for the exploration of the

203 The four piano sonatas: past and present tensions

piano’s full range. In places, this movement shares some qualities with Bach’s Two-Part Inventions with its frequent use of imitative counterpoint and the geometric interplay of similar and contrary motions. This could be a vestige of the sonata’s bagatelle origins, especially if the final movement is seen as Tippett’s reminiscence on the sarabande, as Whittall implies by connecting it with the finale of Beethoven’s Op. 109.38 Taken together, these four sonatas do not present a particularly elaborate conception of what a Tippett sonata is in an archetypal sense. To conclude that for Tippett a piano sonata is a substantial solo work for piano based on contrasts either within or between movements, risks sounding mundane, but in fact this is consistent with Tippett’s worldview generally. ‘I would know my shadow and my light’, he reiterated in an interview with Nicholas Kenyon towards the end of his life, some fifty years after composing A Child of Our Time.39 Tippett’s lifelong dualism, which he drew initially from Carl Gustav Jung,40 finds relatively simple expression in these sonatas. Other binary divisions of the kind favoured by him – shadow and light, spirit and matter, pastoral and urban, Dionysus and Apollo – are made more complex when expressed in a narrative or dramatic context, invariably of his own devising. But Tippett’s sonatas crystallize these more challenging discourses, without closing the door on extra-musical speculation. And their multiple contrasts, for they are rarely just binary oppositions, encourage us to think that in the dramatic works we need to be sensitive to shades of grey, and to remember that white light is at its most interesting when diffracted. Notes 1 Michael Tippett, CD liner notes to Sir Michael Tippett: The Four Piano Sonatas, CRD Records Ltd (CRD 3430 and 3431) (1985), performed by Paul Crossley. 2 See Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), Ch. 4. 3 These terms were first discussed by Tippett in his contribution to Robert S. Hines (ed.), The Orchestral Composer’s Point of View: Essays on Twentieth-Century Music by Those Who Wrote It (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1970), pp. 203–19. This was later adapted and expanded as ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 89–108. The terms are considered in more detail in Borthwick, ‘Tonal Elements and their Significance in Tippett’s Sonata No. 3’ in David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 117–23.

4 Ibid. The diachronic and synchronic axis associated with these tensions can be related to Jean-Jacques Nattiez’s concept of the semiological tripartition, a tripartition consisting of ‘poietic’, ‘neutral’ and ‘esthetic’ levels. See Nattiez, Music and Discourse: Toward a Semiology of Music, trans. Carolyn Abbate (Princeton University Press, 1990). 5 Tippett, CD liner notes to Sir Michael Tippett: The Four Piano Sonatas (see n. 1 above). All quotes from Tippett are taken from this source unless otherwise stated. 6 The relationship between Nattiez’s term ‘poietic’ and Tippett’s historical and notional archetypes is explored in Borthwick’s ‘Tonal Elements’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies. 7 See, for instance, Borthwick, ‘Tonal Elements’, ibid.; Kemp, Tippett; Iain Stannard, ‘“Arrest and Movement”: Tippett’s Second Piano Sonata and the Genesis of a Method’, twentieth-century music, 4/2 (2007), 133–61; and Arnold Whittall, The Music of Britten and

204 Alastair Borthwick Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques, 2nd edn (Cambridge University Press, 1990). 8 All the significant references to Tippett’s sonatas in this chapter relate to the hearing of them, often sections or even the particular overall effect of an entire sonata – what Nattiez might refer to as an ‘esthetic’ encounter. For this reason, there are no notated music examples in this chapter. However, for the arguments to be appreciated I recommend listening to the extracts identified in the text alongside the reading of it, with the scores to hand if possible (although these are less important than the recordings, unless used to play the pieces!). All subsequent timings refer to the Crossley recording (see n. 1 above). 9 See Derrick Puffett’s assessment in ‘Tippett and the Retreat from Mythology’, Musical Times, 136 (January 1995), 6–14. 10 For Hans Keller, at least, the presence of a sonata-form movement is an essential criterion: ‘the core of the concept of the sonata is . . . sonata form, the prototypical symphonic contrasts within a movement have been acknowledged to be those between first and second subject’ (‘The State of the Symphony: Not Only Maxwell Davies’s’, Tempo, 125 (1978), 8). 11 The sonata-allegro could not appear second because of the overemphasis this would bring to the musical argument in the first half of the sonata, and it could not function as a last movement ‘without demanding too much of the creative imagination’ (see Kemp, Tippett, p. 131). 12 Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 36. 13 Ibid., pp. 34–6, and Kemp, Tippett, pp. 131–8. 14 Variation 5 is found at 5′ 38″ in the Crossley recording. The other examples appear at the beginnings of movements. 15 Kemp, Tippett, p. 132. It is an interesting observation but sometimes overstated. Does Variation 3 really sound like Elizabethan virginal music because of its scalic passages? To me it is more akin to nineteenth-century romanticism, with the scalic runs suggestive of orchestral harp music. 16 Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5 in A major, K. 219 also invokes music alla Turca in its finale, and similar examples can be found in Haydn and Beethoven. 17 For the relationship between musical topos and structure in the classical style see Kofi Agawu, Playing with Signs: A Semiotic Interpretation of Classic Music (Princeton University Press, 1991). 18 Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 35.

19 Kemp, Tippett, p. 135. 20 Isobel Baillie’s 1942 recording of ‘Ca’ the yowes’ is currently available via the Internet: see YouTube, www.youtube.com/watch? v=WX_jZ4Wn01Q. 21 Kemp identifies a link with the neoclassicism of Alan Bush (see Tippett, p. 135). Indeed, to my ears the specific connection Kemp makes (with Bush’s Prelude and Fugue, Op. 9) is perceptually as similar as that existing between the folksong and Tippett’s own melodic line, if not more so. Tippett’s use of the song becomes an almost generalized reference to the style. 22 Both references to the opening movement can be heard in the first twenty seconds of the movement. 23 For a discussion of ‘lateness’, as distinct from postmodernism in Tippett’s music, see David Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 222–4. 24 Compare with Kemp’s drama-centred list of oppositions in Tippett, p. 322. The term ‘higher consonances’ is Whittall’s: ‘the emancipation of the consonance; the structurally significant use of chords . . . which, while giving some priority to triadic elements, no longer require the exclusive presence of those elements in any privileged contexts: their function is mediation rather than resolution’ (The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 5). 25 Tippett does discuss his reaction to a piece by Boulez, possibly his Second Piano Sonata or Pli selon pli, later in the 1960s, which led to his formulation of the ideas of ‘arrest’ and ‘movement’: ‘I was listening to a concert of modern music . . . what I call a very “motionless” modern music: it hadn’t a harmonic or rhythmic or any other sort of drive that I could hear. Now I’m never very close to such music, and I kept saying to myself . . . I don’t see how I could ever use this kind of thing for expressive purposes unless it were part of a piece based upon sharp contrasts’ (quoted in Bayan Northcott, ‘Tippett’s Third Symphony’, Music and Musicians, 20/10 (June 1972), 30). 26 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 375–80. 27 Composers’ musical identities depend on continuities just as much as their developments depend on change, an issue that is pertinent to other long-lived composers in a century and more of unsettled modern times. 28 See Kemp, Tippett, pp. 379–80. 29 Tempo 3 music starts at 25′′ and the Tempo 5 at 46′′. 30 The tempo connection is observed in Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 295; and the pitch-contour pattern linking

205 The four piano sonatas: past and present tensions movements in Borthwick, ‘Tonal Elements’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 127. Significantly, the final chord of the sonata is also a pitch-contour resolution. 31 The motivic, thematic and formal aspects of this sonata have been explored thoroughly in Borthwick, ‘Tonal Elements’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies. 32 See Borthwick, ‘Music and Eschatology’ in Jeremy S. Begbie and Steven R. Guthrie (eds.), Resonant Witness: Conversations between Music and Theology (Michigan: Eerdmans, 2011), pp. 289–90. The multiple repetitions are structured in such a way as to avoid the alignment of individual ostinato figures, an evocation of eternity by manipulating musical time. 33 Both chords consist of a major triad with upper or lower fifths in relation to the triad in

close position. See David Clarke, Language, Form and Structure in the Music of Michael Tippett, 2 vols. (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1989), vol. I , pp. 8, 81–2. 34 See Borthwick, ‘Tonal Elements’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, pp. 135–44. 35 Arnold Whittall, ‘Resisting Tonality: Tippett, Beethoven and the Sarabande’, Music Analysis, 9/3 (October 1990), 280. 36 The third section begins at 1′25″. 37 See Kemp, Tippett, p. 476. 38 See Whittall, ‘Resisting Tonality’. 39 Tippett, interviewed by Nicholas Kenyon in Purcell 300, BBC 2, 21 November 1995. 40 Tippett, ‘What I Believe’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels: Essays and Sketchbooks of Michael Tippett (London: Ernst Eulenburg Ltd., 1980), p. 50.

11 Formal archetypes, revered masters and singing nightingales: Tippett’s string quartets NICHOLAS JONES

This chapter focuses on a genre that was central to Tippett’s output. As Peter Wright has observed, Tippett ‘wrote more quartets than any other kind of instrumental music, and they include both his first published opus and his last major score but one’.1 Indeed, the composition of his five quartets occupied Tippett at various points throughout his creative life: the first three were written in the 1930s and 1940s, the fourth in the late 1970s, and the fifth in the early 1990s. But Tippett’s ‘intense love of the string quartet’2 can in fact be traced back to his student days: I was invincibly drawn to the quartet medium as soon as I came to the Royal College of Music, London, in 1923, and heard the top-ranking players of those days. The two ensembles I remember best were the Busch and the Léner. The Busch was held to be more virile and the Léner more polished. I liked them both. Both gave complete cycles of all the Beethoven Quartets annually, and the Léner made a cycle on 78s for Columbia [Records].3

[206]

The reference to Beethoven here is highly significant, for it was Beethoven who exercised a profound influence over Tippett in his formative years. In his autobiography, Tippett recalls receiving the Léner recordings from his friend Aubrey Russ: ‘These I played so obsessively that I had to stop, as I was memorising the music in terms of the changes of side for each disc.’4 Tippett regarded Beethoven as his ‘revered master’ and his ‘musical god’,5 and this deep admiration remained strongly in place throughout his life. Thus Beethovenian principles permeate all of Tippett’s quartets, and this crucial aspect will be discussed below, as will the twin influences of Purcell and Bartók, two additional ‘revered masters’. Other important issues that will be addressed in this chapter concern Tippett’s engagement with the formal archetypes of sonata form and fugue; his proclivity for lines that are possessed with a strong lyrical impulse; his highly distinctive contrapuntal practice and idiosyncratic rhythmic language; and the different ways in which the quartets articulate a constructive dialogue between the past and present. The chapter will also consider the position and significance of the quartets in relation to Tippett’s periods of stylistic change and development.

207 Tippett’s string quartets

A ‘consciously evolving sequence’: the first three quartets Tippett’s first three string quartets belong to the composer’s so-called ‘early’ period, and, according to Alan Ridout, in them ‘may be found the quintessence of his style up to The Midsummer Marriage [1946–52]’.6 Although each of the quartets has its own particular context and problems to solve, Tippett viewed them as a group: ‘I felt them then to be a consciously evolving sequence and I intended to pursue the sequence with certainly a fourth, at not too long a distance. Since the fourth never got written, the sequence was closed.’7 The first three quartets therefore can be understood as a selfcontained unit, each one reflecting Tippett’s ‘total preoccupation’ at the time with matters of form: ‘How many movements in a work? What sort of movements? How are the chosen movements to be made successful (both in themselves and in contrast and complement)?’8 The String Quartet No. 1 in A (1934–5, rev. 1943) has been described as ‘the fruit of a very long apprenticeship’.9 Certainly, Tippett had already completed two quartets before embarking on the work – the unpublished Quartets in F major (1928, rev. 1930) and F minor (1929). But the composer was unsatisfied with the pair, later describing them as ‘immature and unsuccessful attempts at the genre’.10 The chief compositional aim in these works was the integration of a Beethovenian and folksong style.11 He had also composed a String Trio in B♭ (1932), written under the guidance of R. O. Morris, with whom Tippett had studied fugue and free composition between 1930 and 1932. Whilst the Trio ‘shows clear, rhythmic and melodic fingerprints of the composer’,12 Tippett apparently withdrew the work because of the unassimilated influence of Sibelius.13 The First Quartet, then, holds a distinctly privileged position in Tippett’s output: it is the first acknowledged work of the composer’s maturity, and one in which he vigorously asserted his own distinctive voice. According to Kemp, Tippett made an ‘evolutionary jump’ with the composition of the work: Having written music laudable and painstaking but in the last resort characterless, he now, without warning, produced a work with an instantly recognizable signature of its own, quite different from anything he had written before . . . Tippett had discovered his individual voice. Of this he was well aware. The manuscript of the Quartet’s finale bears the inscription ‘Damn braces. Bless relaxes.’ (from the ‘Proverbs of Hell’ in [William] Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell), as if to say that creative constraint has finally been thrown to the winds and that far from losing everything he has instead found a new identity.14

A major part of this ‘new identity’ was centred upon Tippett’s handling of rhythm and counterpoint. This is borne out most clearly, as the above

208 Nicholas Jones Ex. 11.1 String Quartet No. 1, third movement, opening

quote suggests, in the third and final movement of the work, a playful yet dynamic Beethovenian fugue. Here the rhythmic drive is relentless and punchy, the contrapuntal textures vivacious and brimming full of youthful vigour and optimism. Tippett describes this movement as the ‘earliest example [in his own music] of additive rhythm and cross-rhythm polyphony’.15 These characteristics, which were to become stylistic fingerprints of Tippett’s early period, evidently caused a certain amount of unease for the Brosa Quartet, who premiered the work at the Mercury Theatre, London, on 9 December 1935 – Tippett’s first professional performance.16 Additive rhythm – the technique whereby a regular pulse is replaced by series of irregular rhythmic metres – is heard from the outset of the movement (Ex. 11.1). The alternation of irregular metres (2/4, 5/8, 3/4, and so on) might suggest the influence of Stravinsky (indeed, there is a distinctly Stravinskian theme starting at Fig. 3617), but on the whole Tippett’s rhythmic language springs from a very different source. According to Kemp, its ‘most clear parentage lies in music written over 350 years before’, especially in the works of the English madrigalists and the string fantasias of William Byrd and Orlando Gibbons (although he did not encounter the fantasias of Gibbons until after he had composed the Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9)).18 If the finale is a virtuosic display of rhythmic and contrapuntal inventiveness, the earlier movements concentrate on different musical parameters. The Lento second movement, with its warm and luxuriant textures, focuses almost obsessively on the melodic dimension. The movement is characterized by what Tippett calls ‘long-lined lyricism’19 – melodic lines whose contours outline huge, broad arcs of horizontal flux. An example of this is given in Ex. 11.2. Here, within the duration of just two bars, the first violin melody sweeps upwards from the initial D♭ to the same pitch class two octaves above, before returning back to the theme’s initial register. The following bars are also marked by a similar melodic restlessness, stretching up to the violin’s upper register, with intervals of perfect fourths and major and minor sixths predominating (not to

209 Tippett’s string quartets Ex. 11.2 String Quartet No. 1, second movement, opening (violin 1 only)

mention the heart-wrenching minor ninth in bar 5), lending the passage an immense, spacious quality. According to Tippett, the emotional discharge of lyricism displayed in this movement was a direct result of his relationship with the painter and craftsman Wilfred Franks, to whom the quartet is dedicated: Meeting with Wilf [in 1932] was the deepest, most shattering experience of falling in love: and I am quite certain that it was a major factor underlying the discovery of my own individual ‘voice’ – something that couldn’t be analysed purely in technical terms: all that love flowed out in the slow movement of my First String Quartet, an unbroken span of lyrical music in which all four instruments sing ardently from start to finish.20

This preoccupation with lyricism, however, should not sideline the fact that the movement also relies on harmonic means to articulate its ‘neoromantic’ soundworld.21 Indeed, although the movement abounds with piquant dissonances (most notably the minor-second clashes at Fig. 24:6–7), Tippett opts for an ostensibly tonal harmonic language with D♭ major as the overall notional tonic key. And even if the return to this key at the end of the movement is, for Kemp, ‘perfunctory’,22 the closing bars (Ex. 11.3) – with the embellished cadential 6/4 and playful dissonance in the violins between the leading note C and tonic D♭ – offer a moment of exquisite beauty. In 1943, most probably emboldened by the composition of his Second String Quartet, Tippett decided to revise the First Quartet, replacing the original first two movements with a new single one; the resulting threemovement work was published in 1946, two years after the publication of the Second Quartet.23 The movement he finally added is doggedly concerned with the Beethovenian sonata-allegro archetype, with its customary vigorous first subject and lyrical second subject (see Table 11.1). According to Ridout, it is ‘grim in mood. It is difficult to escape the feeling that the date of its composition is relevant: even the cello “breaks” [the

210 Nicholas Jones Ex. 11.3 String Quartet No. 1, second movement, ending

cadenzas highlighted in Table 11.1] are cries of pain, rather than the upsurge of joy they usually become in Tippett’s hands.’24 Thus, contrasting strongly with the finale and middle movement, the first movement is distinguished by its often harsh, abrasive harmonic language, and the spiky, disjunct nature of its horizontal lines. Such ‘modernist’ features are most prominent in the first subject, yet this area also contains some unexpected anachronistic features, such as augmented sixth chords and 4–3 suspensions (Ex. 11.4). Although both types are resolved classically, Tippett does not attach any meaningful harmonic or structural function to either, apparently using them instead for expressive or decorative purposes.25 The marked contrasts in mood and character and the disjunctions in style evident between all three movements have attracted the attention of several commentators. Kemp, for instance, argues that the ‘Quartet as a whole barely escapes the charge of being a patchwork’,26 an assertion that suggests stylistic incoherence. However, Kemp qualifies his statement by adding that overall the work displays ‘the practical application of Tippett’s compositional premise that each movement should keep to its own specific genre and that a comprehensive musical statement would emerge from the interaction between polarities’.27 In the First Quartet the dramatic and structural weight of the work is front-loaded. In the Second String Quartet (1941–2) this process is reversed, the Beethovenian sonata-allegro appearing as the finale in this classically shaped four-movement work. David Matthews argues that this movement – marked Allegro appassionato, like the first movement of the

Table 11.1 String Quartet No. 1, first movement, sonata-form design Development (Figs. 7–16:9)

Exposition (Figs. 0–6:7) First subject

Transition

Second subject

Closing section [concluding with cello cadenza]

Figs. 0–1:21

1:22–11

2–3:26

4–6:7

Superscript numbers refer to beat numbers

(7–16:9)

Recapitulation (Figs. 17–22:7) First subject

Transition

Second subject

Closing section [concluding with cello cadenza]

17–18:21

18:22–11

19–20:26

21–22:7

212 Nicholas Jones Ex. 11.4 String Quartet No. 1, first movement, Fig. 0:23–4

previous quartet – is ‘closely modelled’ on the finale of Beethoven’s Quartet in C♯ minor, Op. 131.28 Tippett makes reference to this key in the opening bars: here, the stubborn, throbbing C♯ cello crotchets strain to keep the agitated, syncopated idea in the first violin in check. The exposition is concise yet tightly packed with ideas, some of which, like the Beethoven model, are derived from previous movements.29 Following the first subject, a frenetic bridge passage (Figs. 72:7–73:3), characterized by trademark Tippettian scurrying semiquavers, ushers in the second subject in E♭ major (Fig. 73:4) which, in contrast to the first, is inert yet lyrical in character. This leads to what appears to be a third subject in B minor at Fig. 74:10; and only at Fig. 76:3, the start of the development section, does the music finally reach F♯ minor, the tonic key of the whole work. Tippett’s attitude towards sonata form in this movement is somewhat orthodox and strict: in the recapitulation (from Fig. 79:10), for instance, the first subject is an almost exact repetition of its initial appearance in the exposition, and despite the transposition up a perfect fourth, so too are the second and third subjects. In the coda, however, he eschews the expected Beethovenian teleological conclusion, and in its place we instead encounter music whose origins lie in a very different musical past: ‘In these last few bars [from Fig. 85:6] the Beethoven sound-world recedes as the seventeenth-century allusions that had pervaded the first two movements – to the English madrigalists and to the Purcell string fantasias – briefly come again to the fore, to end the quartet as gently and gracefully as it had begun.’30 Wilfrid Mellers describes the final cadence in this last movement as ‘elegiac’,31 and the cadence’s harmonic outline explicitly recalls the modally inflected ‘Aeolian’ cadence which Tippett uses to conclude the work’s first movement (Ex. 11.5). Moments such as these help to imbue the work with a profound sense of nostalgia – of a musical past that has been lost – filtered through Tippett’s own twentieth-century musical language. Matthews’s reference to Purcell in the above quote is especially apt in this context: Purcell was writing at a time when the viol fantasia had

213 Tippett’s string quartets Ex. 11.5 String Quartet No. 2, first movement, coda

already become archaistic, so his fantasias are possessed with a nostalgic awareness of the fantasias of Byrd, Gibbons and Matthew Locke. The opening movement (Allegro grazioso), like the finale, is cast in sonata form, but the form in this instance ‘is deliberately loosened to keep the lyricism above the dramatics’.32 Since both first and second subjects are lyrical, the elements of contrast and tension – features common to the classical sonata-form archetype – are all but absent, and as a result Tippett presents a form that is highly flexible and individual in shape (see Table 11.2). Of particular interest is the recapitulation in reverse, a formal process that has a number of eighteenth-century precedents, especially in works dating from the 1750s to the early 1780s.33 The more obvious and immediate precedent for Tippett, though, would surely have been Bartók, and more specifically the Fifth String Quartet of 1934, the first movement of which uses a reverse recapitulation.34 Tippett recalls in his autobiography how he ‘became very much drawn to the Bartók string quartets’ through his friendship (which started around 1932) with Paul Dienes, a Hungarian mathematician who had a ‘particular enthusiasm for Bartók’.35 Tippett, though, is frustratingly vague with specific dates, and it is unclear as to which Bartók quartets he knew before composing his own Second Quartet. But it is Beethoven to whom Tippett turns once again in the third movement of the Second Quartet. This is a fast-paced scherzo and trio in additive rhythm, and from a structural point of view is entirely straightforward: it is in three parts, the second and third parts being modified repeats of the first, each transposed into a different tonal/modal region, with the movement eventually coming to rest (but not resolving) on A, the relative major of the quartet’s tonic. This structural device – repetition of non-developmental ‘blocks’ of material, often by transposition – was to become a fingerprint of Tippett’s music and is evident in all periods of his compositional career.36 As Ridout states, by 1944 Tippett had ‘found techniques of building movements in satisfying but unconventional ways’:

Table 11.2 String Quartet No. 2, first movement, sonata-form design Development (Figs. 14:10–20:6)

Exposition (Figs. 0–14:9) First subject area A

transition material

Figs. 0– 2:4 2:5–3:3

Second subject area B 3:4– 6:7

A 6:8– 9:101

B

C 2

9:10 – 11:1

Superscript numbers refer to beat numbers

11:2– 12:5

Recapitulation (Figs. 20:7–36:4)

