Tag: Lord Byron

  • Beecham’s Byronic Manfred

    Beecham’s Byronic Manfred

    “Oh God! If it be thus, and thou art not a madness and a mockery, I yet might be most happy…” So laments Lord Byron’s Manfred when confronted by the specter of Astarte.

    Manfred is the quintessential Byronic hero, a romantic superman who endures unimaginable sufferings and mysterious guilt in connection with the death of his beloved. He wanders the Alps, longing for extinction, and meets his fate defiantly, rejecting all authority, corporeal and supernatural.

    Robert Schumann was intoxicated by Byron’s dramatic poem from the time he first encountered it at the age of 19 in 1829. In 1848, he began to compose music for it, concurrently with that for his “Scenes from Goethe’s ‘Faust.’” Wrote Schumann, “I have never before devoted myself to a composition with such love and such exertion of my powers as to ‘Manfred.’” The piece was given its first performance in Weimar in 1852, with Franz Liszt conducting.

    This Sunday night on “The Lost Chord,” we’ll hear highlights from a recording made 102 years later by Sir Thomas Beecham.

    When Beecham came to record Schumann’s incidental music in 1954, it was an act of total reimagination. Unquestionably the work, as written, contains much attractive music. However, if we’re to be completely frank, it can be a bit dramatically static at those times when the music falls silent in deference to florid monologue. Beecham recognized this and enlisted the help of Eugene Goossens and Julius Harrison to assist him in orchestrating a number of Schumann’s piano pieces to be used as underscore for some of the spoken dialogue. He also incorporated a couple of part-songs and even invented a ballet. Fear not! Beecham’s license is nowhere as extreme as that he would later take with Handel’s “Messiah.”

    Beecham’s Byronic credentials are unimpeachable. Byron was among his favorite poets. Of course, he also happened to conduct one of the great recordings of “Harold in Italy” (after “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”), with the violist William Primrose. Furthermore, Beecham had been familiar with Schumann’s “Manfred” since at least 1918, when he led two performances of the complete incidental music at the age of 39. Some 36 years later, he decided to resurrect the work via a broadcast performance and then as a program at Royal Festival Hall.

    I first encountered this remarkable recording in the 1980s, in the middle of the night, when it was broadcast over the late, lamented WFLN, for 48 years Philadelphia’s classical music station. Henry Varlack used to play it from time to time on his program, “Sleepers Awake.” Having not heard it for a while, I called in to his Friday night/Saturday morning listener request show, and he told me with regret that the record had become so worn that it was no longer suitable for airplay.

    Imagine my excitement, then, when I learned in the mid-‘90s that it was being reissued on CD. I promptly special-ordered it from England, and it couldn’t get here fast enough. That was on the Beecham Collection label – alas now long out of print. It has since appeared and disappeared (like Astarte?) on Sony.

    The recording features actors, chorus, and orchestra. Laidman Browne may be a bit long-in-the tooth for Byron’s anti-hero, but no one relishes “eeeeeeeeviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllll” quite like him.

    I hope you’ll join me for “Byronic Beecham,” this Sunday night at 10:00 EDT, on WWFM – The Classical Network and wwfm.org.

  • Beecham’s Byron A Romantic Lost Chord

    Beecham’s Byron A Romantic Lost Chord

    “Oh God! If it be thus, and thou art not a madness and a mockery, I yet might be most happy…” So laments Lord Byron’s Manfred when confronted by the specter of Astarte.

    Manfred is the quintessential Byronic hero, a romantic superman who endures unimaginable sufferings and mysterious guilt in connection with the death of his beloved. He wanders the Alps, longing for extinction, and meets his fate defiantly, rejecting all authority, corporeal and supernatural.

    Robert Schumann was intoxicated by Byron’s dramatic poem from the time he first encountered it at the age of 19 in 1829. In 1848, he began to compose music for it, concurrently with that for his “Scenes from Goethe’s ‘Faust.’” Wrote Schumann, “I have never before devoted myself to a composition with such love and such exertion of my powers as to ‘Manfred.’” The piece was given its first performance in Weimar in 1852, with Franz Liszt conducting.

    This Sunday night on “The Lost Chord,” we’ll hear highlights from a recording made 102 years later by Sir Thomas Beecham.