Codetta A 12:6– 13:9

Second subject area

B 13:10– 14:9

A (14:10–20:6)

20:7– 23:91

B 2

23:9 – 24:10

Coda (Fig. 36:5–11)

First subject area

Codetta

C

transition material

B

A

A

B

25:1– 26:4

26:5–27:3

27:4– 31:3

31:4– 33:10

34:1– 35:4

35:5– 36:4

36:5–11

215 Tippett’s string quartets The most important of these techniques . . . consists of the repetition and juxtaposition of complete blocks of material . . . the concept of a musical mosaic, which is so explicit a feature of King Priam [1958–61], the Second Piano Sonata [1962], and the Concerto for Orchestra [1962–3], has always been with him in some measure.37

On one level, the third movement is an essentially diatonic/modal display of elation and abandon before the stormy dramatics of the finale. On another, it functions as a highly necessary release of tension following the overwrought and chromatic second-movement fugue. The sombre musical language that Tippett employs in this second movement surely has something to do with matters of autobiography and other extra-musical affairs. For a start, Tippett himself informs us that the fugue subject itself ‘was written down sometime previously during the Munich crisis of 1938’.38 And secondly, during the actual composition of the work Tippett wrote to a close friend to convey the deep concerns he was experiencing at the prospect of imprisonment on account of his status as a conscientious objector: ‘Work has gone well & the 4tet [Second Quartet] moves. But the prison walls worry me & sometimes dry everything up. I am frightened in my body tho[ugh] unafraid in my mind.’39 From a musical perspective, Puffett argues that this movement is influenced by the fugue from Beethoven’s Op. 131, whereas Mellers contends that it is ‘closer to the baroque notion of fugue’;40 it is useful to see it as an amalgam of the two. Tippett himself cites a specific feature of Purcell’s music as having a significant impact on his own technique: It is [Purcell’s] ability to create intensity, particularly in poignant moments, by a sort of harmonic polyphony . . . This poignancy is in Dido’s lament [from Dido and Aeneas], especially in the last ritornello after Dido has ceased to sing . . . The technical means to produce this intense polyphony are chiefly the hanging on to notes in one part so that they make a momentary dissonance with another part before they resolve themselves; and the placing of harmonically unexpected notes at the moments of resolution, so that the music is never quite resolved and still . . . Exactly this feature of Purcell’s style, developed as it was out of the Elizabethans, has become a feature in its turn of my own musical language: a good example occurs in the slow movement of the String Quartet No. 2, a movement which is also a fugue.41

Tippett’s phrase, ‘the music is never quite resolved and still’, is indeed one of the main features of this fugue. The bassline chromaticism evident in Tippett’s Purcell example is reflected in his own cello line, the only true moment of stability appearing at Figs. 42:9–43:9 with an F♯ pedal note. Elsewhere, the bassline, and the other three contrapuntal parts, give a sense of searching and yearning for a resolution, and this is only partially

216 Nicholas Jones

fulfilled with the F♯ minor chord – which crucially is not part of a clinching cadential progression – in the movement’s final bar. Fugue also plays a central role in Tippett’s Third Quartet (1945–6), with three out of the five movements being cast in this form. Although Tippett described himself as ‘a born contrapuntist . . . [who feels] the polyphonic line very much in my bones’,42 it still may seem rather curious as to why he was making such persistent use of an outdated formal process. Commentators are in agreement that this reflects both his admiration for (late) Beethovenian principles and his sympathy for the broadly neoclassical ideals of the 1930s and 40s.43 For Kemp, Tippett used traditional structural processes to highlight the ‘subjectivity’ of his music, in contrast to the more ‘objective’ approach taken by Stravinsky.44 Matthews seems to concur with this viewpoint, stating that ‘Tippett’s classicism sounds absolutely natural: outwardly directed emotions are expressed in music that is both gracefully lyrical and vigorously athletic. In contrast, the neoclassicism of Stravinsky, despite its brilliance, seems studied and inhibited; it never quite lets go.’45 It may seem equally as curious – certainly given its prominence in the first two quartets – that Tippett declined to call upon the services of sonata form in the Third Quartet. Instead he presents a more forthright dialectic between two seemingly conflicting structural processes: the strictness of the fugue (in movements one, three and five, all fast in tempo) and the freedom of the fantasia (in movements two and four, both slow in tempo). In contrast to the four-movement classical pattern of the Second Quartet, this quartet is clearly very different in formal shape. Arnold Whittall notes that it is ‘symmetrical in form, perhaps reflecting Tippett’s awareness of the fourth and fifth quartets of Bartók’,46 a view that seems entirely likely given Tippett’s own remarks, that after hearing the Beethoven quartets in the 1920s and subsequently getting to know ‘all the rest of the normal quartet repertory, nothing so decisive happened further until the first London performances of the Bartóks in the war and after. I had heard all six before I wrote Quartet No. 3.’47 This knowledge of the Bartók quartets obliged Tippett ‘to consider a new type of formal weighting in which the movements balance each other rather than evolve from each other as in the four-movement model’.48 The influence of Bartók in this quartet, though, is somewhat less profound than that of his much-loved Beethoven, and only in the fourth movement do we feel the fullest impact of Tippett’s acquaintance with Bartók. Tippett himself describes the movement as ‘atmospheric and rhetorical’, and Kemp draws a parallel between its ‘quasi-impressionism’ and Bartók’s ‘“night music” pieces’.49 One can get a sense of all of these qualities in the opening bars (Ex. 11.6 (a)): here the slowly unfolding perfect fourth and fifth intervals in the solo cello part (labelled x) contrast

217 Tippett’s string quartets Ex. 11.6 (a) String Quartet No. 3, fourth movement, opening

greatly with the more austere, harsh-sounding major-seventh chord heard at the opening, a chord that is patently used for colouristic and atmospheric purposes. Like the scherzo of the Second Quartet, this movement is in three parts and once again displays Tippett’s penchant for varied repetition. The first section features a cello solo which progresses from stillness to a passionate yet agitated outburst; sections two and three also follow this outline, the first (41:6–43:4) featuring a viola solo, and the second (43:5–44:4) a first violin solo. This final varied repeat of the basic material leads seamlessly into a section that functions as a segue into the final movement: perfect fourths and fifths (heard tentatively at the start of each of the three sections (x)) are now permitted to proliferate generously on all four instruments in an ecstatic white-note ‘wall’ of sound (Ex. 11.6 (b) shows the final bar of the movement50) – a moment that acts as a signpost towards the stylistic direction that Tippett was to take in his next work, The Midsummer Marriage. The overall fantasia-like structure of this movement is also reflected in the second movement, with Tippett once again making use of modified repetition: introductory passage 1–strophe 1 (violin 1 and 2 ‘song-line’ solos51)–introductory passage 2–strophe 2 (viola and cello ‘song-line’ solos)– introductory passage 3/coda. However, the lyricism in this second movement is much more pronounced than in the other slow movement, and

218 Nicholas Jones Ex. 11.6 (b) String Quartet No. 3, fourth movement, final bar

Ex. 11.7 String Quartet No. 3, third movement, Fig. 36:6–8

occasionally its long-lined quality brings to mind the central slow movement of the First Quartet. The lyricism in this later quartet, though, has a certain toughness to it, a quality emphasized by the constant tension created by the superimposition of 3/2 and 3/4 time signatures. For Mellers, the music possesses ‘a curiously austere wistfulness. We have a glimpse beyond the horizon; but the songfulness is unfulfilled.’52 The Third is the longest of all of Tippett’s quartets, lasting just over half-an-hour in performance. Accordingly, in his attempt to ensure a satisfying and balanced overall design, he is careful in making each of the fugal movements very different in character. The first movement’s fugue – which is prefaced by a substantial introduction – is Beethovenian in temperament, with a lively subject theme being offset with a countersubject theme featuring quasi-classical trills. The third movement, a double fugue in G major Lydian, is a ‘short, fast, rhythmically rigorous middle point in the scheme’53 – a scherzo in all but name. It is during this second fugue that we witness passages of remarkable contrapuntal and rhythmic complexity, a complexity that is intensified by Tippett’s idiosyncratic barring of the notes (Ex. 11.7). The final fugue is more lyrical and gentle

219 Tippett’s string quartets

in character, with a chorale ‘motto’ embedded into the texture (first heard in the viola at Figs. 46:3–47:1). In the coda (from Fig. 61:3), a repeatednote figure on the cello’s resonant open C string (a figure that is first heard at the very start of the movement) acts as a tonic pedal ostinato; the other three parts, in flowing counterpoint, gradually start to unwind and eventually all four voices come to rest on a rich C major chord to conclude the work with a passage that is full of warmth and assurance.

‘My own acid, ironic world of harmony’: String Quartet No. 4 Since the tonic key of the First String Quartet was A, the Second F♯, and the Third C, had Tippett completed – as he originally intended – a fourth quartet in his early period, then it is tempting to speculate that the key might have been E♭, a tonic centre that would have neatly completed the apparent mediant-related key scheme of the sequence. When Tippett eventually got round over three decades later to composing his Fourth Quartet (1977–8), it is especially interesting to note that the pitch class that is given explicit prominence in the opening bars of the work – being doubled over two octaves by three instruments – is E♭. Perhaps this reference was Tippett’s own way of bridging the thirty-two-year gap that existed between the Third and Fourth Quartets, a considerable span of time that witnessed a profound change in his own stylistic development. The defining moment of change in Tippett’s style occurred with the composition of King Priam (1958–61). In this opera we encounter a very different soundworld to that of the first-period works: the music is uncompromising, often violent in nature and overtly dissonant. The ‘middle-period’ works also display a change in attitude towards structural organization. The Second Piano Sonata (1962), for instance, is a mosaic of separate, essentially non-developmental statements. Another change in stylistic direction was presaged in the Third Piano Sonata (1972–3) and The Ice Break (1973–6), but it was the group of one-movement works composed towards the end of the 1970s – the Fourth Symphony (1976–7), the Fourth Quartet and the Triple Concerto for Violin, Viola, Cello and Orchestra (1978–9) – that inaugurated a ‘late’ period in the composer’s career. Although the Fourth Quartet is cast in one movement, its four sections nevertheless outline a multi-movement design: extended slow introduction, sonata-allegro, slow movement, finale. According to Kemp, the Quartet and the Triple Concerto sought to ‘recover something of that purity and tenderness of expression he [found] in late Beethoven and which, after all,

220 Nicholas Jones

is a “fundamental experience in music”’.54 The reference here to a ‘fundamental experience in music’ is to a phrase that Tippett himself used in a lecture delivered in 1976.55 It was also in the same lecture that Tippett first described a moment of epiphany – ‘of illumination, or Einfall’56 – which was to provide the kindling image for the composition of the Fourth Quartet.57 A few years later, a more fully formed description of this moment appeared in essay form. In it, Tippett relates how he was watching a television documentary on portraiture and, towards the end of the programme, there was ‘a magnificent series of self-portraits by Rembrandt’: At that moment, music started to play, accompanying the images on the screen – the sound of a string quartet playing music of the utmost intensity and poignancy, the beginning of a late Beethoven slow movement. I could no longer watch the screen, the emotion was so extreme. Half a minute later, this had all been turned into a subjective problem of my own. I said to myself: ‘Oh I must, I must before I die, find that sound in our own time! But I can’t find that sound in our time, because it depends upon a purity of harmony and structure which is largely excluded from my own acid, ironic world of harmony.’ The problem would not go away. And to try to find that sound meant to shut myself away and write my Fourth String Quartet.58

But whether Tippett is successful in ‘finding that sound’ is open to debate. For Clarke, the work ‘is one of Tippett’s most sustained atonal creations, unflinchingly rebarbative when necessary’; Meirion Bowen describes the quartet as ‘harmonically dense’; and Wright argues that the work is ‘astringent’, exploring ‘extremes of range, dynamics and sonority in a manner virtually unparalleled in the rest of Tippett’s output’.59 Although ‘warmth’ and ‘assurance’ are not words that one would use to describe the overall character of the quartet, there are nevertheless moments of a more tender quality, moments that seem to reconnect with Tippett’s early period. This is most evident in the reinvigoration of Tippett’s predilection for lyricism, a characteristic that, while not completely absent during his middle period, was certainly not to the fore. In the quartet’s third section, for instance, we witness duets for the two violins (Fig. 57:3–5) and the lower instruments (Figs. 58–59:4); a soaring cello solo (Figs. 61–62:6); and a passage (from Fig. 74) of lyrical delicacy in the first violin part, which Tippett marks ‘singing’ (Ex. 11.8). There are other characteristics, too, that show Tippett reaching back to pre-Priam stylistic features. Several examples can be identified in the work’s second section. Kemp interprets this section as Tippett engaging with the sonata-allegro archetype: he identifies ‘three expositions, each with first- and second-subject and codetta groups’ and each ‘adapted to function as quasi-exposition, -development and -recapitulation’.60

221 Tippett’s string quartets

Table 11.3 String Quartet No. 4, section No. 2, overall structure Strophe

Musical material

Figs.

Description

1 pitch-class focus: D/C♯ 2 3 4 5 6

15–27:4 15–17:4 18–19:4 19:5–21:5 22–25:3 26:1–2 26:3–27:4

violent and angular lyrical agitated rising figuration; rich double-stopped chords modal theme in additive rhythm; ‘false relation’ chord scurrying, rising perfect fifth figuration Adagio chords and trills

1 B/A♯ 3 2 4 5 6

28–42:4 28–31:5 32–33:6 34–38:3 39–40:4 41:1–4 41:5–42:4

1 A♭/G 2 3 1 4

43–52:3 43–45:3 46–47:4 47:5–49:5 50:1–4 51–52:3

A

B

C

Codetta

53–55:5

off-beat pizzicato quavers

Ex. 11.8 String Quartet No. 4, section No. 3, Fig. 74:1–3

However, this allusion seems to be more symbolic than apparent, and the sonata archetype adopted here can perhaps be better explained as more ‘notional’ than ‘historical’.61 The mosaic-like construction of this section is outlined in Table 11.3. As can be observed, the first strophe has six distinct, highly contrasting musical ideas, some of which are transitionary in nature; the second and third strophes are modified repeats of this opening strophe by transposition (a structural device that, as discussed above, Tippett had already used in previous quartets), with each of the musical ideas appearing in a different order within each strophe.

222 Nicholas Jones Ex. 11.9 (a) String Quartet No. 4, section No. 2, Fig. 22:1–2

Ex. 11.9 (b) String Quartet No. 4, section No. 2, Fig. 24:3

It is the fourth musical idea (as identified in Table 11.3) that contains elements that appear to hark back to certain stylistic aspects of Tippett’s early period: namely, a modal theme in additive rhythm (Ex. 11.9 (a)) and a ‘false relation’ chord (Ex. 11.9 (b)). The latter is an example of a ‘higher consonance’ – a major triad with added notes.62 The chord is centred on E and enriched by the added major second and the dual presence of major and minor thirds (hence the designation ‘false relation’). Chords of a similar nature appear at Figs. 67:3 and 69:3, but there the major–minor triad is joined by the minor seventh, lending the chord a ‘bluesy’ quality. There are examples of comparable chords in Tippett’s first three quartets: the very first chord of the Quartet No. 1, for instance – also coincidentally rooted on E – contains major and minor thirds and a minor seventh; and the third movement from the Second Quartet delights in underscoring the diatonic/modal ambiguities intrinsic to melodic and harmonic patterns that simultaneously employ or juxtapose major and minor thirds.63 Such moments demonstrate a decidedly persistent retrospective impulse that is evident in much of Tippett’s music from his late period – a trait, incidentally, that can be witnessed also in the late works of Beethoven. And yet it is noteworthy that such retrospective moments in the second section of the Fourth Quartet do not conceal the unmistakably turbulent undercurrent of tension and conflict. This undercurrent is also clearly evident in the final section of the work. It is perhaps worth re-invoking

223 Tippett’s string quartets

Kemp’s phrase quoted towards the head of this chapter to best explain how Tippett manages to balance out the intense polarizations of musical character, texture and timbre in this section so that a ‘comprehensive musical statement’ emerges from the ‘interaction between polarities’.64 Leading directly on from the lyrical passage that concludes the third section, the opening to the fourth section is brutally dissonant. The music is then suddenly energized by a dotted-rhythm figure (Fig. 84) – an explicit reference to the fugue theme from Beethoven’s Grosse Fuge, Op. 133,65 although the use of fugue is absent in Tippett’s case. Another contrasting idea is heard at Fig. 95: a slow, chorale-like passage in upperstring harmonics. Tippett continues to present diametrically opposed musical ideas within an overall mosaic-like structural context, with the composer’s own expression markings aptly summing up the underlying notion of polarity: ‘brilliant’–‘delicate’, ‘light’–‘heavy’, ‘fiery’–‘tender’. From Fig. 124, the light, delicate and singing temperaments appear to prevail. According to Tippett, he ‘wanted to answer a final outburst of violence with an overwhelming vision of lyricism and radiance’ – a vision that was recreated in the Triple Concerto (at Fig. 6).66 But there is no definite, Beethoven-like resolution to the quartet; instead there is a balancing of opposites. The final nine bars are marked ‘Very tranquil’ and present a chorale-like series of higher consonance chords centred around A, with a tremolo in the penultimate chord briefly recalling the ‘birth image’ with which the work began.67

‘Chante, rossignol, chante’: String Quartet No. 5 The final A-centred chord of the Fourth Quartet – enriched once again by false relations – could be interpreted as a reverential nod to the tonic key centre and final higher consonance chord of the First Quartet. A similar chord – without the false relations, but clearly rooted on A – also concludes the Fifth Quartet (Ex. 11.10). The references to A in the later quartets may equally be understood more broadly as allusions to the composer’s early period per se, as a number of works from that time employ A as a significant key area or centre, such as the Concerto for Double String Orchestra, Symphony No. 1 (1944–5) and The Midsummer Marriage. But if the Fourth Quartet makes fleeting stylistic references to Tippett’s first period, the Fifth Quartet – written nearly fifteen years later and thus appearing at the close of the composer’s career – is more generous and explicit in making these connections more keenly felt. The Fifth Quartet (1990–1) is cast in two movements – an overall structure unique in Tippett’s output68 – and in contrast to the previous

224 Nicholas Jones Ex. 11.10 A-rooted higher consonances in the final chords of String Quartet Nos. 1, 4 and 5

quartet is on the whole more abstemious in character, with textures that are more sparse and open. Bowen argues that the first movement has a ‘sonata-style basis, but retains a potential for unexpected deviation’;69 Wright concurs, suggesting that Tippett’s use of sonata form is ‘notional’, but nevertheless asserts that the movement is ‘a truly Beethovenian sonata-allegro in the way in which it thrives on the tension between the dramatic and the lyrical’.70 Indeed, although the movement is somewhat ‘episodic’ in construction, a vigorous first subject and lyrical (and explicitly tonal) second subject (Fig. 12) can be clearly discerned, as can the structural boundaries of development (Fig. 35) and recapitulation (Fig. 55). Whereas the recapitulation is essentially identical to the exposition,71 the development is a little more out of the ordinary. Indeed, what makes this section remarkable is the passage of music at its very heart: from Fig. 45 to Fig. 49:5, a Far-Eastern-inspired ‘lyrical heterophony’72 is beautifully executed (a moment that anticipates the musical language of The Rose Lake (1991–3)), with Tippett pairing violin 1 with cello and violin 2 with viola, the inner instruments ‘gently decorating’ the outer instruments’ ‘singing’ melody.73 For Wright, such a moment ‘is revelatory, as suddenly we are shown a world of which we previously had no real inkling. It is precisely such moments that earn Tippett the label “visionary”.’74 A similar ‘visionary’ moment occurs in the second movement, but the resulting soundworld in this particular instance is closer to Tippett’s own musical heritage (Ex. 11.11). The harmony here is quite clearly modally inflected and deliberately nostalgic in character. The eight bars act as a refrain, and are strategically placed at the end of each A section in an overall structure that outlines a rondo-like A1–B–A2–C–A3. The A sections are slow, lyrical, contemplative, static, often hesitant, and juxtapose diverse melodic and harmonic materials; in contrast, the B and C sections (starting at Figs. 117 and 155 respectively) are quick, dance-like and active, and possess an affirmative quality.75 Commentators have suggested that the model for this movement is Beethoven’s Heiliger Dankgesang (‘Holy Song of Thanksgiving’), the third movement of the Quartet in A minor, Op. 132.76 Interestingly, Clarke suggests that this

225 Tippett’s string quartets Ex. 11.11 String Quartet No. 5, second movement, Figs. 115–116:4

might have been the movement that Tippett was referring to with regard to the ‘epiphany’ moment (quoted above) that triggered the composition of the Fourth Quartet.77 If this is correct, then Tippett, with this eight-bar refrain, had surely found an exquisite response, deliciously tinged with melancholy, to his own entreaty that, before he dies, he ‘find that sound [of a late Beethoven slow quartet movement] in our own time’. The Beethoven hymn, with its own modal idiom and sense of ‘otherworldliness’, was obviously something that greatly appealed to Tippett, in much the same way (already noted above) that he was evidently drawn to the somewhat archaic idiom employed by Purcell in his viol fantasias. The second movement also spotlights Tippett’s inclination for lyricism, a stylistic trait that was apparent in the Fourth Quartet but here given heightened prominence.78 This can be witnessed most obviously in the delicate first violin melodies that dominate the A sections (marked ‘pp singing’), but can also be seen in various places in the first movement (the violin duets, for example, that form part of the second subject). It is natural to link such lyrical moments to the quotation that prefaces the score for the quartet: ‘Chante, rossignol, chante, toi qui as le cœur gai’. The French folksong from which this is taken is ‘A la claire fontaine’ (‘At the clear fountain’), and the full verse runs as follows: Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le cœur gai. Tu as le cœur à rire, Moi je l’ai à pleurer.

Sing, nightingale, sing, You with the heart so gay. Your heart feels like laughing, Mine feels like weeping.

Interestingly, this strongly recalls Tippett’s own words penned for a BBC broadcast talk that he delivered in May 1945: Living as I do in the country, I notice every year when the nightingales have begun to sing again in the wood down the road . . . It is at night, when other birds are silent, that I hear them with startling clearness, especially when the night is still. The peculiar, liquid tone of their song can sound like someone sobbing from heartbreak, which makes us respond deep down inside. It may

226 Nicholas Jones only be for a moment, when some quality in the night and the sound of the bird-song combine to make a specially intense image. At such time we respond. It is as though another world has spoken by some trick of correspondence between the outside and the inside.79

Together with Tippett’s penchant for expansive lyrical lines (his ‘singing nightingales’), his use of sonata form, his admiration for Beethoven, Purcell and Bartók,80 and his re-engagement with certain contrapuntal practices of his early period – but without their rigour or élan (most notably at the start of the development section in the first movement) – the Fifth Quartet in effect serves as a sort of stylistic ‘trove’ of all that was dear to the composer. Wright correctly contends that the work ‘carries powerful resonances of the musical past, both Tippett’s own and that of his most cherished predecessors, while remaining thoroughly of its time’.81 It is with such ‘powerful resonances’ firmly in mind that the refrain from ‘A la claire fontaine’ – ‘Il y’a longtemps que je t’aime / Jamais je ne t’oublierai’ (‘It’s been so long that I’ve loved you / Never will your memory fade’) – surely cannot fail to add an extra layer of rich meaning and significance in our attempt to understand and interpret this work and its relationship to Tippett’s previous quartets and lifelong compositional preoccupations.

Notes 1 Peter Wright, ‘Decline or Renewal in Late Tippett? The Fifth String Quartet in Perspective’ in David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 203. 2 Michael Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 93. 3 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’, CD liner notes to Tippett: The 5 String Quartets, ASV CDDCS231 (1996; originally written for Decca 425 645–2 (1975)). 4 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991), p. 19. 5 Tippett, E. William Doty Lectures in Fine Arts, 2nd series, 1976 (Austin: College of Fine Arts, University of Texas, 1979), p. 2, and ibid., p. 13. 6 Alan Ridout, ‘The String Quartets’ in Ian Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium on his 60th Birthday (London: Faber and Faber, 1965), p. 181. 7 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above). 8 Ibid. 9 Arnold Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques,

2nd edn (Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 31. 10 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above). For further discussion of the two unpublished quartets, see Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 75–8, and Sean Flanagan, ‘Kinship and Commentary: Beethoven and Tippett’s Unpublished Quartet in F minor’ in Suzanne Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), pp. 60–77. 11 Kemp, Tippett, p. 75. 12 Martin Cooper, ‘33-Year-Old Tippett Trio Gets Debut’, The Daily Telegraph and Morning Post, 14 January 1965, 18. 13 Kemp, Tippett, p. 21. 14 Ibid., p. 85. 15 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above). 16 See Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 205, and his letter to Meirion Bowen (January 1966) in Thomas Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. 406.

227 Tippett’s string quartets 17 Ridout identifies Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto as Tippett’s reference point (‘The String Quartets’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 184). 18 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 115–16. It is highly likely that during the 1920s Tippett would have been familiar with various tracts on music from the Elizabethan and Jacobean eras, such as the voluminous writings of E. H. Fellowes, or R. O. Morris’s Contrapuntal Technique in the Sixteenth Century (London: Oxford University Press, 1922)). For further discussion of this latter source, see Anthony Pople, ‘From Pastiche to Free Composition: R. O. Morris, Tippett, and the Development of Pitch Resources in the Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, pp. 28–9. 19 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above). 20 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 58. 21 Kemp’s description (see Tippett, p. 124). 22 Ibid. 23 For further discussion of the original version, see ibid., pp. 118–22. 24 Ridout, ‘The String Quartets’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 185. 25 Derrick Puffett also finds a high frequency of traditional chords, such as the augmented sixth and diminished seventh, in the slow movement from the Second Quartet, concluding that their uses there are often more structural than merely ornamental; see ‘The Fugue from Tippett’s Second String Quartet’, Music Analysis, 5, 2/3 (July–October 1986), 233–64 (esp. 242–5 and 256). 26 Kemp, Tippett, p. 124. 27 Ibid. 28 David Matthews, ‘“Mirror upon Mirror mirrored”: Some Notes on Tippett’s Allusions’ in Geraint Lewis (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M.: A Celebration (Tunbridge Wells: The Baton Press, 1985), p. 36. 29 See Ridout, ‘The String Quartets’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 189 and ibid., pp. 36–7. 30 Matthews, ‘“Mirror upon Mirror mirrored”’ in Lewis (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M., p. 37. 31 Wilfrid Mellers, ‘Michael Tippett and the String Quartet’, The Listener, 66 (1961), 405. 32 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above). 33 See Charles Rosen, Sonata Forms (New York and London: W. W. Norton & Co., 1980), p. 274. 34 Ibid., pp. 330–5.

35 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, pp. 23–4. It is also interesting to note that Tippett had already used a kind of reverse recapitulation in the first movement of his unpublished Symphony in B♭ (1933, rev. 1934), although the use of sonata form in that context was more symbolic than real (see Kemp, Tippett, pp. 78–9). 36 As already noted above, this structural device is clearly evident in the recapitulation section of the Second Quartet’s fourth movement. 37 Ridout, ‘The String Quartets’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, pp. 185–6. 38 Tippett, liner note to the Amadeus Quartet recording (Argo DA 34, 1965), cited in Puffett, ‘The Fugue from Tippett’s Second String Quartet’, 241. 39 Tippett, letter to Francesca Allinson, undated (1942) in Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 139. 40 Puffett, ‘The Fugue from Tippett’s Second String Quartet’, 241; Mellers, ‘Song and Dance Man’ in Lewis (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M., p. 31. 41 Tippett, ‘Purcell’ in Meirion Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels: Essays and Sketchbooks of Michael Tippett (London: Eulenburg Books, 1980), pp. 75–6. 42 Michael Tippett, in interview with Murray Schafer, British Composers in Interview (London: Faber and Faber, 1963), p. 95. 43 See, for instance, Puffett, ‘The Fugue from Tippett’s Second String Quartet’, 241, and Kenneth Gloag, ‘The String Quartet in the Twentieth Century’ in The Cambridge Companion to the String Quartet, ed. Robin Stowell (Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 296. 44 Kemp, ‘Tippett, Michael’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1980), vol. X I X , p. 4. 45 David Matthews, Michael Tippett: An Introductory Study (London and Boston: Faber and Faber, 1980), p. 102. 46 Whittall, The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 90. Ridout also cites the five-movement arch-shape structures of Bartók’s Fourth and Fifth Quartets as being probable models (‘The String Quartets’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 189). 47 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above). 48 Kemp, Tippett, p. 191. 49 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above); Kemp, ibid.

228 Nicholas Jones 50 Schott ED 10201, new rev. edn (London: Schott & Co. Ltd, 1999). 51 Tippett’s phrase (‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ – see n. 3 above). 52 Mellers, ‘Michael Tippett and the String Quartet’, 405. 53 Tippett, ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’ (see n. 3 above). 54 Kemp, Tippett, p. 402. 55 Tippett, Doty Lectures, p. 44. 56 David Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 210. 57 Doty Lectures, pp. 33–4. 58 Tippett, ‘The Composer’s World’ in Keith Spence and Giles Swayne (eds.), How Music Works (London and New York: Macmillan, 1981), p. 347. The phrase ‘acid harmonies’ (allied with the word ‘grim’) first appeared in Tippett’s 1938 article ‘Music and Life’, reproduced in Bowen (ed.), Music of the Angels, p. 33. 59 Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, p. 211; Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997), p. 252; Wright, ‘Decline or Renewal in Late Tippett?’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 203. 60 Kemp, Tippett, p. 479. 61 Tippett’s own terminology (see ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 89–108). 62 The term is Whittall’s (see The Music of Britten and Tippett, p. 5). 63 False relations are of course characteristic of Elizabethan music and are used liberally by Purcell in his viol fantasias. It is also instructive to note that Bartók made extensive use of the major–minor chord in his music (see Ernő Lendvai, Béla Bartók: An Analysis of his Music (London: Kahn & Averill, 1971), pp. 40–1). 64 Kemp, Tippett, p. 124. Geraint Lewis has perceptively argued that ‘An awareness of intense contrasts, dualities and polarity has indeed been present in Tippett’s art from the

start’ (‘“Spring come to you at the farthest In the very end of harvest”’ in Lewis (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M., p. 203). 65 See Tippett, ‘The Composer’s World’ in Spence and Swayne (eds.), How Music Works, p. 347. 66 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 101–3. 67 See Bowen, Michael Tippett, p. 190. 68 As noted in Peter Hill, ‘Tippett’s Fifth String Quartet’, Tempo, 182 (September 1992), 28. 69 Bowen, Michael Tippett, p. 205. 70 Wright, ‘Decline or Renewal in Late Tippett?’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, pp. 205, 212. 71 See ibid., p. 212. 72 Bowen’s phrase: see Michael Tippett, p. 206. 73 These are Tippett’s own performance markings. 74 Wright, ‘Decline or Renewal in Late Tippett?’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 210. 75 Ibid., pp. 216–7. 76 Wright makes a detailed comparison of these two movements (ibid., pp. 212–20). 77 Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, p. 304 n. 19. 78 The innate sense of lyricism in the work strongly vindicates Bowen’s comment that Tippett’s compositional career was ‘devoted to keeping song alive’ (Michael Tippett, p. 84). 79 Tippett, ‘A Composer’s Point of View’ in Moving into Aquarius, expanded edn (St Albans: Paladin Books, 1974), pp. 14–15. 80 The opening chordal idea of the second movement is highly reminiscent of the opening of the fourth movement of Tippett’s Third Quartet, a gesture, as already noted above, that was influenced by Bartók’s quartets. And, as Wright has pointed out, section C contains allusions to Purcell’s Welcome to All the Pleasures (see ‘Decline or Renewal in Late Tippett?’ in Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies, p. 218). 81 Ibid., p. 221.

12 Tippett’s operatic world: from The Midsummer Marriage to New Year KENNETH GLOAG

In his autobiography, Those Twentieth Century Blues, Tippett recalled a conversation with Benjamin Britten that took place some time in the 1940s: When I first knew him in the 1940s, Ben Britten and I discussed our future ambitions. Ben said he would become first and foremost an opera composer. This, as everyone knows, he did; and although he wrote songs, chamber and orchestral music, it is on his stage-works, from Peter Grimes to Death in Venice, that his achievement is founded. I myself at that time was quite clear: yes, I would write operas, but I was equally keen to produce symphonies, quartets and concertos of stature.1

[229]

The distinction that Tippett draws here between his own aspirations and those of Britten are relevant in that it indicates that while opera was important for him it was not an overriding concern. This statement also serves to remind us that Tippett would always think in terms of specific historical genres as reflected in his reference to symphony, string quartet and concerto as well as opera. However, even if, as Tippett recalled, opera was only one genre among several, it was to become a context through which he would seek to draw together his various intellectual and musical interests and in doing so produce some of his most distinctive and imaginative work. Tippett made several early attempts to compose music within a broadly operatic framework, including The Village Opera (1927–8), Robin Hood (1934) and, slightly later, the two children’s operas, Robert of Sicily (1938) and Seven at One Stroke (1939). As part of his interest in drama the ‘agitprop’ play War Ramp (1935), through which Tippett sought to articulate his own political commitments of the time, was also a formative experience even if its subject matter and context were very different to the direction that his engagement with opera would take.2 However, it was the experience of composing A Child of Our Time (1939–41), an oratorio, which opened the way to Tippett becoming an operatic composer. At an early stage in the development of A Child of Our Time Tippett asked T. S. Eliot to provide the text for this work, but Eliot, in discussing Tippett’s own outline of the subject matter, encouraged him to complete the text as well as compose the music. The words that Tippett wrote for A Child of

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Our Time reflected many of his interests, the most significant being the psychology of Jung as well as Eliot’s own poetry and drama. The experience of creating both words and music in A Child of Our Time, and the sources that were utilized, encouraged Tippett to take a similar level of ownership as both librettist and composer of his operatic works. Such works begin with The Midsummer Marriage (1946–52), which provides the initial focus of this chapter. The four subsequent operatic works will also be mentioned here, often through a process of comparison: King Priam (1958–61), which, as highlighted at several points in this book, represents an important division in Tippett’s music, The Knot Garden (1966–9), The Ice Break (1973–6) and New Year (1986–8).

The Midsummer Marriage Tippett’s first opera, The Midsummer Marriage, was the outcome of a lengthy compositional process that began in 1946 and ended in 1952, with the completed work receiving its first performance at Covent Garden in 1955 in a production designed by Barbara Hepworth, produced by Christopher West and conducted by John Pritchard. However, the musical and extramusical ideas that come to define the opera were beginning to be formulated as early as 1941. These ideas reflect Tippett’s wide range of literary, musical, philosophical and psychological interests and influences, all of which flow into the final work and make it a rich and rewarding experience. But for some, The Midsummer Marriage can be a rather perplexing opera, particularly on first encounter. The critical response to the first performance was indeed generally unsympathetic, which may be an understatement. For Martin Cooper the libretto was ‘an extraordinary jumble of verbal images and stage mumbo jumbo’, a ‘hotchpotch’ which Tippett’s music ‘cannot wholly redeem’.3 It was the libretto rather than the music that routinely met with such negative criticism, with it being described by one critic as ‘one of the worst in the 350-year history of opera’ while for another it was all ‘too airyfairy’.4 Of course, in comparison to those critics present at the first performance of the opera, with hindsight and critical distance we are now more understanding of the unique operatic vision that Tippett, through words and music, constructs in The Midsummer Marriage. ‘I saw a stage picture . . .’

In a series of five short related articles written for The Observer in 1952, and collectively titled ‘The Birth of an Opera’, Tippett recalled a primary visual image that can be interpreted as an initiating inspiration for the opera:

231 Tippett’s operatic world I saw a stage picture (as opposed to hearing a musical sound) of a wooded hilltop with a temple, where a warm and soft young man was being rebuffed by a cold and hard young woman (to my mind a very common present situation) to such a degree that the collective, magical archetypes take charge – Jung’s anima and animus – the girl, inflated by the latter, rises through the stage flies to heaven, and the man, overwhelmed by the former, descends through the stage floor to hell.5

This ‘vision’ as Tippett describes it, already conjures up images of ritual – the ‘temple’ – and the magical. But through the reference to the ‘wooded hilltop’ and the young man and woman it also, in contrast, evokes nature and the natural, all of which become part of the literary and visual world of the opera. The images of man and woman are based on the opposition between anima and animus as constructed in Jung’s psychology. For Jung these terms define a relationship to the opposite sex, a ‘contrasexual archetype’ of the anima in men and the animus in women. These archetypes are described by Anthony Stevens as ‘the feminine aspect of man and the masculine aspect of woman, they function as a pair of opposites . . . in the unconscious of both, profoundly influencing the relations of all men and women with each other’.6 This Jungian archetype as Tippett understands it pulls in opposite directions, with the girl rising as the man descends, with these gender-based images of ascent and descent readily transferable into the operatic context. In The Midsummer Marriage the ‘archetype’, more generally, begins to be reflected through the pairings of lovers, male and female, which have an abundance of comedic potential, with comedy being an important aspect of Tippett’s early ideas for an opera. The marriage ritual is based around two couples, Jenifer and Mark and Jack and Bella. The first couple are given a certain status: Mark is mysteriously described as a ‘young man of unknown parentage’ while Jenifer is identified as the daughter of King Fisher, a name derived from T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land and which implies a ‘royal’ status. But King Fisher is described as a ‘businessman’, which translates that image of power into a hard, cynical reality. In contrast, the second couple are ordinary or ‘common’: Bella is King Fisher’s secretary while Jack is a mechanic. The two couples, and their contrasted backgrounds, are often seen to be suggestive of Mozart’s The Magic Flute with Jenifer and Mark corresponding to Pamina and Tamino and Jack and Bella to Papageno and Papagena. The reference to Mozart’s opera is also evident more generally through the evocation of the magical and its contrast with the natural, while another possible similarity is suggested by the image and narrative of the quest. A further Mozartian reference is indicated by the image of descent presented in the extract from ‘The Birth of an Opera’ given above. The man who descends ‘through the stage floor to hell’ is highly

232 Kenneth Gloag

suggestive of Mozart’s Don Giovanni, with the reference to both Mozart operas an intentional strategy on Tippett’s part. The highlighting of such sources, inspirations and images, and there are many others not mentioned here, does not begin to give a full account of what The Midsummer Marriage might be about in terms of a story, plot or narrative, but it does begin to suggest the general character of, and context for, the opera.7 While the libretto is a reflection of Tippett’s own highly individual interests and perspectives, the music of The Midsummer Marriage resembles the formal and generic conventions of opera through its division into three acts, with the music and drama of each act running continuously. Within this dramatic and musical continuity there are recognizable operatic features: the collective presence of the chorus, ensembles, dialogues between characters (duos) and extended solo passages (arias) for individual voices, many of which help to articulate the strong sense of lyrical, melodic line that is a recurring feature of Tippett’s music at this time and a defining essence of this opera. The musical materials that both underpin and articulate the words and actions of the drama are consistent with, and a refinement of, the language that Tippett had constructed and developed up to this point. In contrast to the alleged obscurity of the words, there is a clarification, but not necessarily simplification, of the music. For David Cairns, the ‘harmonic idiom [of The Midsummer Marriage] . . . makes it one of the most tonal of all [Tippett’s] major works’.8 However, for Ian Kemp, how ‘Tippett manipulates tonality in the opera is’, in comparison to his earlier music, ‘less clearcut’.9 Cairns is accurate in describing the tonal essence of the music in this way, but Kemp is also justified in his description in that while the actual details, the material used at a specific moment, may be relatively clearly defined, how such materials combine into a harmonic process, how they may, or may not, connect from one moment to the next within an analysable structure, remain problematic.10 In the discussion that follows, key stages from the drama are extrapolated and their musical, primarily harmonic, character is discussed. These extracts do not in themselves give a full account of the drama or constitute an analysis of the music, but they do provide a set of signposts towards one possible interpretation of The Midsummer Marriage. ‘All things fall and are built again’

The clarity of the harmonic idiom of The Midsummer Marriage is, as expected, most evident through its concluding stages. The final moments of the opera consist of a sustained A major harmony that is sounded throughout the orchestra and which can be interpreted as signifying ‘light’ (see Ex. 12.1).11 The image of sunlight is further enhanced by the simple

233 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.1 The Midsummer Marriage, Act 3, ending

yet highly effective gesture of the cymbal crash that coincides with A major (Figs. 520 and 521) and which is an integral part of the dynamic activity that immediately precedes the concluding bars. This final confirmation of A comes after a strong assertion of C (Fig. 479 and again at Fig. 501) and the C-based ‘sublime chorale prelude’ theme (from Fig. 517:10, trumpet).12 The move from C to A is the defining harmonic motion that brings the opera towards its conclusion, with the importance of C established at earlier moments in the opera. For example, the opening of the second act, the ‘pre-scene’ prelude, consists of transparent, otherworldly instrumental textures that are underpinned by a cadential motion from F to C (Fig. 114). In the drive towards the conclusion the chorus sing the following words: All things fall and are built again And those that build them again are gay!

These words are a quotation from Yeats’s poem ‘Lapis Lazuli’ and are used in this context to reflect the joy that is experienced at the conclusion of the drama in which Jenifer accepts the wedding ring and the sun rises. I think that Tippett was drawn to Yeats’s words because of the image of the ‘fall’ that they invoke, but also the rising formation suggested by ‘built again’. These images are consistent with Tippett’s own initiating vision of the opera. The connotations of formation, construction and rebuilding that are conveyed by these words are also meaningful, carrying associations with the eighteenth-century project of enlightenment, and are consistent

234 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 12.2 The Midsummer Marriage, Act 1, opening

with the references to Mozart’s The Magic Flute, a key work in the musical representation of that wider project. ‘This way, this way . . .’

The use of A major to signify the conclusion of the opera suggests that it might have been saved for that point, perhaps as the goal of a long-range harmonic process. But in contrast to that possibility A major (and harmonies based on it) has been heard at many earlier points in the opera, which leads Kemp to describe it as the ‘ever-present central tonality’.13 I do not think it is ever present as such, nor does it function as the direct equivalent to the tonic within common-practice tonality, but it is returned to at many important points, including the early stages, with these returns giving a referential presence to this specific tonal harmony, helping to confirm Cairns’s definition of The Midsummer Marriage as perhaps one of the most tonal of Tippett’s major works. The opera begins with a vibrant, dynamic orchestral gesture based on B♭ (see Ex. 12.2) that indicates urgency, leading to the introduction of the chorus, young men and women in search of the meeting-place of Mark and Jenifer. As they sing the words ‘this way, this way’ they search for a direction. The music at this point is based upon a sustained A. This indeed does point the way harmonically, moving towards a change of key signature to that of A major at Fig. 9 (see Ex. 12.3). It is highly significant that this first clarification of A major involves reference to ‘the sun’, as the chorus hails the rising of the sun and the midsummer morning, already

235 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.3 The Midsummer Marriage, Act 1, Scene 1, Figs. 8a:7–9:7

236 Kenneth Gloag

suggesting the association between A major and ‘light’, a suggestion that opens up a recognizable pathway to a broader understanding of the relationship between music (as defined in this instance by a specific harmonic reference) and drama (as represented by the symbolism attached to specific words). ‘Truth shall shine through me . . .’

Sosostris, another name borrowed from Eliot’s The Waste Land, is the clairvoyant that is consulted by King Fisher in order to aid the return of his daughter, Jenifer, in the central fifth scene of the third act. As a dramatic characterization and related strategy, the voice and presence of Sosostris assumes the role of the oracle from ancient Greek drama. This extended aria is a remarkable event in which time seems to stand still, replacing the intense activity of the surrounding music and drama with a suspended moment of rapt contemplation. At Fig. 365, as the chorus asks if the voice that answers will be that of a God, the harmonic context is reduced to a statement of a B major harmony but it is still coloured by other inflexions. This opens the way for the appearance of Sosostris with the mood darkened through a change of key signature to that of B♭ minor (Fig. 367). Her first words, ‘Who hopes to conjure with the world of dreams’, are supported by a sustained B♭ and the dramatically subdued threatening voice is based on the repetitions of this pitch (Ex. 12.4 (a)). This is followed by a movement from B♭ minor to D major that aligns with the word ‘dreams’ (Fig. 368), and a similar movement from the flat side (E♭ at Fig. 369) on the words ‘he draws . . .’ to again reference A major (Fig. 370), which is another alignment between a sharp harmony and the word ‘dream’. B♭ minor returns (Fig. 371) to close this stage of the aria, with the move into the next section indicated by change of key signature to D minor (Fig. 371:6).14 The central focus of this great aria is the passage from Fig. 380 (Ex. 12.4 (b)). Following the return to a B major based harmony the key signature changes again, now to E major, as Sosostris sings the words ‘You who consult me should never doubt me’, with the move from B to E part of a strong cadential motion. The moment of clarity provided by the musical materials based around E major is surely part of what leads Cairns to describe this opera in tonal terms. The melodic line descends from E to B and the linear motion is, at least initially, based around the E major triad. This process of clarification, perhaps now even simplification, is reinforced by the repetition of the same harmonic and melodic material as Sosostris sings of a ‘truth’ that ‘shall shine through’ her (Ex. 12.4 (b), Fig. 382). The coinciding of this ‘pure’ E major harmony with the words ‘truth’ and ‘shine’ is surely an intentional dramatic gesture on Tippett’s part and

237 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.4 (a) The Midsummer Marriage, Act 3, Scene 5, Figs. 367–370:1

238 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 12.4 (a) (cont.)