    When Beecham came to record Schumann’s incidental music in 1954, it was an act of total reimagination. Unquestionably the work, as written, contains much attractive music. However, if we’re to be completely frank, it can be a bit dramatically static at those times when the music falls silent in deference to florid monologue. Beecham recognized this and enlisted the help of Eugene Goossens and Julius Harrison to assist him in orchestrating a number of Schumann’s piano pieces to be used as underscore for some of the spoken dialogue. He also incorporated a couple of part-songs and even invented a ballet. Fear not! Beecham’s license is nowhere in the same league as that he would later take with Handel’s “Messiah.”

    Beecham’s Byronic credentials are unimpeachable. Byron was among his favorite poets. Of course, he also happened to conduct one of the great recordings of “Harold in Italy” (after “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”), with the violist William Primrose. Furthermore, Beecham had been familiar with Schumann’s “Manfred” since at least 1918, when he led two performances of the complete incidental music at the age of 39. Some 36 years later, he decided to resurrect the work via a broadcast performance and then as a program at Royal Festival Hall.

    I first encountered this remarkable recording in the 1980s, in the middle of the night, when it was broadcast over the now-extinct WFLN, for 48 years Philadelphia’s classical music station. Henry Varlack used to play it from time to time on his program, “Sleepers Awake.” Finally, having not heard it for a while, I called in to his Friday night/Saturday morning request show, and he told me with regret that the record had become so worn that it was no longer suitable for airplay.

    Imagine my excitement, then, when I learned in the mid-‘90s that it was being reissued on CD. I promptly special-ordered it from England, and it couldn’t get here fast enough. That was on the Beecham Collection label – alas now long out of print. It has since appeared and disappeared (like Astarte?) on Sony.

    The recording featuring actors, chorus, and orchestra. Laidman Browne may be a bit long-in-the tooth for Byron’s anti-hero, but no one elongates “eeeeeeeeviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllll” quite like him.

    I hope you’ll join me for “Byronic Beecham,” this Sunday night at 10:00 EST, on WWFM – The Classical Network and wwfm.org.

  • Vampires Never Die Marschner’s Opera & Byron’s Curse

    Vampires Never Die Marschner’s Opera & Byron’s Curse

    Proof – if proof be needed – that vampires, like wingtips, never go out of fashion: as far back as 1828, the year of Schubert’s death (not by vampires), Heinrich Marschner’s opera “Der Vampyr” was given its premiere in Leipzig and became a sensation.

    The libretto was by Marschner’s brother-in-law, Wilhelm August Wohlbrück, who adapted the 1821 play “Der Vampir oder die Totenbraut,” by Heinrich Ludwig Ritter, who in turn based it on the short novel “The Vampyre,” by John Polidori, who lifted the idea from an unfinished mood piece composed by Lord Byron.

    Byron’s fragment was written in response to a night of German ghost stories shared around a fire at his Lake Geneva villa during the rainy summer of 1816, an unusually cold, dreary season, thanks to the eruption of Mount Tambora the previous year. This was the same night, by the way, which gave rise to Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein.” Shelley was one of Byron’s guests, along with her poet husband and Polidori, who acted as Byron’s personal physician.

    Marschner’s opera is still revived on occasion, and is regarded as an important link between Carl Maria von Weber’s seminal romantic chiller, “Der Freischütz,” with its stormy night pact-with-the-devil, and Wagner’s “The Flying Dutchman,” with its undead wanderer damned for his blasphemy. Wagner had conducted “Der Vampyr” in Würzburg in 1833.

    Marschner’s opera capitalizes on a lurid fascination with the supernatural, with its opening Witches’ Sabbath; a proclamation by a Vampire Master that Lord Ruthven (the titular bloodsucker) must claim three virgins within 24 hours, lest he cease to exist; Lord Ruthven’s curse on the hapless Aubry that if he should reveal Ruthven’s secret, Aubry himself will become a vampire; and the spectacular conclusion involving lightning and hellfire.

    Happy birthday, Heinrich Marschner! Thanks for the chills (and chuckles).

    Overture to “Der Vampyr”:

    A modern update of Lord Ruthven’s aria “Ha! Ha! Welche Lust!” — in English, complete with wolf and vampire teeth!

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