239 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.4 (b) The Midsummer Marriage, Act 3, Scene 5, Figs. 379:6–382:4

240 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 12.5 The Midsummer Marriage, proposed harmonic framework

resonates with the image of, and search for, light – from dark (flat) to light (sharp) – and which therefore suggests musical and dramatic connections with the presence of A major and its association with light at the beginning and end of the opera. These selected signposts suggest a harmonic process from beginning to end as framed by A major with E as its conceptual centre. This possibility is represented graphically in Ex. 12.5 as are the associations between these harmonic reference points and the search for ‘light’ and ‘truth’; these associations are now available for interpretation via a narrative of quest, or search, for such qualities which resonates with images of enlightenment. There is much that is not contained within this interpretive reduction that is of great significance – the orchestral ritual dances, contrasting images of darkness, among many others – and what is presented here is not intended necessarily to direct, explain or govern what is omitted, but it does provide a musical and dramatic framework through, or against, which other aspects of this remarkable operatic vision can begin to be interpreted.15

King Priam Tippett’s second opera, King Priam, was composed between 1958 and 1961. The first performance took place on 29 May 1962 in Coventry as part of a festival celebrating the rebuilding of the cathedral, an event that also featured Britten’s War Requiem, which received its first performance the following night. John Pritchard, who was now established as a leading interpreter of Tippett’s music, conducted the performance of King Priam in Coventry, and again at Covent Garden. In contrast to the amalgam of sources that became the libretto of The Midsummer Marriage Tippett’s libretto for King Priam was, although influenced by several different factors, based on a single source, Homer’s Iliad, which gives a certain degree of familiarity to the opera as well as a

241 Tippett’s operatic world

sense of narrative structure. It is, in part, an opera about conflict and war, subjects that again reflect Tippett’s own systems of belief through the portrayal of the horrors of war. A further intensification of associative meanings was provided by the location of the first performance in Coventry and the symbolism of the rebuilding of the cathedral following its destruction by German bombs in 1940. It was also conceived against the background of the escalation of the Cold War and can be heard in relation to recent historical events such as the Suez crisis (1956) and the Soviet invasion of Hungary (also 1956), and was broadly contemporary with the construction of the Berlin Wall (1961) and the Cuban missile crisis (1962). This context does not necessarily explain the music that Tippett composed for the opera but its often harsh, dissonant angular sounds can be heard against this background and reflected through the choice of subject matter. ‘I see mirrors, myriad upon myriad . . .’

The music of King Priam has been described as marking a ‘great divide’ in Tippett’s oeuvre.16 This immense distance between The Midsummer Marriage and King Priam can be readily demonstrated through a comparison of the endings of both operas, a strategy that is also pursued elsewhere in the literature.17 The third and final act concludes with the death of Priam. The music Tippett provides for this dramatic moment is obviously intense. From Fig. 602, in conjunction with the wordless sounds of the off-stage chorus, the orchestra unleashes a forceful barrage of sound that encapsulates the violence of the drama. After the pause at Fig. 604 Priam utters his final words, ‘I see mirrors, myriad upon myriad . . . moving . . . the dark forms of creation’. Following this statement the music eventually subsides towards its final, quiet, fragmentary ending. The difference between this moment and the conclusion of The Midsummer Marriage is clearly defined. In terms of subject matter, and its musical and dramatic representation, the joy through resolution that concludes the earlier opera is replaced by a resignation to fate and the consequence of choice as projected against the context of war. Clearly the distance between these two scenarios requires different musical responses. Just as the radiant A major of The Midsummer Marriage is highly effective and appropriate, so too is the music that Tippett provides to bring King Priam to its end and which defines the distance between the tonal harmonic idiom of The Midsummer Marriage and the new post-tonal soundworld of King Priam. The specific details of this concluding moment of King Priam effectively illustrate the distance between the two operas and lend further

242 Kenneth Gloag

justification to the description of King Priam as post-tonal. The orchestral passage from Fig. 602 has points of focus – the initial repetition of F♯ and the repeated gesture built around D in the string parts – but there is no recognizable presence of a harmonic element or pattern that can be defined as tonal, even allowing for the distance between the harmonic idiom of The Midsummer Marriage and the expectations of commonpractice tonality. Also of significance in this passage is the role of the piano part, which is often used in a percussive, assertive manner in the opera. Here the microscopic details are worth further attention. The clashing dyads of the right-hand part – E♯/F♯, F♯/G♯, G♯/A♯, and so on, and which expand – add to the highly tense nature of the moment while also obscuring the possibility that the sustained notes in the left-hand part may indicate a source of stability and centricity. This dense orchestral texture simply stops (Fig. 603:4), it does not resolve. Following the highly dramatic gesture of two bars of silence (Fig. 604) the melodic line that Tippett provides for Priam’s final words (from Fig. 604:3) returns to D as its high point before ending on A, but it is difficult to hear those particular pitches as anything more than part of a localized linear process. The fading, dissolve effect throughout the final bars (from Fig. 608) ends on two sets of tritone-related pitches (augmented fourth/diminished fifth (ic6)) formed between E and B♭ and C and F♯ in the piano and celeste parts and which is repeated in alternation with a collection of A♭, B♭, D and E♭ (see Ex. 12.6).18 The association of the tritone with instability provides a final musical representation of the role that choice, and the uncertainty that is involved in making a choice, has played in the drama.19 It can also be heard as an anticipation of the ‘non-ending’, the intentionally inconclusive gesture that Tippett would explore in the Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3), and the dissolve effect that becomes a key musical and dramatic feature of The Knot Garden. ‘He already breathes an air as from another planet . . .’

Although the new, post-tonal sound of King Priam is suggested in part through often fragmentary textures, there are moments of continuity, particularly in passages for solo voice, that remind us that while King Priam marks a significant departure in Tippett’s music, this is not a complete rupture. There will still be recognizable traces and familiar echoes. For example, the song for Achilles (‘a Greek hero’) in the second scene of Act 2 (from Fig. 264) is an extended aria for solo voice (‘heroic tenor’) accompanied by guitar. The prolonged line, departing and then returning through long phrases, acts as a reminder of Tippett’s ability to spin seemingly endless, always evolving, melodic lines. It may not be grounded by a tonal harmonic reference but the points of familiarity, as

243 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.6 King Priam, Act 3, ending

244 Kenneth Gloag

defined by the returns to B via C (Figs. 269:5 and 276:5), provide focus and coherence to the line as does the repetition of specific harmonic collections in the guitar part (see, for example, Figs. 270 and 277). This aria can still be described as lyrical, as heard in a post-tonal context. There are many other moments in the opera that can be interpreted as a post-tonal lyricism. One of the most notable is the point at which, in the third interlude of Act 3 (Fig. 537), Hermes appears as the messenger of death (Ex. 12.7). The interlude consists of a sequence of chords based on string harmonics that give a strange sense of otherness from which Hermes reveals himself and the message of death that he brings. The vocal line for Hermes (‘high light tenor’) begins through a narrow range of pitches – D♭/C♯, D♮, E – which is accompanied by a thin, linear strand in the viola parts. One of the most notable aspects of this particular aria is the point at which Hermes sings the words: ‘He already breathes an air as from another planet’ (Fig. 542:3). Although Tippett does not, for example, directly quote or allude to the music of Schoenberg, these words are surely a knowing reference to Schoenberg’s Second String Quartet within which a soprano voice sings very similar words and which is often seen as the key point in a work that has come to symbolize Schoenberg’s own move into atonality. At Fig. 541 the piano replaces the violas as the accompaniment following the end of the first phrase. There is now a clearer sense of a harmonic context as defined by the first chord in the piano part, consisting of E, B, A♭, D and G, which is returned to again (Figs. 542 and 543), with this process of return, in a way similar to the music around Fig. 270 as discussed above, lending a degree of coherent direction to the music. Tippett’s reference to ‘air’ from ‘another planet’ is surrounded by references to a ‘timeless music played in time’ (Fig. 540) and is framed musically by flowing, fluid musical gestures that escape beyond any notion of rhythmic regularity and pulse. However, the vocal line does have a point of arrival as defined by the words ‘renew our love’ (Fig. 553) with which the aria, and the scene, ends and which is now centred on A♭ (see Ex. 12.8 (a)). The chords in the piano part provide a harmonic background for this melodic line. This harmonic sequence is abstracted and summarized as Ex. 12.8 (b). There is a progression of sorts, with A♭ returned to as the top line of the harmony. It is also possible to identify a bassline that moves from C to F♯ and back again. However, although these motions may be of some significance it is the intervallic content of each chord that is given further attention here. As extracted in Ex. 12.8 (c) there is a prevalence of perfect fourth/fifth (identified as ic5) and tritone (ic6). The vocal line, and the surrounding linear motions, are projected against the intervallic consistency of this harmonic background, but the vocal line is often consistent

245 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.7 King Priam, Act 3, Interlude 3, Figs. 537–543:1

246 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 12.7 (cont.)

with it, as defined by the appearance of A♭ as both the end of the vocal line and as part of the harmonic context (Ex. 12.8 (b), chords iii and v). This brief example suggests that although Tippett’s new post-tonal music is articulated through often fragmentary surfaces and textures, there is still a harmonically defined coherence and logic that shapes the music. This proposal can be further justified through reference to the first appearance of Hermes in the opera (Act 1, Scene 3, Fig. 193). This moment is reproduced as Ex. 12.9 (a) and the percussive attack of the strong vertical harmony, and the short linear fragments (xylophone and piano) that flow from it, announce Hermes. On the basis of Whittall’s discussion of the opera, this harmonic collection is associated with Hermes at other points in the work.20 The sound of this harmonic event is definitive of Tippett’s new idiom – harsh, dissonant, atonal. The pitch collection that constitutes the vertical harmony at Fig. 193 is summarized as Ex. 12.9 (b).21 There are many ways in which this collection can be interpreted, but in the immediate context of this discussion I wish to simply highlight the prevalence of ic5 and the contrast provided by ic6. The collection can now be heard as the ‘source’ for the chords presented in Exx. 12.8 (b) and (c), as demonstrated by the recurring presence of these specific intervallic configurations, with most, although not all, of the specific pitches being derived from or mapped onto the collection.

247 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.8 (a) King Priam, Act 3, Interlude 3, Figs. 550–553:3

248 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 12.8 (b) King Priam, Act 3, Interlude 3, Figs. 550–553:3, main harmonic sequence; (c) ic5 and ic6 extractions

The analytical details outlined above, while suggesting some points of continuity, dramatize the distance between King Priam and The Midsummer Marriage, as does the comparison between the endings of both operas. But King Priam is a meaningful, significant work in the Tippett oeuvre, not just a point of comparison or departure, and the new soundworld that is established in this opera allowed Tippett to renew his musical language and extend his creative imagination through to the later stages of his career.

The Knot Garden Tippett began composing The Knot Garden in 1966, with the completed work receiving its first performance at Covent Garden in 1970.22 While he was working on the new opera Covent Garden staged a revival of The Midsummer Marriage in 1968, conducted by Colin Davis, the success of which brought new critical attention to that earlier work and helped to further define Tippett as an operatic composer.23 In contrast to the more singular and historically specific source for King Priam, and similarly to The Midsummer Marriage, the initiating ideas and final libretto of the new opera reflected a broad range of ideas based on several different literary sources that coalesce into Tippett’s own personal dramatic vision. These sources include Shakespeare, with strong associations with The Tempest as reflected through Tippett’s own description of Mangus, the central character in the opera, as ‘the modern reincarnation of Shakespeare’s Prospero’.24 The presence of The Tempest as a background to The Knot Garden is given real substance in the final act of

249 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.9 (a) King Priam, Act 1, Scene 3, Figs. 193–194:4

250 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 12.9 (b) King Priam, Act 1, Scene 3, Fig. 193:1, ic5 and ic6 pitch collections

the opera, the ‘Charade’, in which some of Tippett’s characters assume identities drawn from The Tempest. Mangus, a psychiatrist (more specifically an ‘analyst’ in the score), is at the centre of a labyrinth of changing relationships, which is highly suggestive of Mozart’s Così fan tutte and presents a recurring concern with human relationships and interactions as defined in the previous operas: the father/daughter relationship and the pairs of lovers in The Midsummer Marriage, the father/son and husband/wife relationships of King Priam. In contrast to the historical aura of King Priam and the mythological world of The Midsummer Marriage, the time of The Knot Garden is defined as the ‘present’, and a sense of the time of the opera – the late 1960s – is further enhanced by the figures of Denise (‘a dedicated Freedom-fighter’), Dov (described as a musician) and Mel (a ‘negro writer in his late twenties’), with the references to musician and writer also inviting a reflection on the creative process. ‘Dissolve’

The then contemporary context of the opera is further extended through Tippett’s description of the ‘dramatic action’ as being ‘discontinuous, more like the cutting of a film’.25 Tippett defines these cuts as the ‘dissolve’, which implies ‘some deliberate break-up and re-formation of the stage picture’.26 The drama, and music, is fast moving, ever changing, with the highly sectionalized sequence of short scenes contained within three acts defined as ‘Confrontation’, ‘Labyrinth’ and ‘Charade’, all of which takes place within a remarkably brief timescale that lasts a mere eighty minutes in performance. The first dissolve occurs early in the opera, between the first and second scenes of the first act (see Ex. 12.10). Following the twelve-note, although not serial, instrumental prelude, the first brief scene consists of Mangus as he awakes from a dream and identifies himself with Shakespeare’s Prospero. The instrumental passage from Fig. 13 is based on intentionally repetitive gestures in the celeste, harpsichord and piano parts, and is marked by a quiet dynamic, before the texture reduces to only the electric

251 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.10 The Knot Garden, Act 1, Scene 1, Figs. 13–14:2

252 Kenneth Gloag

guitar part and its repeated chord. The moment of dissolve, as indicated in the score, is defined by the sudden change of texture at Fig. 14. However, the use of dissolve to describe this moment is slightly misleading: the music does not dissolve through a process of reduction and/or fragmentation; rather, the effect is more that of a sudden switch, and the result is a moment of musical and dramatic discontinuity that can be heard as an extension of such concerns in the works composed in the aftermath of King Priam, in particular the Second Piano Sonata (1962) and the first movement of the Concerto for Orchestra.27 ‘Go tell it from the mountain’

If the formal and dramatic device of the dissolve originates from Tippett’s music of the early 1960s, other moments in The Knot Garden, although contemporary, also indicate a degree of retrospection. One such moment is the conclusion (Scene 13) to the first act, which echoes the historical operatic convention of the ensemble finale. Tippett’s musical choice for this scene is the blues. According to Tippett: While exploring how best to formulate the final ensemble of Act I of The Knot Garden, I came across Leroi Jones’s book, Blues People. That taught me two things: firstly that just as the fugue was fundamental to the Baroque period, and sonata to the Enlightenment, so the blues is the most fundamental musical form of our time (not so Schoenberg’s twelve-note method, which seems to me alphabetic); secondly, when you sing the blues, you do so not just because you are ‘blue’, but to relieve the blue emotions.28

Whether Tippett’s understanding of the blues is fully accurate or not, this was a powerful musical context for him, which would be referred to again in the Third Symphony (1970–2), which Tippett began just after The Knot Garden. But it also directly recalls the use of the spirituals in A Child of Our Time, with Tippett’s own words ‘Go tell it from the mountain’ reflecting the similarly titled spiritual ‘Go Tell it on the Mountain’, a title also used by James Baldwin in his semi-autobiographical novel from 1953 which captured the African-American experience of racism in the mid-twentieth century and was a book Tippett would have been familiar with.29 The music Tippett provided for this ensemble draws on familiar gestures and figures from blues and jazz music, with familiarity being a key element in his own understanding of this musical context as fundamental and, by implication, universal. From Fig. 180 the tempo of the music is defined as ‘Tempo di Blues’ and the character Mel is directed to sing ‘in the style and accent of a negro blues man’. Specific details reflect this musical context. For example, the muted trumpet solo, directed to be played ‘with Jazz mute’, and which is full of chromatic inflexions (see

253 Tippett’s operatic world

Fig. 181), is one obvious indication of just how clear Tippett wanted to make the reference to this music. The sound of the electric guitar is another signifier of the popular idiom that Tippett is now invoking, as heard through its short chromatic, sliding gestures. For example, at Fig. 183:2 the short sequence of F, F♯, G, A♭ can be heard to represent the chromatic slide of the blues guitar. The sound of the drums, and the suggestion of a regular rhythmic pulse, are other signifiers of that idiom and context. This process of signification of, and reference to, jazz and blues music is also evident through the harmonic context. The repeated return to an E major chord with D as an added seventh, which is a central harmonic reference for the scene, evokes that unique jazz sound of the non-resolving nature of chromatically altered harmonies. However, it could be argued that these are essentially superficial indicators of jazz and blues music, and some of the words (‘sure, baby’) may be clichés bordering on the ironic. However, Tippett underlines these essentially surface-level gestures with a formal structure that indicates a unique understanding of the musical context to which he refers through a highly imaginative, and formally ingenious, play with the formal archetypes of popular music as defined in the blues and reinvented in jazz music. There are two such archetypes, the twelve-bar blues and the thirty-two-bar (AABA) ‘chorus’. In this concluding ensemble Tippett synthesizes both into a repetitive, recursive structure that situates those details of the music that have already been described.30 According to Kemp, ‘Tippett keeps strictly to the given structure [twelvebar blues] and its chord sequence.’31 However, what I think Tippett actually does in this sequence reflects that structure rather than strictly adhering to it. From Fig. 180 a bassline built on E for four bars defines the music. At Fig. 181:1 E is retained but it is now part of an A major harmony (IV of E), which is broadly consistent with the formal archetype. At Fig. 181:3 the music, if it follows the twelve-bar blues sequence accurately, should move back to E for two bars but it is in fact defined by the descending motion from A♭ before A returns (Fig. 182:1) as part of a dominant (V7) harmony. Rather than moving to IV as the form normally requires, the dominant (V7) remains as the implied harmonic presence of the next bar (Fig. 182:2) before the defining sound of the E major triad with added seventh at Fig. 182:3, and its implied continuation in the next bar, completes the sequence (see Ex. 12.11, which identifies the placement of the relevant harmonies and highlights where the expected harmonies of the form would be positioned as indicated by brackets). The individual realization of the formal archetype of the twelvebar blues is further extended through the overlapping of the vocal parts, which avoids the point of convergence between the words of the verse and the return of the harmonic sequence in the blues and other related musics.

Ex. 12.11 The Knot Garden, Act 1, Scene 13, Figs. 180–183:1

Ex. 12.11 (cont.)

256 Kenneth Gloag

Table 12.1 The Knot Garden, Act 1, Scene 13, Figs. 180–203:4, overall structure

A A B

A

Section

Fig.

A1 A2 A3 B1 B2 B3 A4 A5

180 – 183 – 186 – 189 – 192 – 195 – 198 – 201 –

← (12 bars) →

Fig. – 182:4 – 185:4 – 188:4 – 191:4 – 194:4 – 197:4 – 200:4 – End (203:4)

The twelve-bar unit, for the purposes of this discussion defined as A1, is subject to a process of quite literal repetition; A2 begins at Fig. 183 and A3 at Fig. 186 (this process is summarized in Table 12.1). However, at Fig. 189 this cycle of repetition stops and a new texture is introduced, now based on a ‘boogie-woogie L.H. piano bass’ which Tippett composed ‘after seeing various bar sample formulas which a young chap [Meirion Bowen] wrote down for me’.32 The twelve-bar ‘boogie-woogie’ sequence (identified as B1 in Table 12.1) is based on C and G as defined by the octave motion of C followed by G. This sequence is also now subject to a process of repetition (Fig. 192 (B2), Fig. 195 (B3)), and formal design of the scene is completed by the return of A (Fig. 198 (A4) and Fig. 201 (A5)). The formal process of this ensemble can now be summarized as a series of twelve-bar statements but which are enclosed within a version of the AABA formal archetype, with the ‘boogie-woogie’ B section providing the point of contrast. But this is rendered individual by Tippett through his use of twelve-bar rather than the usual eight-bar units of the thirty-twobar ‘chorus’ of the AABA form. Tippett therefore invokes the two formal archetypes, bringing them together, and in doing so makes this his own music. ‘But that’s a boy’s song’

The blues sequence as described above is a fitting conclusion to the first act; its accumulation of texture and tension, in conjunction with its cycles of repetition, creates a dramatic intensity to the moment. The suggestion of blues and jazz music also brings tonality back into the post-tonal soundworld of the opera, and Tippett’s music of this period in general, even if, through its chromatic inflexions and additions, it is far removed from the expectations of the common practice of tonality. However, the end of the first act is not the only moment in The Knot Garden in which a window is opened on other music and through which tonality enters once again into Tippett’s world.

257 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.12 The Knot Garden, Act 2, Scene 9, Figs. 303–309:3

258 Kenneth Gloag Ex. 12.12 (cont.)

In the final, ninth, scene of Act 2, Dov asks Flora if she likes music and does she ever sing. The response to this question is a quotation from Schubert’s ‘Die liebe Farbe’ from Die schöne Müllerin (see Ex. 12.12), which David Matthews accurately describes as a ‘complement to the blues ensemble’.33 In this quotation Tippett retains the melodic line, harmony and accompaniment, although now orchestrated, of the Schubert song. It is also neatly anticipated in the music that immediately leads into the quotation. From Fig. 299 the music consists of simple semiquaver repetitions that will be seen to anticipate the accompaniment of the Schubert song. The arrival of that accompaniment (from Fig. 303) brings Schubert’s B minor tonality clearly into the foreground of the opera, reflecting Flora’s innocence. The explicit tonal reference makes this a highly individual moment in the opera. However, B was already important as the implied V of E in the Act 1 blues sequence and the initial move from tonic (B minor) to dominant (F♯ major) in the Schubert song now becomes a distant but meaningful reflection of that earlier moment through the use of primary harmonic relationships. The importance of the B minor tonality of the song is accentuated by reference to the beginning and end of the opera.

259 Tippett’s operatic world

B was the first sound heard at the beginning, with it initiating and effectively closing the initial twelve-note theme. It also figures prominently in the conclusion, with B sounded as a sustained pedal from Fig. 515:3 through to Fig. 516, which suggests that this pitch has a referential function in the opera and acts as link between the tonality of the Schubert song (and also as part of the blues sequence) and the post-tonal music that both frames and defines the opera. In response to the words sung by Flora, Dov translates them into English with the accompaniment still being that of Schubert’s music but to which is added additional gestures in the piano part that obscure the clarity of the source (see Ex. 12.12, from Fig. 306:2). Following his translation Dov states that this is a boy’s song (‘But that’s a boy’s song’), to which Flora responds that ‘sometimes I dream I am a boy’. This exchange, emerging out of the Schubert quotation, defines the importance of human relationships and interactions in the opera, but also once again draws attention to Tippett’s own fascination with the ambiguity of gendered archetypes, the images that they project and the encounters and engagements between them.

The later operas: The Ice Break and New Year While King Priam initiates a break in Tippett’s musical language that is clearly defined, even though it remains possible to trace certain continuities across the divide that this opera represents, where, and how, Tippett moved into a late, final period is much less clear-cut. The search for the onset of a late period is complicated by the fact that all of Tippett’s music that comes after King Priam, and not just immediately after, continues to explore the possibilities that were opened up in that opera.34 For Kemp, what he describes as ‘Tippett’s second period’ concludes with a group of works ‘bounded on either side’ by The Knot Garden and The Ice Break, Tippett’s fourth opera.35 This proposal can be read as situating The Ice Break at the beginning of a new, late period, and highlights the important positioning of opera at key junctures in Tippett’s career, an interpretation that is affirmed by David Clarke’s claim that after The Ice Break ‘Tippett’s music began to take new directions’.36 However, The Knot Garden and The Ice Break share certain features, most notably a concern with the contemporary, and the musical language of The Ice Break, although more direct and more concerned with continuity, is not significantly different from that of The Knot Garden. Composed between 1973 and 1976, The Ice Break received its premiere at Covent Garden in 1977 in a production directed by Sam Wanamaker

260 Kenneth Gloag

and conducted by Colin Davis. The opera reflects Tippett’s experience of America, which he visited for the first time in 1965, and resonates with his own understanding of, and response to, the contemporary experience of American – particularly African-American – social and cultural conditions. These concerns are, in part, reflected through the character of Olympion, described as a ‘black champion’, but the conflict of race is also evident through reference to the rituals of the Ku Klux Klan and images of race riots. The tensions that are suggested here may be a long way from the historical, mythical world of King Priam, but once again the evocation of violence is significant as is the response to it. Also notable is the more specific context of the Cold War, with the central character Lev having been a Soviet political prisoner, now released to join his wife Nadia and their son Yuri in the USA, with the works of Solzhenitsyn providing a background influence for Tippett’s engagement with this context. If conflict provides one possible reflection of King Priam, then the focus on human relationships and interactions resonates with all Tippett’s previous operas. For some time Tippett had assumed that The Ice Break would be his final opera. As early as 1969 he writes, in a letter to David Webster, that while he could ‘see already the subject and scope of a 4th opera’, it would presumably be his last,37 and by the time of its first production he had made it known that this was his final contribution to the genre. However, a decade later Tippett returned to opera composition with New Year, which was begun in 1985 and received its first performance by Houston Grand Opera in 1989. For Meirion Bowen, New Year ‘turned out very much to be a summatory work, compounded of ideas and images that had absorbed [Tippett’s] attention from his earlier days right up to the present, as well as a lot of more recent experiences’.38 There are many reflections of recurring concerns from the earlier operas, including ritual, conflict, relationships, psychology and quest. However, to view New Year as only a summation of existing ideas and interests, or to see it in terms of a personalized nostalgia, would be somewhat misleading, based in large part on our knowledge of its position as a very late work in the Tippett oeuvre. As Bowen’s reference to ‘more recent experiences’ suggests, such an interpretation would not fully reflect the unique aspects of this final opera. New Year, like both The Knot Garden and The Ice Break, is an attempt to produce a contemporary music drama. This engagement with the contemporary world is now articulated through a wide range of eclectic musical references – jazz, blues rap, the musical – all of which are redefined as parts of Tippett’s own highly distinctive soundworld. Some of these musical references come with certain connections to previous works, most notably jazz and blues from the conclusion of Act I of The

261 Tippett’s operatic world Ex. 12.13 New Year, Act 1, opening

Knot Garden, while the contemporary sound of the electric guitar has already been heard in both The Knot Garden and The Ice Break. Also familiar are the moments of musical and dramatic discontinuity, immediately heralded in the brief orchestral prelude with which the opera begins. Following a two-bar texture based on the sound of electric guitars, percussion, horns, bassoons, cor anglais and oboes, the third and fourth bars consist of a sudden switch to the sound of saxophones, which is clearly intended to signify jazz music. The juxtaposition of these two textures continues before the amplified, off-stage chorus is heard at Fig. 2 (see Ex. 12.13). The sudden switch from one texture to another provides a further – in this case small-scale – example of the recurring presence of such moves in Tippett’s music from King Priam onwards, and reflects again the highly fragmentary nature, as defined by the dissolve effect, of The Knot Garden. Tippett’s return to the operatic genre in the final stage of his career underlines how important it had been for him. Opera may have been only

262 Kenneth Gloag

one of several historically defined genres in which he worked and succeeded, but the synthesis of music and drama, and the great scope to explore a wide range of literary and visual influences, remained a source of fascination, as did the potential of the genre for reflecting upon the contemporary world and the human condition. Notes 1 Michael Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991), p. 213. 2 For further discussion of these works, in particular Robin Hood, see Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 80–4. 3 Cited in Keith Spence, ‘“Midsummer Marriage” and its Critics’, Musical Times, 112 (January 1971), 28. 4 Ibid. 5 Michael Tippett, ‘The Birth of an Opera’ in Moving into Aquarius, expanded edn (St Albans: Paladin Books, 1974), pp. 54–5, originally published across five issues of The Observer (2, 9, 16 and 30 November and 7 December 1952). 6 Anthony Stevens, Jung (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 53. 7 For a substantial account of the background and content of the libretto see Ian Kemp, Tippett, pp. 209–36. Kemp also provides a useful synopsis (pp. 219–20), as does David Cairns (liner notes, The Midsummer Marriage, Lyrita CD 2217 (1995), pp. 14–17). 8 Ibid., p. 6. 9 Kemp, Tippett, p. 237. 10 However, as Arnold Whittall, writing in relation to The Midsummer Marriage, reminds us, ‘it seems clear enough that complete operas can scarcely be expected to emulate the unified tonal processes of classical sonata designs’ (The Music of Britten and Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques, 2nd edn (Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 136). 11 In this chapter all references to specific rehearsal figures in The Midsummer Marriage are based on the Eulenburg study score No. 8094 (London: Ernst Eulenburg Ltd, 2009). 12 Arnold Whittall, ‘Transcending Song: Tippett’s Play with Genre in Vocal Composition’ in Suzanne Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), p. 190. Whittall has further reflected on the description of this particular theme in terms of a chorale melody and suggested some Wagnerian precedents. See his ‘New Opera, Old Opera: Perspectives

on Critical Interpretation’, Cambridge Opera Journal, 21/2 (July 2009), 195. 13 Kemp, Tippett, p. 238. 14 For further analytical discussion of these specific details see David Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 57–62. 15 Kemp provides a fuller account of the harmonic framework of The Midsummer Marriage. However, although it is more detailed than the account given here the identification of specific tonal centres is not always fully explained nor is the process of analytical reduction (see Kemp, Tippett, p. 238, Ex. 75). 16 Robert F. Jones, ‘Tippett’s Atonal Syntax’ in Geraint Lewis (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M.: A Celebration (Tunbridge Wells: Baton Press, 1985), p. 128. 17 See Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, p. 36. 18 ‘ic’ stands for ‘interval class’, a term used to describe an interval in semitones and its inversional equivalent. Thus interval class 1 (ic1) is represented by the interval of a minor 2nd and its inversion, the major 7th. 19 For further discussion of the role that choice plays in the drama and its analytical implications see Arnold Whittall, ‘“Is There a Choice at All?” King Priam and Motives for Analysis’ in David Clarke (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 55–77. 20 Whittall, ibid., pp. 75–6. 21 Whittall also highlights this collection, describing it as a ‘projection of [0, 1, 6] and [0, 2, 6] collections’, and which can be seen to be connected to other harmonic formations in the opera (see ibid.). 22 Between 1966 and 1969 the new opera was Tippett’s almost exclusive concern; the only other works completed were The Shires Suite for orchestra and chorus (1965–70), composed for the Leicestershire Schools Symphony Orchestra, and a contribution – Braint – to the Severn Bridge Variations (1966). 23 A better understanding of Tippett’s first opera was aided not only by the 1968 Covent Garden performance but also an earlier BBC

263 Tippett’s operatic world studio performance in 1963, conducted by Norman Del Mar, and described by David Matthews as ‘superb’ and a ‘turning point’ (David Matthews, Michael Tippett: An Introductory Study (London: Faber and Faber, 1980), p. 54. Tippett himself was highly enthusiastic about the 1963 broadcast and Del Mar’s conducting of it. In a letter to David Webster, general administrator of Covent Garden, who had commissioned The Knot Garden and to whom it is dedicated, Tippett describes the broadcast performance as ‘terrific’ and claims it as ‘a vindication [of Webster’s] perception with regard to the opera so many years ago’ (Tippett, letter to David Webster (15 January 1963) in Thomas Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. 335). 24 Michael Tippett, ‘Dreams of Power, Dreams of Love’ in Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 220. 25 Michael Tippett, preface to The Knot Garden, ED 11075 (London: Schott & Co. Ltd, 1970). 26 Ibid. 27 Other points marked as ‘dissolve’ in the score go through a similar process to that described above. For example the dissolve between Scenes 6 and 7 in the first act, which occurs at Fig. 67, comes immediately after the conclusion of Mangus’s vocal line and is marked by a sudden change of instrumental texture.

28 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 274. The reference is to LeRoi Jones, Blues People: Negro Music in White America (New York: William Morrow, 1999 [1963]). 29 James Baldwin, Go Tell it on the Mountain (London: Penguin, 2001 [1953]). 30 For a usefully concise description of these forms see Ingrid Monson, ‘Jazz Improvisation’ in The Cambridge Companion to Jazz, ed. Mervyn Cooke and David Horn (Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 120–1. 31 Kemp, Tippett, p. 418. 32 This statement comes from a letter to musicologist F. W. Sternfeld written after the completion of The Knot Garden and describing his work on blues patterns for the Third Symphony, reproduced in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 387. 33 Matthews, Michael Tippett, p. 83. 34 For an interesting consideration of the questions of identifying a late period, and a concept of lateness, in Tippett’s music, see Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett, pp. 206–11. 35 Kemp, Tippett, p. 401. 36 David Clarke, ‘Tippett, Sir Michael’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. XXV, p. 514. 37 Tippett, letter to David Webster (21 November 1969) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 339. 38 Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997), pp. 131–2.

13 Words and music EDWARD VENN

[264]

Tippett’s formative musical experiences all revolved around vocal music.1 Given that his appetite for the written word was almost equal to that for music,2 he inevitably devoted much of his career to their combination; he consequently expended considerable intellectual energy in trying to understand the relationship between the two. It was through discussions with T. S. Eliot, whom Tippett first met in 1937, that his ideas about word–music relationships crystallized; Tippett viewed Eliot as no less than a ‘spiritual and artistic mentor’.3 Later, Tippett borrowed from Susanne Langer a succinct formulation of these principles: ‘Every work of art has its being in only one order of art; compositions of different orders are not simply conjoined, but all except one will cease to appear as what they are. . . . [Music] ordinarily swallows words and action creating (thereby) opera, oratorio, or song.’4 This provided Tippett with aesthetic justification not just to write his own libretto for A Child of Our Time (1939–41) – Eliot had previously declined the offer to provide the words – but for all of his major vocal works. Crucially, libretti were treated as dependent media, as both stimuli and responses to the musical structures and arguments that ultimately ‘swallow’ them up. Tippett was later to describe his own texts as ‘gestures for music’.5 The same relationship obtained for pre-existent texts: writing in 1960, Tippett opined that ‘the absolute of the song as a genre [is that] the music of a song destroys the verbal music of a poem utterly’.6 Tippett’s bellicose vocabulary was playfully confrontational:7 unlike many of his compatriots, his respect for the English literary tradition did not translate into musical genuflection. Nevertheless, he devoted himself to the art of word setting: as a student, species counterpoint lessons at the Royal College of Music were supplemented with attendance, score in hand, of relevant performances in Westminster Cathedral.8 Albert Schweitzer’s book on Bach provided insights into the dramatic relationship between words and music,9 but one suspects too that Schweitzer’s account – in which music dominates verbal rhymes and expresses ‘the inexpressible, the very root of the poetic idea, the expression of which is beyond the power of verbal speech’, and in which ‘the words are finally no more than a shadow-picture of the music’ – prompted Tippett to think along such lines long before he encountered Eliot.10 His work with choirs in Oxted and Morley College provided

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him with a thorough grounding in the setting of English by madrigal composers,11 as well as in Handelian rhetoric in the Messiah.12 Though he knew of Purcell’s music in the 1930s, it was not until the discovery of a complete edition in the rubble of Morley College during the Second World War that the influence became pronounced.13 Though Tippett continued to return to early music as an inspiration for word setting, given the striking consistency of his writings on the subject, borne out in practice in his own music, it seems that he most often turned to the past in order to corroborate his compositional instincts in the present. Past exemplars alone were not therefore sufficient for Tippett’s understanding of word–music relations. It was metaphor that proved crucial, despite, or perhaps because of, its imprecision as an explanatory tool,14 whether in the musical depiction of a particular word or in the choice of text for its poetic ‘situation’ and the determination of its musical corollaries. In the latter case, a genre, a form, a style or even a topical reference such as the pastoral, can all function metaphorically, as and when the context demands, insofar as they ‘stand for’ a particular idea. More generally, all art was for Tippett an attempt to portray metaphorically the ‘inner feelings’ of the artist, which also includes those feelings that arise from collective concerns.15 Nevertheless, such a wealth of metaphor risks meaninglessness: if everything can be considered metaphorical, it has no special function; equally, there is the danger that metaphorical intention replaces musical achievement.16 In works such as A Child of Our Time, The Vision of Saint Augustine (1963–5) and above all The Mask of Time (1980–2), the number and complexity of the literary and musical metaphors employed heighten the risk of artistic failure; such risks for Tippett were clearly necessary for the communication of profound and transcendental ideas, and a vital part of their expressive world. Tippett’s compositions for voice thus articulate a complex relationship between word and music, sound and sense, and the expressible and the inexpressible. The palpable tension between the import of the words and Tippett’s compositional urge to ‘apply techniques of musical extension’17 – to synthesize both words and music into something greater than the sum of their parts – contributes to that sense of communicative urgency characteristic of all his vocal output.

A Child of Our Time At the climax of A Child of Our Time, four soloists emerge from the rich orchestral and choral texture with extended vocalizations that forego the explanatory power of language (Ex. 13.1). In this glorious moment we

266 Edward Venn Ex. 13.1 A Child of Our Time, No. 29, chorus and soli, Fig. 136:3–9

encounter a fundamental truth underpinning Tippett’s work: music can express profundities that are beyond the signifying power of words. In the case of A Child of Our Time, the fleeting apprehension gained is of the undivided psyche. Though the most immediate impetus for the work – the assassination in 1938 of the German diplomat Ernst vom Rath by the Polish Jew Herschel Grynszpan, and the subsequent Nazi pogrom (Kristallnacht) – provides a narrative background, it is the underlying psychological message, universalizing the historical event, with which Tippett’s music is most concerned. Central to this was the choice

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of genre: oratorio provided a means of contemplating, rather than dramatizing, the causes and consequences (both external and internal) of the issues at hand. This much was already clear in a draft libretto that Tippett showed Eliot, in which the particular compositional situations and metaphors had already received their decisive formulation.18 The sketch clarified a tripartite form derived from the Messiah that in turn determined the structure of the philosophical argument. In the first part, Tippett outlines the general human condition, with reference to both groups and individuals, in which certain unconscious forces, and in particular the ‘shadow’, have been suppressed. In Part II specific consequences of this suppression are explored through a portrayal of Grynszpan’s story. The concluding part returns to a generalized stance. Here, Tippett reflects upon the necessity of confronting and accepting the inhumane within us if compassion, understanding and ‘the expression of our total humanity’ is to be possible – ‘I would know my shadow and my light’.19 Punctuating the work are five Negro spirituals that correspond to congregational hymns in the Bach Passions, and that stand metaphorically for ‘deep-seated collective responses’.20 Moreover, Tippett planned each individual number, with both ‘function’ and ‘mood’ stipulated, prompting metaphorically and psychologically appropriate musical responses, such as the use of aria and recitative, or the use of fugue to present unitary moods. The words given to these numbers were designed primarily to fit the musical schema he had devised; the wealth of allusion contained within them (Wilfred Owen, T. S. Eliot, William Blake, C. G. Jung, the Bible and ‘folk idioms’) provides a link between musical and literary metaphor. The temptation is to pursue the significations of these verbal allusions prior to attending to the music.21 However, with all of Tippett’s libretti, the assumption that there exists a unitary vision that can be expressed verbally is problematic: allusions might be chosen with scant regard for conveying the precise meaning of the sources, but rather, by virtue of the musical setting, they are chosen to articulate a deeper artistic truth.22 If the desired illumination of the human condition is to occur amidst the paradoxes presented in the libretto, then it is to the music that we must look. Thus the internal dynamic between recitative and dramatic scena – to provide forward momentum – and aria and spiritual – to provide points of emotional focus and sometimes repose – is given further impetus by virtue of a tonal plan that provides structural focus in Parts I and III and dramatic relationships within Part II; the form of the work thus provides a corollary to the arguments being made.23 Such accounts, however, tend to smooth over the stylistic jolts caused by the spirituals which are just as problematic as the collision of literary

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allusions. Following Tippett’s lead, commentators have attempted to account for their inclusion by noting how the employment of certain intervals characteristic of the spirituals – notably the minor third, perfect fifth and minor seventh – are prominent too in the main body of the oratorio, though Kenneth Gloag has rightly questioned whether that is sufficient to mediate between Tippett’s ambiguous harmonic language and the relative simplicity of the spirituals.24 Nevertheless, the stylistic jolts that result from their inclusion do have expressive impact which reminds us that, like in all oratorios, there are unfolding dramatic as well as abstract musical concerns. In this context, shared motifs, as can be seen in the transition from the soprano aria (No. 7) to the first spiritual (No. 8) (see Ex. 13.2), ensure a certain expressive effect: the consolation of ‘stealing away to Jesus’ offered to the soprano gains additional force by virtue of its musical links to the cry of anguish ‘when I am dead’ (motifs x, x1). And when, for instance, we hear the lilting rhythms of the cradle song and spiritual (motifs y, y1), again over a harmonic pedal and with reference back to the same motivic shapes in the climax of the work (see Ex. 13.1), at the point of illumination when we are to understand that ‘spring’ cannot truly occur unless we accept the ‘winter’, we can begin to make more sense of the situation which led to such a cry in the first place. Such musico-dramatic interconnections help compensate for the stylistic jolts of the spirituals, and indicate that the problems posed by the libretto – not least the ‘indigestible psychological metaphors’ contained within25 – are alleviated to a certain extent by the generic setting. More broadly, the oratorio suggests that Tippett’s belief that genre and form can be communicative vehicles for archetypical principles has some basis in practice. Thus although Tippett never again wrote music of such directness, the lessons learned in this work about the relationship between words and music were to prove invaluable in his vocal music for at least the next quarter of a century.

Smaller choral works The smaller choral works, all composed for specific occasions or for amateur ensembles, have recently suffered from unfair critical neglect; they contain much that is attractive. Tippett wrote none of their texts; those that were not written specially for him usually contained some relevant reference or allusion, metaphorical or otherwise, to the event in question. Nevertheless, his dictate that the music should be the dominant partner generally remains operative, and these works, particularly the earlier ones, continue to treat genre archetypically.

269 Words and music Ex. 13.2 A Child of Our Time, Nos. 7, soprano solo, and 8, ‘A Spiritual’, Figs. 58:2–60:1

The madrigals written in 1942, The Source (Edward Thomas) and The Windhover (Gerard Manley Hopkins), and the motets Plebs Angelica (1943–4) and The Weeping Babe (Edith Sitwell, 1944), represent a considerable advance on the choral writing of the oratorio, reflecting Tippett’s

270 Edward Venn Ex. 13.3 The Weeping Babe, opening

ongoing exploration of early music and his increasing fidelity to the rhythms of the English language. For Tippett, madrigals meant conversations,26 prompting fluid shifts between unison, contrapuntal (frequently imitative) and homophonic textures; the works demonstrate too an increasing facility to animate strophic poetic texts with varied repetitions. The numerous poetic images in both texts suited this conversational attitude, inspiring new musical points for each new idea (to a fault, perhaps). Conversely, the motets, benefiting from poetically less dense texts, place greater emphasis on lyricism and textural contrasts;27 expressively, they are more reflective than the madrigals. Plebs Angelica employs to good effect the double choir and triadic language common in English church music, without sacrificing individuality. The most accomplished of the four works, The Weeping Babe, offers an example of music ‘swallowing’ poetry, reversing the normal accentuation of words such as ‘flower’ by rhapsodizing on the final syllable (Ex. 13.3). This provides an analogue for the poetic softening of ‘sharp trochees, like “little” and “bitter” into gentle ones, like “flower” and “bower”’ by treating them all in a similar musical manner.28 Doing so also enables the more conventionally set ‘Lullay’ at the centre of the work to gain (by virtue of contrast) both musical and expressive weight, thus contributing considerably to the work’s charm. Of the ten contributions to ‘A Garland for the Queen’, commissioned to mark Elizabeth II’s coronation, Tippett’s five-voice madrigal Dance, Clarion Air (Christopher Fry, 1952) has best stood the test of time. The

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text is notably more concise than those in Tippett’s previous choral works, enabling him to linger musically on the poetic images of each line. Repetition of words – almost entirely absent in the choral works of the 1940s – serves a dramatic and textural function (for instance, in the opening fanfare-like setting of ‘Dance’). It also enables Tippett to extend lines so that the formal proportions of the work are correct – a technique that he may have borrowed from Stravinsky’s Les Noces.29 Stravinsky may also have reinvigorated Tippett’s interest in folk idioms; over the course of the 1950s this interest manifested itself in a series of folksong arrangements. In 1948, Tippett had used part of ‘Early One Morning’ in the Suite in D for the Birthday of Prince Charles, only for it to appear eventually in full as the first of the Four Songs from the British Isles for unaccompanied SATB choir (1956). Another song that Tippett had long admired, the Scottish ‘Skye Boat Song’ (published separately in 2002 as ‘Over the Sea to Skye’),30 was eventually replaced for copyright reasons by ‘Poortith Cauld’; songs from Ireland and Wales completed the set as the second and fourth songs respectively. Together, the four movements correspond to the instrumental model of faster outer pieces flanking a scherzo and slow piece. Instrumental thinking may also contribute to the technical challenges presented by these pieces, despite Tippett’s claims to the contrary.31 An arrangement made in the same year of a Northumbrian folksong, Bonny at Morn, evaded such problems by having the choir sing in unison; above this, three recorders wheel and turn in ever-evolving and increasingly complex dancing lines, capturing something of the airiness of the melody itself. Similarly straightforward is the 1958 Unto the Hills Around Do I Lift My Longing Eyes (‘Wadhurst’ hymn tune), written in a ‘Scottish melodic style’ for the Salvation Army.32 An altogether more successful contribution to amateur music-making can be found in the cantata Crown of the Year (1958). Composed for the girls of Badminton School, Bristol, to another text by Christopher Fry (which had previously been considered for ‘A Garland for the Queen’), the work balances the demands of writing for amateurs with a commitment to the highest musical values. As with the Four British Songs, there is an underlying four-movement schema, readily integrated into the cantata format, that complements the seasonal imagery of Fry’s libretto, which considers in turn the three former Queens of England before ending with Queen Elizabeth II as a ‘spring’ monarch (following the implied winter of World War II). Of these four movements, the outer two are for chorus and the inner two for soloists, between which are interspersed instrumental interludes and an icy refrain. Each section presents one or two clearly delineated expressive situations, with the exception of the extended fantasia finale which gathers up many of the moods, if not material, of the

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earlier movements in order to express a qualified optimism for the future. The instrumental accompaniments range from the relatively simple (such as the open strings of the violin in the second instrumental interlude) to the far more complex pianistic writing; the vocal writing, for the girls’ choir, is challenging in its use of dissonance but never ungrateful. The occasionally dry, if not didactic, passage aside, The Crown of the Year, particularly in the vocal movements and in the third interlude, contains some memorable and wonderfully executed ideas. Tippett’s final four choral works are somewhat uneven in quality. Commentary techniques inform Lullaby (1959), a setting of a Yeats poem for six voices, a work that has certain shared concerns with Tippett’s later Yeats setting, Byzantium (1989–90). Written for the countertenor Alfred Deller, it is a curious study in line and colour: the accompanying voices provide a gloss on the countertenor’s words, repeating short motives and words to provide a halo around the central text, but also serving to throw the unique properties of the countertenor’s timbre into relief. Music (1960), a setting of Shelley’s words for unison voices, was written for the East Sussex and West Kent Choral Festival. In an inversion of Tippett’s usual practice – strangely, given the poem being set – words, rather than music, dominate: there is little in the somewhat functional accompaniment that aspires to the sentiments of the text. With The Shires Suite (1965–70) Tippett once again returns to writing for children. As in Crown of the Year, the more difficult material can be found in the instrumental writing – a recognition of the limitations of young people’s voices – and instrumental movements are interspersed between those for voice. All of the vocal material is canonic, drawing on sources from the Middle Ages through to the twentieth century. As with Bonny at Morn, the decision to keep the source material relatively intact throws the weight of the work onto the accompaniment, and the shifting and boisterous contexts Tippett provides are both touching and, where appropriate, vigorously good natured. With the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis (1961), however, we have at least one choral work that holds its own in the company of those from the previous two decades. In the Magnificat, the progression through radically contrasting timbres and ideas (instrumental and vocal, chordal and polyphonic) obscures the fundamental notion that the organ is offering a running commentary on the material it punctuates: the jubilant Priamlike fanfares (exploiting the trumpet stop on the organ of St John’s College, Cambridge, for whom the work was written) and the continuously upward striving of organ chords expound the underlying joy of the setting. In the Nunc Dimittis, the organ’s role shifts to ‘primitive onomatopoësis of the thunderings of God’, with a treble soloist angelically voicing Simeon’s

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otherwise inexpressible thoughts.33 By focusing on the poetic situation of the sacred texts – respectively, the altogether human apprehension of the transcendent provided by Mary and Simeon – Tippett demonstrates once again how musical metaphors can elicit fresh and original settings of even the most familiar texts.

Works for solo voice By designating The Heart’s Assurance (1950–1) a song cycle, and Boyhood’s End (1943) a cantata in the Purcellian tradition of an extended solo song, Tippett contrasts the general situations of a ‘poet’s voice describing rather than an “I” talking’.34 The emphasis on ‘situation’ leads naturally to The Heart’s Assurance’s exploration of a single theme (‘Love under the Shadow of Death’)35 rather than the presentation of a story over a cycle, as it does in the character studies of Songs for Achilles (1961) for voice and guitar. The Songs for Ariel (1962), drawn from music written for The Tempest, have a dramatic background that binds them together.36 In all these works we again encounter the vital communicative role played by genre. Boyhood’s End sets a passage from W. H. Hudson’s autobiography that reflects on the loss of communion with nature experienced as he approached adulthood.37 The text fulfils Tippett’s criteria for a cantata (an ‘I’ talking) whilst, more surprisingly, possessing strong musical implications. After an introductory declamatory recitative, ‘What then, did I want? . . . I want to keep what I have’, there follows a series of activities that Hudson deemed lost. Formally, the list is structured by infinitives (‘to rise’, ‘to climb’, ‘to ride’, ‘to lie’ and so on), though Tippett transforms the individual actions into particular emotional states that are wedded to a tight musical design. In fact, the relative energy of the activities corresponds closely to that of Tippett’s favoured multi-movement sequence (see above), thereby vouchsafing the cantata’s musical coherence. Critics frequently highlight the climactic Purcellian melismas crowning the second section,38 not least because they point towards The Midsummer Marriage. Yet their expressive impact requires the cumulative development across the first three strophes, the first of which is re-notated in Ex. 13.4. Here the situation is one of mounting excitement, evident in the non-alignment of accents between voice and accompaniment; in the shifting between simple, compound and irregular time; in the gradual ascent governing the voice; and in the expansion present in the setting of ‘morning’, ‘day’ and ‘year’. Each subsequent strophe inventively reworks such devices, building up to the jubilant climax. Purcellian influences can be found too in the ground bass

274 Edward Venn Ex. 13.4 Boyhood’s End, bars 38–53 (re-barred; octave doublings in accompaniment omitted)

of the slow recitative-like third section. The fourth section contrasts galloping motifs with florid water figures, following the text closely; the fifth is an example of Tippett’s predilection for fantasy forms in his finales. Though the directness and vigour of the music of all of these sections conflicts with the nostalgic aspects of Hudson’s text – another example of music ‘swallowing’ words – it is by no means to the work’s detriment. Rather, it suggests that although Hudson is no longer able to experience such activities first hand, the ecstatic images and memories nevertheless remain part of his adult self: they shape his inner life and as such retain a permanent freshness and vitality. The Heart’s Assurance, dedicated to Francesca Allinson, whose suicide in 1945 affected Tippett deeply,39 is a sequence of five alternately slow and fast songs setting texts by the Second World War poets Sidney Keyes and Alun Lewis. The chosen texts demand strophic forms: Tippett’s capacity for varied repetition is demonstrated masterfully in his settings. The slow songs have been criticized, however, for an over-abundance of decoration within which the poetry is easily ‘swallowed up’.40 For instance, in the opening ‘Song’, the demisemiquaver flourishes in the accompaniment do

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indeed seem to sit at odds with the steady tread implied by the words ‘O Journeyman’ with which it begins. Yet the pianistic virtuosity sets ‘the poet describing’ into appropriate relief, regardless of whether one feels the figuration represents ‘the endless belt’ described in the text or not,41 and when this technique yields rewards such as the coruscating intensity generated between the static E♮s in the voice and the swirling accompaniment that envelops it (Ex. 13.5), arguments over general aesthetics of word–music relationships fast become moot. Similar qualities inform the remaining songs. The second, ‘The Heart’s Assurance’ juxtaposes dancing figuration (‘never trust the heart’s assurance’) with more reflective gestures (‘trust only the heart’s fear’); there is a similar, if less clearly demarcated, balance between sharpwards and flatwards tonal regions. ‘Compassion’ is underpinned by repeated ostinatolike figures within which moments of stillness provide expressive contrast. ‘The Dancer’, as Ian Kemp argues,42 mimics in its refrain the movements of a dancer. The weighty chords of ‘Remember your lovers’, alternating with fanfare-like solo refrains for the singer, provide a striking close. The first of the three Songs for Achilles comes from Act Two of King Priam. Though the words and expansively lyrical lines speak of nostalgia, the sinewy counterpoint and barely repressed frustration of the guitar accompaniment suggest more complex emotions. These are developed in the remaining songs, of which the last is also notable for the use of a (near) palindrome to represent Achilles’s mother’s rise from and descent into the sea. The Songs for Ariel are more accessible. On the one hand bound by the challenges of writing songs for actors, and on the other perhaps unable to ‘destroy’ the words of his beloved Shakespeare, Tippett strikes a balance between words and music that is unique in his output. It is in the central ‘Full Fathom Five’ that the resulting quality of restraint enables Tippett to rise fully to Shakespeare’s challenge. David Matthews has noted how the song is ‘a superb demonstration of how to make conventional chords sound fresh’;43 the song as a whole might be taken as a marvellous metaphor for the situation conveyed in the words ‘rich and strange’.

From Ostia to Byzantium Tippett returned to The Tempest in his short final work, Caliban’s Song (1995). Its paean to ‘sounds, sweet airs that give delight and hurt not’ culminates with the line ‘when I waked, I cried to dream again’, ending with an ambiguous chord, neither confirming nor denying the tonic A♭. This chord embodies the tension between ‘delight’ – the desire to ‘dream again’ – and the acknowledgement that ‘hurt’ does exist and cannot be

276 Edward Venn Ex. 13.5 The Heart’s Assurance, No. 1, ‘Song’, bars 53–63

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wished away, and encapsulates Tippett’s increasingly ironic questioning of the relevance of artistic statements. In four large-scale compositions – The Vision of Saint Augustine, Songs for Dov (1969–70), The Mask of Time and Byzantium – such tensions manifest in complex (and abstruse) metaphorical constructions that place word–music relationships under sustained pressure. This in turn problematizes generic decisions: if the old certainties of music–text relations no longer obtain, or are no longer relevant, then the use of traditional genres for communicative purposes becomes suspect. The loosening of the bonds between text and genre consequently throws the weight of the word–music relationship elsewhere; in particular, intricate cross-references between both media become of increasing importance as a means of generating coherence. The Vision of Saint Augustine for baritone solo, chorus and orchestra recalls A Child of Our Time in its tripartite preparation for, narration of and reflection upon the second of St Augustine’s visions as described in his autobiographical Confessions. Yet it is neither oratorio nor cantata, for neither is appropriate for the situation – our experience of temporality and our apprehension of eternity. Thus Tippett constructed a sophisticated libretto that treats Augustine’s text – in its original Latin – as a palimpsest, over which is laid related passages from elsewhere in the Confessions and from the Bible. For instance, Augustine’s first mention of the garden in Ostia where he and his mother experienced their vision prompts a setting from the Song of Songs; this in turn alludes to Augustine’s struggles with sensuality that prompted his first vision (Ex. 13.6). In doing so, a linear narrative is eschewed in favour of sudden shifts into the past and future as memories combine with anticipations of coming events. This is achieved within a musical design that similarly hints at, or develops, material that is to come, or has passed, enabling both text and music to comment on, and analyse, each other. The musical material is itself simultaneously progressive and retrospective in terms of Tippett’s own compositional output. On the one hand, there exist strong connections to his musical past, not least in the use of word-painting. For instance, verbs of motion tend to attract melismas, as with erigentes (‘rising’, Fig. 90) and perambulavimus (‘we passed through’, Fig. 93); hortus (‘garden’ – see Ex. 13.6) generates topical references to the pastoral; and inhiabamus (‘panting’, Fig. 61) suggests a leaping figure that is taken up in the choral alleluia at the end of Part I.44 On the other hand, the communicative immediacy of such traditional elements is problematized, if not obscured, by (amongst other things) the complexity of both literary and musical organization; the superimpositions of material that is already tonally uncertain to form dense, chromatic passages; and a mosaic-like sectional

278 Edward Venn Ex. 13.6 The Vision of Saint Augustine, Figs. 19:4–22:1

construction that together serve as pointers towards the expressionism of Tippett’s music of the late 1960s and early 1970s.45 This is most apparent in representations of spiritual ecstasy, for which Tippett drew on traditional Christian descriptions of angelic music, and in particular the idea of glossolalia: the shamanistic, if not orgiastic, use of lengthy melismas on vowels. Whilst this is not for Tippett a new resource (see Ex. 13.1), the frequency and above all virtuosity of his own glossolalia engenders a new mode of expression, pushing soloist and chorus alike to their technical limits: this is not a comforting alleluia, but rather a glimpse of something hovering just beyond our understanding.

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The work’s textual and textural complexity, coupled with the use of Latin, requires more than had been the case in Tippett’s earlier works in that the music becomes the prime vehicle for the underlying sense of the piece. Thus Part I, which prepares for the vision in Part II, generates a sense of anticipation by virtue of a series of tensional waves. Recognizable points of focus, such as the numerous varied repetitions of the opening vocal exchanges, balance the tendency elsewhere towards differentiation and fragmentation. In combination with deft shaping of rhythmic energy, aided too by the broad spans of the baritone lines, Tippett ensures each successive climax is more potent than the last. Part II concerns the vision itself. It begins with three broad paragraphs, which are recapitulated instrumentally at the end; the text reviews different and increasing levels of spirituality. The depiction of eternity requires of Tippett a new technique: a series of superimposed ostinati that are organized in such a way that it would take many hours before the music returned to its original state.46 We only hear it for a minute or so before returning back ‘into’ time (as was the case for Augustine). Yet despite this glimpse of the divine there is also a sense of agency: the ostinati crescendo and diminuendo together, creating the impression of a slower, larger pulse that compromises the sense of eternity. Whether the sense of agency in the vision was intentional or not, the distance between the human and the divine is explored in Part III. Here, Tippett reworks ideas from the earlier movements; though formally traditional, their appearance and function arise intimately from the musical depiction of Augustine’s contemplation of, and attempts to recapture, the experience of his vision. Of particular note is the recurrence of the Alleluia from Part II, repeatedly interrupted by the baritone, but each time picking up from where it left off. As Anthony Payne noted, such insertions vividly depict human fallibility, thus preparing the final spoken exhortation ‘I count myself not to have apprehended’.47 The divine thus remains inaccessible, and neither words nor music are sufficient to alter this state of affairs. A related path from innocence to experience informs the Songs for Dov. American influences in the foreground of the first song – derived from Act Two of The Knot Garden – can be detected in both libretto (‘play it cool’) and orchestration (an obbligato electric guitar); these are projected against the background of the European art song, indexed by an AAB construction and sophisticated harmonic language. This provides the metaphorical ‘situation’: the optimistic desire, born of innocence, to recreate the pastoral for modernity. The second song allegorizes Eliot’s thesis that artists learn through the imitation of, and development from, their predecessors.48 Dov encounters Goethe, Shakespeare and Homer; none of the

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certainties embodied in these examples are found to be suitable for the modern world. The use of quotation here (we might add Wagner and, in the third song, Mussorgsky) and in the Third Symphony marks Tippett’s most extended use of collage, in a highly stylized depiction of how creative artists gain ‘experience’. In the final song, Dov faces the problem for all creative artists: how to confront the loss of communicative certainties and to write authentic music that nevertheless speaks to the world. Tippett introduces the opposition between the urban and the rural to represent the dilemma outlined by Pasternak of ‘rhetoric’ – the poet’s confrontation with society – versus ‘poetry’ – the images of beauty that come from the internal creative drive.49 The former is presented by the boogie-woogie from The Knot Garden, the latter by a modern reclamation of the pastoral. The two are presented in opposition; the lack of reconciliation between them offers a potent metaphor for the problems facing an artist, yet the necessity of singing in the face of such uncertainties remains as strong as ever. The Mask of Time’s title announces its generic background – the Renaissance masque, with its associations of pageantry and spectacle – whilst suggesting something secretive, unknown or unspoken. Written for ‘voices and instruments’ – actually a large chorus, four solo voices and an extended orchestra – it attempts in two extended parts, each subdivided into five movements, to deal with man’s attempts to understand his place in the universe. In Part I various modes of understanding – religious, scientific and artistic – are surveyed; each leads to alienation or confusion. In Part II the focus shifts to attempts to dominate or relate to the world; despite the presentation of a series of successive failures or tragedies, the work ends with a final, wordless exhortation to the need of continuing to celebrate, as and how we can. The theatricality of the masque is realized with reference to a different musico-dramatic metaphor, that of television. Tippett acknowledges the influence of Jacob Bronowski’s 1973 television series The Ascent of Man on certain scenes and images,50 but more generally, the fast cross-cutting between different musical, philosophical and literary ideas has a filmic quality. A more apposite metaphor, however, would be of a viewer armed with a TV remote control, regularly changing channels and attempting to make sense of the multiple images and points of view that pass by. By aiming to ‘accommodate a plurality of co-existing viewpoints’ Tippett offers a subjective, provisional and contestable attempt to ‘make sense’ of the multiple perspectives that he presents.51 To this end, his dense, allusive libretto makes ingenious connections and cross-references between disparate sources; the score similarly abounds in strongly articulated gestures and intra- and inter-textual links. Yet Tippett’s continued assertion that the text ‘compounded of

281 Words and music

metaphors’ is ‘swallowed up within the music’ seems disingenuous:52 even more than in The Vision of Saint Augustine, the words structure the music as much as the music structures the words. It is telling in this respect that Tippett’s notes for the work concentrate almost exclusively on explicating the meanings and references behind the libretto, with barely a mention of the musical ideas he uses; the repetitions and mosaic structures in the music consequently make little sense without the words. In fact, to evoke another metaphor, the work is closer to a hypertext than a text as such: each idea is specifically linked to others in a never-ending chain of signification. Take, for instance, the word ‘sound’. Tippett offers a typically arresting image of this at the opening of The Mask of Time in order to ‘depict the cosmos metaphorically’ (Ex. 13.7).53 The extended ‘sou-’ recurs in the word ‘resounding’ (Fig. 7), the fourths and fifths of Ex. 13.7 softened into implied dominant chords. The opening returns near the end of the ‘Jungle’ movement (Fig. 93), highlighting the relationship between creation and nature. In the depiction of early human societies in the fourth movement, the syllable ‘sou’ occurs in the phrase ‘southward to the sun’ (Fig. 110), establishing a tenuous link between man and nature; with the return of ‘resounding’ (Fig. 147), colouring the ritual trumpets and sacrifices of sun-worship, nature is explicitly bound up with religion and thereby creation myths. Yet in the sixth movement, mankind’s attempts to dominate life, represented by Shelley’s poem ‘The Triumph of Life’, are contrasted with the poet’s own death at sea; the burning of his corpse triggers another reiteration of the ‘resounding’ figure (Fig. 289) that is at once ironic (destruction, rather than creation) and ritualistic (sacrificial). Ex. 13.7 returns once more, in the Orpheus legend of movement nine, to underpin Rilke’s use of the word ‘sound’: here the citation acts as a literary analysis, noting the interconnectedness between sources.54 Such links reinforce the idea that as mankind attempts to understand or control the cosmos through religion or art, we construct instead new forms of incomprehension, and we remain subject to, rather than masters of, death. Science, too, leads to the horrors of Hiroshima, as depicted in movements seven and eight. The dynamism generated by such cross-references provides a momentum of its own, offering an alternative experience to the more traditional forms of development and teleological structures found in Tippett’s earlier vocal music. Yet it must also be acknowledged that despite telling and memorable musical images such as Ex. 13.7, there exist within the score problematic lapses of taste and invention. Though the onomatopoeic animal noises and cries of ‘Merde’ in the ‘Jungle’ movement might be excused as humour (see Ex. 13.8)55 – this is, after all, a pageant, and certain aspects of the world are better dealt with with laughter – other ideas are

282 Edward Venn Ex. 13.7 The Mask of Time, Part I, ‘Presence’, opening

much harder to explain away. For instance, the musical figure first heard in respect to ‘Allah’ and later for ‘China’ (Ex. 13.8) – thereby collapsing ‘the East’ into one questionable stereotype – leaves Tippett open to the same accusations of cultural, historical and geographical insensitivity of which he elsewhere accuses Eliot.56 And if the central tone of The Mask of Time is one of sincere irony and ironic sincerity – witness the continual collapse of the profound into the mundane and vice versa – is it possible to take at face value the deeply felt and absolutely un-ironic moments such as the musical depiction of Hiroshima and the affecting threnody that follows?

283 Words and music Ex. 13.8 The Mask of Time, Part I, ‘Jungle’, Figs. 68:3–70:3

‘All metaphor, Malachi, stilts and all’: thus sings the tenor, quoting Yeats, near the start of the work (Fig. 4). For Tippett, Yeats’s image of ‘the whiffler, stalking about on stilts in front of the circus parade is a perfect analogy for the human being trying to remain unswamped by the mêlée of experience . . . it struck me also as a marvellous image of the artist, trying to put his message across’.57 The Mask of Time is accordingly an ambitious musical re-enactment of this mêlée, balancing the banal with the inspired, the authentic with the artificial, creating an innovative structure from the

284 Edward Venn

intricate network of metaphors and cross-references. Its undoubted generosity of spirit does not – cannot – conceal its problems, but it remains rarely less than interesting, and at its best it is profoundly beautiful and deeply moving. Originally intended as the second of three songs for soprano and orchestra, it soon became apparent that Tippett’s setting of Yeats’s ‘Byzantium’ was substantial enough to stand on its own. Tippett treats the first two of Yeats’s stanzas as introductory – in the sense of providing a fund of images, both verbal and musical – before concentrating on the images of song and dance in the third and fourth stanzas. The ‘crystalline intensity’ of the text,58 and in particular its internal cross-references, enabled Tippett to apply his by-now-familiar techniques of using precise musical gestures to underpin verbal connections – enabling the expansion of a short poem into nearly half-an-hour of music – sacrificing only the external allusions and commentaries found in The Vision of Saint Augustine and The Mask of Time. The underlying ‘situation’ is that of the poetic ‘artefact’, ‘enshrining values that can be set against the impermanence of the everyday world and the complexities of the human beating heart’.59 Thus although the setting contains numerous instances of direct word-painting (the use of gongs and birdsong, and a marvellously airy setting of the word ‘dome’ (Fig. 24) that evokes The Midsummer Marriage), Tippett’s music reflects the polished, objective quality of the poem in its own sharply defined material and virtuosic vocal writing. It was through Eliot that Tippett got to know both the poetry of Yeats and the idea of artefacts. This return to Eliot – consistent with the idea of reversal articulated in The Mask of Time – creates a neat symmetry to Tippett’s vocal output, forging unexpected yet entirely characteristic links with A Child of Our Time written some fifty years before. Notes 1 Michael Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991), pp. 5–6. 2 See Suzanne Robinson, ‘Introduction’ in Suzanne Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), pp. 2–6. 3 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 50. 4 Susanne K. Langer, cited in Tippett, ‘T.S. Eliot and A Child of Our Time’ in Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 110. 5 Cited in Meirion Bowen, ‘Tippett’s Byzantium’, Musical Times, 132 (September 1991), 438–40.

6 Tippett, ‘Conclusion’ in Denis Stevens (ed.), A History of Song (London: Hutchinson, 1960), p. 462. 7 See Peter Pears’s response: ‘A happy marriage is the proper relationship where each respects the other and takes it in turn to dominate’; ‘Song and Text’ in Ian Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium on his 60th Birthday (London: Faber and Faber, 1965), p. 47. 8 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 14. 9 Ibid., p. 40. 10 Albert Schweitzer, J. S. Bach, vol. I I , trans. Ernest Newman (London, A. & C. Black Ltd, 1911 [1905]), pp. 26–36.

285 Words and music 11 Tippett, ‘Purcell’ in Tippett on Music, p. 57. 12 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, p. 40. 13 Ibid., p. 115. 14 Tippett, ‘Towards the Condition of Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 7. 15 Ibid., p. 9. 16 See Derrick Puffett, ‘Tippett and the Retreat from Mythology’, The Musical Times, 136 (January 1995), 6–14. 17 Tippett, ‘Archetypes of Concert Music’ in Tippett on Music, p. 106. 18 ‘Sketch for a Modern Oratorio’, reproduced in Tippett on Music, pp. 117–77. 19 Tippett, ‘The Nameless Hero: Reflections on A Child of Our Time’ in Tippett on Music, p. 184. 20 Ian Kemp, Tippett: The Composer and his Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 158. 21 See, for instance, Kemp, Tippett, pp. 155–7, and Kenneth Gloag, Tippett: A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 19–23. 22 See Edward Venn, ‘Idealism and Ideology in Tippett’s Writings’ in Robinson (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature, p. 37. 23 Kemp, Tippett, pp. 168–9. 24 Gloag, Tippett: A Child of Our Time, p. 83. 25 Tippett, ‘T. S. Eliot and A Child of Our Time’ in Tippett on Music, p. 116. 26 See his letter to Douglas Newton (14 September 1943) in Thomas Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005), p. 154. 27 Kemp, Tippett, p. 180. 28 Meirion Bowen, Michael Tippett, 1st edn (London: Robson Books, 1982), p. 40. 29 See Tippett, ‘Stravinsky and Les Noces’ in Tippett on Music, p. 54 (derived from a radio talk given in 1947). 30 Schott ED 12750 (London: Schott & Co. Ltd); see Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997), p. 61. 31 Tippett maintained that the difficulties were stylistic rather than technical; see his letter to Maurice Johnstone (2 March 1959) in Schuttenhelm (ed.), Selected Letters, p. 21. See also Kemp’s defence of the difficulties in Tippett, p. 292. 32 Kemp, Tippett, p. 290. 33 George Guest, ‘Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis’ in Geraint Lewis (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M.: A Celebration (Tunbridge Wells: The Baton Press, 1985), pp. 145–6. 34 Tippett, cited in Kemp, Tippett, p. 298. 35 Ibid. 36 To these theatrical works we can add a third, Words for Music, Perhaps (1960), a

sequence of poems for spoken voice(s) interspersed with musical transitions supplied by the composer. 37 W. H. Hudson, Far Away and Long Ago (New York: E. P. Dutton & Company, 1918). 38 See Kemp, Tippett, p. 186, and Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn, p. 70. 39 Tippett, Those Twentieth Century Blues, pp. 184–7. 40 Pears, ‘Song and Text’ in Kemp (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium, p. 49. 41 Peter Evans, ‘The Vocal Works’ in Kemp, ibid., p. 156. 42 Tippett, p. 301. 43 David Matthews, Michael Tippett: An Introductory Study (London: Faber and Faber, 1980), p. 71. 44 Tippett’s translation of inhiabamus (gape, desire) as ‘we panted’ invokes the opening of Shelley’s Music (‘we pant for the music that is divine’). 45 See Kemp, Tippett, pp. 401–74. 46 The same technique was employed by Messiaen, also to depict eternity, in the first movement of his Quatuor pour la fin du temps (1940–1). 47 Anthony Payne, ‘Michael Tippett’s “The Vision of Saint Augustine”’, Tempo, 76 (Spring 1966), 19–21. 48 See T. S. Eliot, ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’ (1919) in Selected Essays (New York: Harcourt, 1950). 49 See Tippett, ‘Dreams of Power, Dreams of Love’ in Tippett on Music, pp. 224–5 for his discussion of Boris Pasternak, Dr Zhivago, trans. Max Hayward and Manya Harari (London: Pantheon Books, 1958). 50 Tippett, ‘The Mask of Time’ in Tippett on Music, p. 247. 51 Ibid., p. 246. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid., p. 248. 54 Tippett quotes four lines from Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus; see Bowen, Michael Tippett, 2nd edn, pp. 230–1. 55 David Clarke, The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 148. 56 Tippett, ‘Too Many Choices’ in Tippett on Music, p. 299. 57 Tippett, ‘The Mask of Time’ in Tippett on Music, p. 248. 58 Tippett, note in Byzantium study score, Schott ED 12383 (London: Schott & Co. Ltd, 1994). 59 Ibid.

Chronological list of works JONATHAN REES

Completion date

Work

c. 1926–7

Five Settings

c. 1927 1928

c. 1928 1929

1930

c. 1930 c. 1931 1932 1933 1934 1935 c. 1935

1937

1938

[286]

Forces used and further information

Violin, cello and piano. Arrangements – 1. Bolsters, a ballet; 2. The House that Jack Built; 3. Cheerly Men; 4. The Yiang-Tse-Kiang; 5. Three Jovial Huntsmen. Unpublished. The Undying Fire Baritone solo, chorus and orchestra. Text by H. G. Wells. Unpublished. The Village Opera (1927–8), ballad Voices and small ensemble. Tippett rescored this opera (realization) eighteenth-century piece by Charles Johnson for chamber orchestra and provided extra music. Unpublished. String Quartet in F (rev. 1930) Unpublished. Piano Sonata in C minor Unpublished. String Quartet in F minor Unpublished. Variations for Dudley [Parvin] Piano. Unpublished. Ten Variations on a Swiss Folksong as Piano. Unpublished. Harmonized by Beethoven [WoO64] Three Songs Voice and piano. Texts by Charlotte Mary Mew – 1. ‘Sea Love’; 2. ‘Afternoon Tea’; 3. ‘Arracombe Wood’. Manuscript lost. Concerto in D (1928–30) Flutes, oboe, horns and strings. Manuscript lost. Jockey to the Fair, variations Piano. Unpublished. Don Juan Overture and incidental music to the play by James Elroy Flecker. Manuscript lost. Psalm in C: The Gateway Chorus and string orchestra. Text by Christopher Fry. Unpublished. Sonata in E minor Violin and piano. Fragments. Symphonic Movement (c. 1930–1) Orchestra. Unpublished. String Trio in B♭ Composed under the tutelage of R. O. Morris. Unpublished. (Orchestrated in 1932, fragments.) Symphony in B♭ (rev. 1934) Unpublished. Robin Hood, folksong opera Voices and small ensemble. Book by David Ayerst and lyrics by Ruth Pennyman. Unpublished. String Quartet No. 1 in A (1934–5, rev. 1943) Miners Chorus and piano. Text by Judy Wogan. Written for a trade union pageant at the Crystal Palace. Unpublished. A Song of Liberty Chorus and orchestra. The text is taken from William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Unpublished. Piano Sonata No. 1 (1936–8, rev. 1942) Robert of Sicily, play for children with Children’s choruses and small ensemble. Text by music Christopher Fry. Unpublished.

287 Chronological list of works

Completion date 1939

1941

1942

1943 1944

1945 1946

1948 1951 1952

1953

1954

1955

1956

1957 1958

Work

Forces used and further information

Seven at One Stroke, play for children Children’s choruses and small ensemble. Text by with music Christopher Fry – an updating of the Grimm fairytale ‘The Valiant Little Tailor’. Unpublished. Concerto for Double String Orchestra (1938–9) Fantasia on a Theme of Handel Piano and orchestra. (1939–41) A Child of Our Time (1939–41), SATB soloists, SATB chorus and orchestra. Text by oratorio the composer. String Quartet No. 2 in F♯ (1941–2) Two Madrigals: The Source and The SATB choir. Written for Morley College Choir. Texts Windhover by Edward Thomas (‘The Source’) and Gerard Manley Hopkins (‘The Windhover’). Boyhood’s End, cantata Tenor and piano. Text by W. H. Hudson. Fanfare No. 1 Four horns, three trumpets and three trombones. Plebs Angelica (1943–4), motet Double choir. The Weeping Babe, motet Soprano solo and SATB chorus. Text by Edith Sitwell. Symphony No. 1 (1944–5) String Quartet No. 3 (1945–6) Preludio al Vespro di Monteverdi Organ. Little Music String Orchestra. Suite in D for the Birthday of Prince Orchestra. Charles The Heart’s Assurance (1950–1), High voice and piano. Texts by Sidney Keyes and song cycle Alun Lewis. Dance, Clarion Air, madrigal Five voices SSATB. Text by Christopher Fry. Tippett’s contribution to ‘A Garland for the Queen’, commissioned to mark Elizabeth II’s coronation. The Midsummer Marriage Text by the composer. (1946–52), opera in 3 acts Ritual Dances from The Orchestra with optional chorus. Midsummer Marriage Fantasia Concertante on a String orchestra. Written for a celebration at the Theme of Corelli Edinburgh Festival of the 300th anniversary of Corelli’s birth. Fanfare No. 2 Four trumpets. Fanfare No. 3 Three trumpets. Four Inventions Descant and treble recorders. Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’ Chamber orchestra. Written for the 1953 Aldeburgh (1953–4) Festival as a contribution to a set of pieces by different composers that all contained reference to ‘Sellinger’s Round’. Concerto for Piano and Orchestra (1953–5) Sonata for Four Horns Bonny at Morn Unison voices and a trio of recorders. Arrangement of the Northumbrian folksong. Four Songs from the British Isles SATB choir. Settings of an English song (‘Early One Morning’), an Irish song (‘Lilliburlero’), a Scottish song (‘Poortith Cauld’) and a Welsh song (‘Gwenllian’). (For copyright reasons, ‘Poortith Cauld’ replaced Tippett’s arrangement of the Scottish ‘Skye Boat Song’; this was published separately in 2002 as ‘Over the Sea to Skye’.) Symphony No. 2 (1956–7) Crown of the Year, cantata SSA female chorus and small instrumental ensemble. Text by Christopher Fry.

288 Chronological list of works

Completion date

1959 1960

1961

Work

Forces used and further information

Five Negro Spirituals

SATB choir. Traditional texts. Arrangements from A Child of Our Time. SATB choir and band. ‘Wadhurst’ (hymn tune) by John Campbell. Written for the Salvation Army. Alto solo and small choir SSTTB. Text by Yeats. Voices, strings and piano or voices and strings. Text by Shelley. Speakers and chamber ensemble. Text by Yeats.

Unto the Hills Around Do I Lift My Longing Eyes Lullaby Music, unison song Words for Music, Perhaps, poem cycle King Priam (1958–61), opera in 3 acts Songs for Achilles Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis

1962

1963 1965

1966

1969 1970

1971 1972 1973 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1982

1983 1984

Piano Sonata No. 2 Incidental Music for Shakespeare’s The Tempest Songs for Ariel

Praeludium Concerto for Orchestra (1962–3) The Vision of Saint Augustine (1963–5)

Text by the composer. Tenor and guitar. Tippett set his own texts – 1. ‘In the Tent’; 2. ‘Across the Plain’; 3. ‘By the Sea’. SATB chorus and organ. Written to celebrate the 450th year of St John’s College, Cambridge. Small ensemble. Voice and piano or harpsichord (later arranged in 1964 for voice and small instrumental ensemble). Sets three passages from Shakespeare’s The Tempest – 1. ‘Come unto these Yellow Sands’; 2. ‘Full Fathom Five’; 3. ‘Where the Bee Sucks’. Brass, bells and percussion.

Baritone solo, SATB chorus and orchestra. Inspired by the writings of Augustine of Hippo (345–430), who recounted a vision of eternity after reflecting on the nature of time. Braint Orchestra. This piece is included in a set of six variations – Severn Bridge Variations – on the Welsh melody ‘Braint’, three by English and three by Welsh composers, in honour of the first anniversary of the BBC Training Orchestra in Bristol. The Knot Garden (1966–9), opera in Text by the composer. 3 acts The Shires Suite (1965–70) SATB school choirs and orchestra. In five movements, with the second and fourth being instrumental, this suite is based on canons – the first movement sets the thirteenth-century canon ‘Sumer is icumen in’, the third refers to canons by Byrd, Purcell and Alexander Goehr, and the fifth is an arrangement of Byrd’s ‘Non nobis, Domine’. Songs for Dov (1969–70) Tenor and small orchestra. In Memoriam Magistri Flute, clarinet and string quartet. Commissioned by the journal Tempo in memory of Stravinsky. Symphony No. 3 (1970–2) Soprano and orchestra. Text by the composer. Piano Sonata No. 3 (1972–3) The Ice Break (1973–6), opera in 3 Text by the composer. acts Symphony No. 4 (1976–7) String Quartet No. 4 (1977–8) Triple Concerto (1978–9) Violin, viola, cello and orchestra. Wolf Trap Fanfare Three trumpets, two trombones and tuba. The Mask of Time (1980–2) Soprano, mezzo-soprano, tenor, bass-baritone soloists, chorus and orchestra. Texts written and compiled by the composer. The Blue Guitar (1982–3) Solo guitar. Festal Brass with Blues Brass band. Piano Sonata No. 4 (1983–4)

289 Chronological list of works

Completion date 1988 1989 1990 1991 1993 1995

Work

Forces used and further information

New Year (1986–8), opera in 3 acts New Year Suite Byzantium (1989–90) String Quartet No. 5 (1990–1) The Rose Lake (1991–3), ‘a song without words for orchestra’ Caliban’s Song

Text by the composer. Orchestra. Soprano and orchestra.

Baritone and piano. Tippett came out of retirement to make this contribution to the Purcell tercentenary celebrations. This was written to replace the original ‘Caliban’s Song’ from the 1962 incidental music to The Tempest.

Select bibliography

Writings by Tippett, interviews with Tippett The following list is arranged in chronological order.

[290]

‘Dilemma of Pacifism’ [letter], Times Literary Supplement, 6 December 1941. ‘A Child of Our Time’, The Listener, 33 (1945), 66. ‘The Creative Artist in a Mechanized World’, The Listener, 39 (1948), 745–6. ‘Composers’ Forum: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra’, London Musical Events, 11 (December 1956), 32–3. ‘Holst: Figure of our Time’, The Listener, 60 (1958), 800. Moving into Aquarius (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1958); expanded edn (St Albans: Paladin Books, 1974). ‘Our Sense of Continuity in English Drama and Music’ in Imogen Holst (ed.), Henry Purcell, 1659–1695: Essays on his Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1959), pp. 42–51. ‘At Work on King Priam’, The Score, 28 (1961), 58–68. ‘The Gulf in our Music’, The Observer, 14 May 1961, 21. ‘King Priam: Some Questions Answered’, Opera, 13 (1962), 297–9. ‘The Composer Speaks’ [interview with Ian Kemp and Malcolm Rayment], Audio and Record Review, 2/6 (February 1963), 27–8. ‘Michael Tippett’ in Murray Schafer, British Composers in Interview (London: Faber and Faber, 1963), pp. 92–102. ‘Music on Television’, The Listener, 71 (1964), 629–30. ‘A People and their Music’, The Listener, 72 (1964), 434. ‘Michael Tippett’ [interview with Tom McGrath], Peace News, 15 January 1965, 10. ‘The BBC’s Duty to Society’, The Listener, 74 (1965), 302–3. ‘Symphony No. 2’, liner notes to Argo, ZRG 535 (1967). ‘The Festival and Society’, Musical Times, 110 (June 1969), 589–90. ‘Michael Tippett [on Concerto for Orchestra]’ in Robert S. Hines (ed.), The Orchestral Composer’s Point of View: Essays on Twentieth-Century Music by Those Who Wrote It (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1970), pp. 203–19. ‘Sir Michael Tippett Writes about his New Opera “The Knot Garden”’, The Listener, 84 (1970), 790. ‘Sir Michael Tippett’ [interview with Alan Blyth], Gramophone, 48 (1970–1), 1598–601. ‘The Vision of Saint Augustine’, liner notes to RCA SER 5620 (1972).

291 Select bibliography ‘Tippett on Opera’ [interview with Harold Rosenthal], Opera, 23 (1972), 1055–9. ‘Tippett’s Third Symphony’ [interview with Bayan Northcott], Music and Musicians, 20/10 (June 1972), 30–2. ‘A Personal View of Music in England’, Festschrift für einen Verleger: Ludwig Strecker zum 90. Geburtstag, ed. Carl Dahlhaus (Mainz: Schott, 1973), pp. 61–4; repr. ‘Music in England: A Personal View’ in Twenty British Composers, ed. Peter Dickinson (London: Chester Music for the Feeney Trust, 1975), pp. 1–5. ‘My Kind of Music’ [interview with Stephen Walsh], Observer Magazine, 7 October 1973, 28. ‘Michael Tippett Talking about the PPU [Peace Pledge Union]’ [interview with M. Solomon], Pacifist, 13/3 (October 1974), 11–14. ‘Michael Tippett’ [interview with Mike Thorne], Hi-Fi News and Record Review, 20 (January 1975), 115–17. ‘String Quartets Nos. 1, 2 and 3’, liner notes to Decca 425 645–2 (1975). ‘The Composer as Librettist’ [interview with P. Carnegy], Times Literary Supplement, 8 July 1977, 834–5. ‘Sir Michael Tippett’ [interview with O. Trilling], Opernwelt, 18/9 (1977), 45. ‘An Interview with Sir Michael Tippett’ [R. Hall], Journal of Church Music, 20 (April 1978), 11–15. E. William Doty Lectures in Fine Arts, 2nd series, 1976 (Austin: College of Fine Arts, University of Texas, 1979). Music of the Angels: Essays and Sketchbooks of Michael Tippett, selected and ed. Meirion Bowen (London: Eulenberg Books, 1980). ‘The Composer’s World’ in Keith Spence and Giles Swayne (eds.), How Music Works (London and New York: Macmillan, 1981), pp. 347–56. In the Psychiatrist’s Chair [dialogue with Anthony Clare], ‘“I was always willing to pay the price”’, The Listener, 116 (14 August 1986), 10. ‘Sir Michael Tippett’ in Richard Dufallo, Trackings: Composers Speak with Richard Dufallo (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), pp. 353–66. ‘Thoughts on Word-setting’, Contemporary Music Review, 5/1 (1989), 29–32; originally published as the ‘Conclusion’ to Denis Stevens (ed.), A History of Song (London: Hutchinson, 1960), pp. 461–6. Those Twentieth Century Blues: An Autobiography (London: Hutchinson, 1991). ‘Einfall’ [with Natalie Wheen and others], radio broadcast talk, BBC Radio 3, 20 February 1995. Tippett on Music, ed. Meirion Bowen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). Writings on Tippett The following list is arranged in alphabetical order. Allenby, David, ‘Tippett’s New Year’, Tempo, 175 (December 1990), 35–6. Amis, John, ‘New Choral Work by Michael Tippett: “A Child of Our Time”’, Musical Times, 85 (February 1944), 41–2. ‘A Child of Our Time’, The Listener, 44 (1951), 436. Atkinson, N.T., ‘Michael Tippett’s Debt to the Past’, Music Review, 23 (1962), 195–204.

292 Select bibliography Banfield, Stephen (ed.), The Blackwell History of Music in Britain: The Twentieth Century (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995). Bowen, Meirion, Michael Tippett, 1st edn (London: Robson Books, 1982), 2nd edn (London: Robson Books, 1997). ‘Tippett’s Byzantium’, Musical Times, 132 (September 1991), 438–40. Cairns, David, ‘The Midsummer Marriage’ in Responses: Musical Essays and Reviews (London: Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd, 1973), pp. 33–45. Clapham, John, ‘Tippett’s Concerto for Double String Orchestra’, Welsh Music, 5/6 (1977), 47–52. Clarke, David, Language, Form and Structure in the Music of Michael Tippett, 2 vols. (New York: Garland, 1989). ‘Tippett in and out of “Those Twentieth Century Blues”: The Context and Significance of an Autobiography’, Music & Letters, 74/3 (August 1993), 399–411. ‘Visionary Images: Tippett’s Transcendental Aspirations’, Musical Times, 136 (January 1995), 16–21. The Music and Thought of Michael Tippett: Modern Times and Metaphysics (Cambridge University Press, 2001). ‘Tippett, Sir Michael’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edn, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. X X V , pp. 505–20. ‘Between Hermeneutics and Formalism: The Lento from Tippett’s Concerto for Orchestra (Or: Music Analysis after Lawrence Kramer)’, Music Analysis, 30/2–3 (July/October 2011), 309–59. (ed.), Tippett Studies (Cambridge University Press, 1999). Clements, Andrew, ‘Tippett at 80’, Opera, 36 (1985), 16–24. Composer, 70 (Summer 1980) [Tippett issue]. Cross, Jonathan, The Stravinsky Legacy (Cambridge University Press, 1998), esp. pp. 63–70. Dennison, Peter, ‘Reminiscence and Recomposition in Tippett’, Musical Times, 126 (January 1985), 13–18. Dickinson, A. E. F., ‘Round about The Midsummer Marriage’, Music & Letters, 37/1 (January 1956), 50–60. Docherty, Barbara, ‘Tippett’s Triple Concerto’, Tempo, 135 (December 1980), 49–51. ‘The Mask of Time’, Tempo, 149 (June 1984), 39–44. ‘Sentence into Cadence: The Word-Setting of Tippett and Britten’, Tempo, 166 (September 1988), 2–11. ‘Syllogism and Symbol: Britten, Tippett and English Text’, Contemporary Music Review, 5/1 (1989), 37–63. Driver, Paul, ‘Tippett at 80: A Personal Tribute’, Musical Times, 126 (January 1985), 11–13. Fingleton, David, ‘The Ice Break’, Music and Musicians, 25 (July 1977), 28–30. Gloag, Kenneth, Tippett: A Child of Our Time (Cambridge University Press, 1999). Goddard, Scott, ‘The Younger English Composers, IX: Michael Tippett’, Monthly Musical Record, 69 (March–April 1939), 73–6. ‘Michael Tippett and the Symphony’, The Listener, 43 (1950), 84. Hill, Peter, ‘Tippett’s Fifth String Quartet’, Tempo, 182 (September 1992), 28–9.

293 Select bibliography Hurd, Michael, Tippett (London: Novello, 1978). John, Nicholas (ed.), The Operas of Michael Tippett (London: John Calder, 1985; New York: Riverrun Press Inc., 1985). Jones, Richard Elfyn, The Early Operas of Michael Tippett: A Study of The Midsummer Marriage, King Priam and The Knot Garden (Lewiston, Queenston and Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1996). Kemp, Ian, ‘Rhythm in Tippett’s Early Music’, Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, 105 (1978–9), 142–53. ‘Tippett, Michael’, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1980), vol. X I X , pp. 1–11. Tippett: The Composer and his Music (London: Eulenburg Books, 1984); repr. (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987). (ed.), Michael Tippett: A Symposium on his 60th Birthday (London: Faber and Faber, 1965). Lewis, Geraint, ‘The Breath of Life: An Approach to Formal Structure’, Musical Times, 126 (January 1985), 18–20. ‘New Year in the New World’, Musical Times, 130 (November 1989), 665–9. (ed.), Michael Tippett O.M.: A Celebration (Tunbridge Wells: The Baton Press, 1985). Long, N.G., ‘“A Child of Our Time”: A Critical Analysis of Michael Tippett’s Oratorio’, Music Review, 8 (1947), 120–30. Mason, Colin, ‘Michael Tippett’, Musical Times, 87 (May 1946), 137–41. ‘Tippett’s Piano Concerto’, The Score, 16 (1956), 63–8. Matthews, David, Michael Tippett: An Introductory Study (London and Boston: Faber and Faber, 1980). Mellers, Wilfrid, ‘Michael Tippett and the String Quartet’, The Listener, 66 (1961), 405. Milner, Anthony, ‘Rhythmic Techniques in the Music of Michael Tippett’, Musical Times, 95 (September 1954), 468–70. ‘The Music of Michael Tippett’, Musical Quarterly, 50/4 (October 1964), 423–38. Neighbour, Oliver, ‘Ralph, Adeline, and Ursula Vaughan Williams: Some Facts and Speculation (with a Note about Tippett)’, Music & Letters, 89/3 (August 2008), 337–45. Northcott, Bayan, ‘Tippett Today’, Music and Musicians, 19/3 (1970–1), 34–40, 42–5. Payne, Anthony, ‘Michael Tippett’s “The Vision of Saint Augustine”’, Tempo, 76 (Spring 1966), 19–21. Peat, F. David, Interviews with Composers: Sir Michael Tippett [online], 1996, www. fdavidpeat.com/interviews/tippett.htm. Puffett, Derrick, ‘The Fugue from Tippett’s Second String Quartet’, Music Analysis, 5 2/3 (July–October 1986), 233–64. ‘Tippett and the Retreat from Mythology’, Musical Times, 136 (January 1995), 6–14. Richards, Denis, ‘Ruin and Recovery’ in Offspring of the Vic: A History of Morley College (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1958), pp. 248–71. Robinson, Suzanne (ed.), Michael Tippett: Music and Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002).

294 Select bibliography Rodda, Richard E., ‘Genesis of a Symphony: Tippett’s Symphony No.3’, Music Review, 39/2 (May 1978), 110–16. Routh, Francis, ‘Michael Tippett’ in Contemporary British Music (London: MacDonald, 1972), pp. 282–91. Rubbra, Edmund: ‘The Vision of St Augustine’, The Listener, 76 (1966), 74. Scheppach, Margaret A., Dramatic Parallels in Michael Tippett’s Operas: Analytical Essays on the Musico-Dramatic Techniques (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1990). Schuttenhelm, Thomas (ed.), The Selected Letters of Michael Tippett (London: Faber and Faber, 2005). Souster, Tim, ‘Michael Tippett’s Vision’, Musical Times, 107 (January 1966), 20–2. Spence, Keith, ‘“Midsummer Marriage” and its Critics’, Musical Times, 112 (January 1971), 28. Stannard, Iain, ‘“Arrest and Movement”: Tippett’s Second Piano Sonata and the Genesis of a Method’, twentieth-century music, 4/2 (2007), 133–61. Sutcliffe, Tom, ‘Tippett and the Knot Garden’, Music and Musicians, 19/4 (1970–1), 52–4. Theil, Gordon, Michael Tippett: A Bio-Bibliography (New York: Greenwood Press, 1989). Venn, Edward, ‘Evoking the Marvellous: Michael Tippett’s The Midsummer Marriage’ in Axel Michaels (ed.), Ritual Dynamics and the Science of Ritual, vol. I I : Body, Performance, Agency, and Experience (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2010), pp. 183–93. Warrack, John, ‘The Knot Garden’, Musical Times, 111 (November 1970), 1092–5. ‘The Ice Break’, Musical Times, 118 (July 1977), 553–6. White, Eric Walter, Tippett and his Operas (London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1979). Whittall, Arnold, Music Since the First World War (London: Dent, 1977). The Music of Britten and Tippett: Studies in Themes and Techniques (Cambridge University Press, 1982; 2nd edn, 1990). ‘Resisting Tonality: Tippett, Beethoven and the Sarabande’, Music Analysis, 9/3 (October 1990), 267–86. ‘“Byzantium”: Tippett, Yeats and the Limitations of Affinity’, Music & Letters, 74/3 (August 1993), 383–98. ‘Lately Celebrated’, Musical Times, 136 (May 1995), 238–40. ‘Sir Michael Tippett 1905–98: Acts of Renewal’, Musical Times, 139 (March 1998), 6–9. ‘Three Individualists’ in Whittall, Musical Composition in the Twentieth Century (Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 239–65. Exploring Twentieth-Century Music: Tradition and Innovation (Cambridge University Press, 2003). ‘New Opera, Old Opera: Perspectives on Critical Interpretation’, Cambridge Opera Journal, 21/2 (July 2009), 181–98.

Index

Acomb, Henry Waldo 64 Adorno, Theodor Wiesengrund 108 Allinson, Francesca 27, 30, 52, 53, 55, 56, 65, 86, 96, 97, 98, 123, 274 Alwyn, William 4 Amis, John 56, 96 ApIvor, Denis 5 Armstrong, Louis 158 Arne, Thomas 62, 67 Comus 62 Arnold, Malcolm 6 Auden, Wystan Hugh 86, 88, 89, 90, 91, 94, 95, 96, 97 The Orators 88, 97 Avant-garde 9, 196 Ayerst, David 88, 89, 90, 91

[295]

Bach, Johann Sebastian 11, 26, 52, 53, 54, 63, 203, 264, 267 Two-Part Inventions 203 Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann 53 Baldwin, James 252 Bartók, Béla 5, 9, 28, 133, 157, 167, 168, 206, 213, 216, 226, 228 Concerto for Orchestra 168 String Quartet No. 4 167, 216 String Quartet No. 5 167, 213, 216 Bate, Stanley 5 Bax, Arnold 4, 27, 28, 123 BBC 54, 56, 59, 60, 82, 225, 262 Beethoven, Ludwig van 7, 8, 25, 40, 48, 90, 98, 123, 144, 145, 146, 147, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 155, 156, 158, 159, 168, 169, 170, 171, 174, 177, 178, 179, 182, 186, 190, 192, 193, 194, 198, 199, 200, 201, 203, 204, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 212, 213, 215, 216, 219, 220, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226 Grosse Fuge, Op. 133 223 Piano Concerto No. 4 98, 177, 179 Piano Sonata in B♭ major, Op. 106 151 Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 109 201, 203 Piano Sonata in A♭ major, Op. 110 178 String Quartet in F minor, Op. 95 170, 174 String Quartet in C♯ minor, Op. 131 212, 215 String Quartet in A minor, Op. 132 224 Symphony No. 5 151, 154 Symphony No. 9 146, 158, 159, 199 Triple Concerto 186 Berg, Alban 5, 10, 11

Violin Concerto 11 Wozzeck 10 Bergmann, Walter 38, 53, 54, 60, 62, 67 Berkeley, Lennox 4 Bernstein, Leonard 146 Birtwistle, Harrison 6, 22, 196 Blake, William 68, 74, 90, 91, 96, 100, 105, 106, 207, 267 The Marriage of Heaven and Hell 90, 105, 207 Bloom, Harold 104 Boosbeck 50, 71, 89 Boughton, Rutland 68 Boulanger, Nadia 56 Boulez, Pierre 22, 109, 124, 204 Piano Sonata No. 2 204 Pli selon pli 109, 204 Brahms, Johannes 186 Double Concerto for violin, cello and orchestra 186 Brecht, Bertolt 73, 77, 78 Bridge, Frank 5 Britten, Benjamin 3, 5, 6, 9, 11, 25, 30, 46, 54, 62, 82, 98, 100, 121, 169, 196, 229, 240 Curlew River 6 Death in Venice 229 Peter Grimes 100, 229 Seven Sonnets of Michelangelo 5 The Turn of the Screw 5 Variations on a Theme of Frank Bridge 169 War Requiem 240 Bronowski, Jacob 280 The Ascent of Man 280 Brosa String Quartet 208 Bruckner, Anton 29 Bull, John 51 The King’s Hunt 51 Busch String Quartet 206 Bush, Alan xvi, 4, 27, 50, 68, 69, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 84, 204 Butler, Samuel 51, 106 Erewhon 51, 106 Buxtehude, Dietrich 53 Byrd, William 41, 49, 51, 59, 60, 62, 63, 65, 66, 190, 208, 213 An Earthly Tree 66 Laudibus in sanctis 66 Mass for Five Voices 66 On this Day Christ was Born 66 The Carman’s Whistle 51 Though Amaryllis Dance in Green 49

296 Index Carter, Elliott 14, 22 Chaplin, Nellie 50 Clare, Anthony 86, 87 Classicism 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 21, 27, 37, 40, 146, 193, 197, 199, 200, 201, 204, 210, 216 Cold War 70, 81, 82, 122, 240, 241, 260 Communism 68, 70, 73, 75, 80, 82 Cooke, Arnold 5 Corelli, Arcangelo 56, 63 Christmas Concerto (Concerto Grosso Op. 6, No. 8) 56, 63 Concerto Grosso Op. 6, No. 2 63 Covent Garden, see Royal Opera House Coward, Noel 21 Crossley, Paul 191, 202, 204 Davies, Peter Maxwell 6, 144, 145, 196 Symphony No. 1 144 Davis, Colin 166, 248, 260 Delius, Frederick 5, 28 Deller, Alfred 54 Del Mar, Norman 263 Dienes, Paul 213 d’Indy, Vincent 8, 25 Dowland, John 41, 54, 56, 63, 64 ‘I saw my Lady weep’ 63 Eisler, Hanns 73, 74, 77, 78, 79, 84 Die Massnahme 73 Elgar, Edward 4, 5, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34, 38, 123, 169 Dream of Gerontius 32 Enigma Variations 30 Introduction and Allegro 30, 169 Symphony No. 1 32 Eliot, Thomas Stearns 25, 29, 46, 107, 109, 113, 117, 229, 230, 231, 236, 264, 267, 279, 282, 284, 285 The Waste Land 109, 231, 236 Enlightenment 80, 233, 240, 252 Expressionism 9

Hosanna to the Son of David 49 Three-part Fantasia (No. 8) 62 Gieseking, Walter 177 Gilbert and Sullivan 63, 84 Yeoman of the Guard 63 Glock, William 28, 115 Goehr, Alexander 6, 63, 196 Goehr, Walter 54, 55, 56, 59, 62, 63 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 279 Goldsbrough, Arnold 52, 65 Groddeck, Georg 90, 93 Handel, George Frideric 27, 36, 51, 53, 63, 64, 168, 169, 265 Acis and Galatea 46 Keyboard Suite in B♭ 51 Messiah 64, 265, 267 Semele 46 Harvey, Jonathan 6 Hawker, Karl 96, 98 Haydn, Franz Joseph 105, 204 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 26 Hepworth, Barbara 230 Hindemith, Paul 8, 9, 25, 28, 146 Hoddinott, Alun 6 Hölderlin, Friedrich 108 Holloway, Robin 3, 6, 7 Holst, Gustav 4, 5, 10, 29, 36, 38, 52, 188 The Hymn of Jesus 10 Holst, Imogen 62 Homer 240, 279 The Iliad 240, 241 Hopkins, Antony 55, 66 Hopkins, Gerard Manley 269 Housman, Alfred Edward 97 Hudson, William Henry 273, 274 Ireland, John 27 Isherwood, Christopher 86, 90, 91 Ives, Charles 10, 25, 45, 145, 158 Symphony No. 4 10

Ferguson, Howard 196 Ferneyhough, Brian 6 Ferrabosco, Alfonso 41 Field, John 62 Finzi, Gerald 4 Foster, Arnold 52 Foucault, Michel 87 Franks, Wilfred 89, 90, 91, 95, 96, 105, 209 Fricker, Peter Racine 6 Fry, Christopher 62, 270, 271

Janáček, Leoš 9 Jones, Daniel 5 Jones, LeRoi 21, 252 Joyce, James 117 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man 117 Jung, Carl Gustav 10, 12, 93, 166, 190, 203, 230, 231, 267

Gardiner, Rolf 72 Gay, John 50 The Beggar’s Opera 50 Gibbons, Orlando 27, 41, 44, 49, 51, 54, 55, 56, 62, 63, 66, 163, 167, 208, 213

Lambert, Constant 4, 5, 100, 123, 144, 145 Music Ho! 5, 144 Lane, Homer 90, 91 Langer, Susanne 264 Langford, Roy 88

Keller, Hans 144, 145, 146, 155, 204 Keyes, Sidney 97, 98, 274

297 Index Lawes, Henry 27 Lawrence, D. H., 91 Layard, John 90, 91, 93, 95, 96, 99 Leigh, Walter 4 Leighton, Kenneth 6 Léner String Quartet 206 Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich 70, 75, 80 Lewis, Alun 97, 98, 99, 274 Liszt, Franz 198 Lloyd, George 5 Locke, Matthew 213 Lutosławski, Witold 145 Lutyens, Elisabeth 5, 11 Five-Part Fantasia for Strings 11 McElwee, Bill 88 Maconchy, Elizabeth 5 Mahler, Gustav 5, 11, 29, 145, 150 Marx, Karl 10, 12, 76, 79 Maude, Evelyn 101 Mendelssohn, Felix 27, 82 Messiaen, Olivier 202, 285 Quatuor pour la fin du temps 285 Minchinton, John 96 Minimalism 6 Modernism 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 17, 22, 28, 45, 80, 82, 83, 124, 195 Monteverdi, Claudio 54, 56, 59, 60, 63, 64 Angelus ad pastores ait 56 Chiome d’oro 56 Ecco mormorar l’onde 63 L’Incoronazione di Poppea 59 Vespro della Beata Vergine 59, 186 Morley, Thomas 27, 41, 50, 51, 54, 62 April is in my Mistress’ Face 50 Triumph of Oriana 62 Morley College 37, 38, 51–64, 71, 264, 265 Morris, Reginald Owen 50, 51, 207 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 36, 117, 168, 186, 193, 195, 204, 231, 232, 234, 250 Così fan tutte 250 Don Giovanni 232 Piano Sonata in A, K. 331 193 Sinfonia Concertante for Violin, Viola and Orchestra, K. 364 186 The Magic Flute 231, 234 Violin Concerto in A, K. 219 204 Mussorgsky, Modest 280 Nattiez, Jean-Jacques 203, 204 Neoclassicism 4, 9, 13, 27, 151, 153, 180, 198, 204 Newton, Douglas (Den) 54, 59, 95, 96, 98 Nyman, Michael 6 Orr, Robin 5 Owen, Wilfred 97, 105, 267 Oxted 49, 50, 64, 264

Pacifism 68, 82, 97, 101 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da 49, 52 Parry, Hubert 30, 31, 32, 46 Blest Pair of Sirens 30 Pasternak, Boris 280, 285 Dr Zhivago 285 Pears, Peter 5, 54, 98, 284 Pérotin 48, 60, 150 Salvatoris Hodie 60 Ponsonby, Robert 28 Postmodernism 7, 195, 204 Pritchard, John 230, 240 Prokofiev, Sergei 5, 9 Purcell, Henry 11, 25, 27, 28, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 44, 46, 52, 53, 54, 56, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 98, 105, 150, 174, 190, 206, 212, 215, 225, 226, 228, 265, 273 Dido and Aeneas 38, 53, 56, 62, 215 King Arthur 53 My Beloved Spake 54 Ode to St Cecilia 40, 41, 53, 54 Oh God, Thou hast cast Us out 54 The Comical History of Don Quixote 52 The Fairy Queen 52 Why do the Heathen? 54 Rameau, Jean-Philippe 53 Ravel, Maurice 5, 64 Mother Goose Suite 64 Rawsthorne, Alan 4, 5, 196 Redlich, Hans 54 Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn 220 Rilke, Rainer Maria 281, 285 Sonnets to Orpheus 285 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai 147, 165 Romanticism 10, 14, 15, 22, 26, 27, 29, 32, 185, 204 Royal College of Music (RCM) 49, 50, 53, 65, 188, 206, 264 Royal Opera House, Covent Garden 230, 240, 248, 259, 262, 263 Rubbra, Edmund 4 Russ, Aubrey 88, 206 Sargent, Malcolm 64 Schaffer, Peter 117 Amadeus 117 Schenker, Heinrich 8 Schiller, Friedrich von 158 Schoenberg, Arnold 8, 9, 22, 25, 29, 244, 252 String Quartet No. 2 244 String Quartet No. 3 9 String Quartet No. 4 9 Schubert, Franz 7, 258, 259 Die schöne Müllerin 258 Schweitzer, Albert 264 Searle, Humphrey 5

298 Index Seiber, Matyas 54, 55, 62 Shakespeare, William 109, 145, 248, 250, 275, 279 The Tempest 109, 248, 250, 273, 275 Sharp, Cecil 30 Shaw, George Bernard 25 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 272, 281 Shostakovich, Dmitri 9, 150, 167 String Quartet No. 13 167 Sibelius, Jean 5, 9, 22, 144, 145, 150, 151, 156, 166, 207 Symphony No. 4 144 Symphony No. 7 144, 145, 166 Simpson, Robert 6 Sitwell, Edith 269 Smith, Bessie 115, 158 Socialism 68, 72, 74, 75, 78 Solti, Georg 109 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr 260 Stalin, Josef 69, 75–80 Sternfeld, Frederick William 263 Stevens, Wallace 104, 110 Strauss, Richard 9, 123 Stravinsky, Igor 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 13, 14, 25, 28, 29, 36, 44, 62, 121, 124, 125, 132, 133, 138, 146, 151, 153, 154, 179, 180, 189, 208, 216, 227, 271 Agon 121, 181 Concerto for Two Pianos 13 Les Noces 271 Oedipus Rex 14 Symphonies of Wind Instruments 44, 47, 180 The Rite of Spring 10, 146 Violin Concerto 227 Tallis, Thomas 28, 48, 59, 62, 66 Dum transissent Sabbatum 66 In jejunio et fletu 66 Spem in alium 28, 48, 59, 62, 66 Tavener, John 6 Telemann, Georg Philipp 53 Thomas, Edward 269 Tippett, Michael Blue Guitar, The 110 Bonny at Morn 271, 272 Boyhood’s End 5, 15, 60, 107, 273–4 Byzantium 13, 16, 109, 117, 272, 277, 284 Caliban’s Song 275 Child of Our Time, A xv, 3, 11, 12, 15, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 38, 46, 62, 68, 76, 79, 80, 82, 83, 91–6, 100, 106, 123, 203, 229, 230, 252, 264, 265–8, 277 Concerto for Double String Orchestra xv, xvi, 29, 30, 31, 40, 51, 65, 66, 106, 122, 123, 135, 137, 147, 168, 169–76, 183, 208, 223 Concerto for Orchestra 6, 15, 16, 44, 45, 111, 122–42, 168, 176, 179–85, 186, 191, 199, 215, 242, 252

Concerto for Piano 13, 40, 107, 130, 168, 177–9 Crown of the Year 271, 272 Dance, Clarion Air (from ‘A Garland for the Queen’) 62, 269, 270, 271 Divertimento on ‘Sellinger’s Round’ 48, 62, 63, 109, 163, 167 Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli 48, 63, 109, 122, 177, 186 Fantasia on a Theme of Handel 27, 48, 51, 63, 106, 109, 177 Four Songs from the British Isles 270, 271 Heart’s Assurance, The 96–9, 130, 132, 273, 274–5 Ice Break, The 17, 69, 70, 110, 219, 230, 259–60, 261 King Priam xvi, 6, 14, 15, 40, 41, 44, 109, 110, 121–42, 153, 155, 168, 179, 181, 185, 189, 190, 195, 196, 197, 199, 200, 201, 202, 215, 219, 220, 230, 240–8, 250, 252, 259, 260, 261, 272, 275 Knot Garden, The xv, 16, 109, 110, 230, 242, 248–59, 260, 261, 263, 279 Lullaby 272 Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis 272 Mask of Time, The 19, 21, 45, 63, 104, 106, 165, 265, 277, 280–4 Midsummer Marriage, The xv, xvi, 3, 5, 9, 12, 13, 14, 16, 32, 37, 41, 48, 59, 68, 76, 80, 107, 109, 110, 111, 121, 153, 154, 168, 177, 178, 179, 187, 207, 217, 223, 230–40, 241, 242, 248, 250, 262, 273, 284 Miners 68, 72, 74, 78 Music 272 New Year 18, 21, 110, 230, 260–2 Piano Sonata No. 1 51, 106, 122, 123, 133, 169, 190, 191, 192–5, 196 Piano Sonata No. 2 14, 15, 44, 122–42, 179, 190, 191, 195–8, 201, 202, 215, 219, 252 Piano Sonata No. 3 132, 190, 191, 192, 198–200, 201, 202, 219 Piano Sonata No. 4 165, 190, 191, 192, 201–3 Plebs Angelica 59, 82, 269, 270 Robert of Sicily 60, 72, 229 Robin Hood 60, 71, 72, 73, 229, 262 Rose Lake, The 20, 45, 109, 111, 117, 176, 224 Seven at One Stroke 72, 229 Severn Bridge Variations (Braint) 262 Shires Suite, The 60, 63, 262, 272 Sonata for Four Horns 123, 130, 132 Song of Liberty, A 30, 68, 72, 73, 87–91, 105 Songs for Achilles 107, 273, 275 Songs for Ariel 273, 275 Songs for Dov 107, 277, 279–80 Source, The (from Two Madrigals) 59, 269 String Quartet in F major 207 String Quartet in F minor 207

299 Index String Quartet No. 1 10, 14, 30, 32, 51, 87–91, 105, 106, 125, 147, 169, 207–10, 218, 219, 222, 223 String Quartet No. 2 60, 106, 123, 127, 128, 129, 209, 210–16, 217, 219, 222 String Quartet No. 3 129, 130, 132, 133, 134, 216–19, 228 String Quartet No. 4 111, 185, 186, 219–23, 225 String Quartet No. 5 20, 223–6 String Trio in B♭ 207 Suite in D for the Birthday of Prince Charles 60, 271 Symphony in B♭ 144, 227 Symphony No. 1 3, 16, 51, 60, 107, 146–51, 153, 155, 165, 223 Symphony No. 2 3, 13, 14, 16, 41, 44, 109, 111, 115, 123, 126, 131, 132, 134, 135, 138, 140, 142, 151–5, 165, 180, 189 Symphony No. 3 16, 17, 69, 109, 113, 114, 115, 133, 134, 135, 155–9, 199, 200, 252, 280 Symphony No. 4 63, 111, 133, 141, 145, 162–6, 185, 186, 191, 192, 201, 202, 219 Triple Concerto for Violin, Viola, Cello and Orchestra 45, 107, 111, 168, 176, 185–8, 219, 223 Unto the Hills Around Do I Lift My Longing Eyes (‘Wadhurst’) 271 Village Opera, The 50, 64, 229 Vision of Saint Augustine, The 6, 15, 105, 110, 179, 200, 265, 277–9, 281, 284 War Ramp 71, 229 Weeping Babe, The 59, 60, 66, 269, 270

Windhover, The (from Two Madrigals) 59, 60, 66, 269 Words for Music, Perhaps 284, 285 Trotsky, Leon 70–81 Vaughan Williams, Ralph 4, 5, 6, 11, 27, 28, 29, 30, 36, 46, 49, 169, 188 Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis 30, 169 Symphony No. 3 (Pastoral) 11 Symphony No. 4 11 The Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains 49 Vittoria, Tomás Luis de 52 Vivaldi, Antonio 115, 151, 168 Wagner, Richard 32, 33, 38, 123, 262, 280 Die Meistersinger 47 Parsifal 123 Tristan und Isolde 38, 47 Walton, William 4, 5, 27, 123 Belshazzar’s Feast 27 Wanamaker, Sam 259 Webern, Anton 9, 121, 124, 134 Webster, David 260, 263 Weelkes, Thomas 38, 53, 54 Wesley, Samuel Sebastian 31 West, Christopher 230 Wilbye, John 46, 53 Wilde, Oscar 87 Williams, Grace 5 Wilson, Edmund 97 Wordsworth, William 5 Yeats, William Butler 9, 13, 16, 100, 103, 111, 113, 233, 272, 284