Did you ever wonder why Finland’s foremost composer had a first name that would seem more at home in Paris than Helsinki?
Jean Sibelius was born into a Swedish-speaking family in a provincial town in Finland, then a duchy of the Russian Empire. He was christened Johan and his parents called him Janne. It was when he was a student that he adopted Jean, a name he lifted from the calling card of a late, seafaring uncle (also named Johan, but for whatever reason assumed the French form in doing business). This is pronounced in the French fashion, or close to it, with the “J” said like “zh,” as opposed to the “y” sound of the “J” in “Janne.”
If you’re curious to know how to pronounce the composer’s surname, well, here’s an interesting post. Just be sure to scan the comments, because there are some helpful responses and sensible modifications that go some way to tempering the writer’s caste-heavy thesis.
Järvenpää is the Finnish market town outside which Jean Sibelius made his home, which he christened Ainola, after his wife, Aino (who in turn was named for a character in the Kalevala, the Finnish national epic). It was 50 years ago, on June 28, 1974, that the Sibelius Society of Finland and the Ministry of Education opened the house as a museum. There are plenty of photos on the official website. Also an abundance of information, if you translate the text to English. The Sibelius Society of Finland was established in December 1957, three months after the composer’s death.
As a classical music lover, I watch a lot of videos on YouTube. Frequently they’ll be in foreign languages, so I have to rely on closed captioning. Anyone with any experience with the program knows the system often comes up with some real howlers. The other week, I was watching something about Sibelius, and when someone referred to his incidental music for “Pelleas and Melisande,” closed captioning transliterated it as “Paleo Smelly Zone.” Sure, it sounds disgusting, perhaps even a little unsavory. But that’s what makes it funny. Here’s a link to a performance of the complete piece.
I used the “Entr’acte” from Sibelius’ incidental music as a signature tune for one of my radio shows, back in the day.
I’m pretty sure I ripped it off from WFLN, Philadelphia’s classical music station for nearly 50 years, which used it as fill, to “take it up to the top of the hour,” at the conclusion of one of its day parts. As I recall, some of the other works they used as signatures included the third movement of a Concerto for 7 trumpets by Johann Ernst Altenburg, the last movement of Haydn’s Symphony No. 6 “Le matin,” the Gavotte from Fauré’s “Masques et bergamasques,” one of the “Cypresses” for string quartet by Dvořák, and of course, Fauré’s “Pavane,” for the overnight program, “Sleepers Awake.”
That station taught me everything I know about the standard repertoire. And they did it by playing complete pieces of music, with local hosts pronouncing all the names correctly. It was a commercial outlet (with no ads between midnight and 6), not at all stuffy, but the standards were impeccable. How I miss that level of professionalism in American classical radio!
PHOTO: Sibelius enjoying a rare laugh, with cigar, perhaps to cover up the scent of the “Paleo Smelly Zone”
Sibelius is not exactly the first composer anyone would associate with ballet.
So I was astonished to learn, quite recently, that a couple of his (non-dance) scores were picked up by London’s Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet and choreographed in the late 1940s. Specifically, the suite “Belshazzar’s Feast” was used in “Khadra,” choreographed by Celia Franca, and the tone poem “En saga” was used in “Sea Change,” choreographed by John Cranko. Both were early in their careers. In Franca’s case, it was the first ballet she ever choreographed. She went on to found the National Ballet of Canada. Likewise, “Sea Change” was the first major project for Cranko, who would soon achieve world fame. Later, he would direct the Stuttgart Ballet. You can learn more – a lot more – about both ballets, with photos, here:
Sibelius did actually compose music for a ballet-pantomime, “Scaramouche,” in 1912-13. When he agreed to the project, on scenario by the Danish playwright Poul Knudsen, it was with the understanding that he would only be supplying a few dance numbers. When he learned that he was expected to compose a full hour of music, he despaired. Furthermore, he detected immediately that the libretto had basically been cribbed from Arthur Schnitzler’s “The Veil of Pierrette,” a recent success with music by Ernst von Dohnanyi. Attempts to annul or even alter the contract proved to be futile. Sibelius, a meticulous composer, feared that his international reputation was on the line. At one point, in frustration, he smashed a telephone.
In the end, he was able to complete the work to his satisfaction and the music was met with acclaim; the ballet-pantomime, not so much. It was revived in Copenhagen about ten years later and was savaged by the critics, who had not forgotten about Schnitzler. Sibelius’ music, however, was again praised. That said, the fact that the individual cues are tied so closely to the action have caused the score to be dragged into the depths of obscurity. It has, however, been recorded several times.
Of course, one of Sibelius’ best-known pieces, “Valse triste,” also happens to be a dance – a “sad waltz.” Originally one of six numbers that comprise the incidental music for a 1903 play, “Kuolema,” or “Death,” by the composer’s brother-in-law, Arvid Järnefelt, the work underscores the opening scene. A son attends his dying mother, who is swept up in a dream of the dance. At the end of the scene, she is claimed by Death in the form of her late husband. Its morbid origin aside, the work proved to be what is now known as an ear-worm and became an international hit. The composer encountered it everywhere, arranged for every conceivable instrument, played in cafes and by salon orchestras.
Unfortunately, Sibelius had essentially sold the work to his publisher outright, and he received few royalties. He would spend many fruitless hours, in between symphonies, crafting the occasional piece of light music, hoping to recapture lightning in a bottle. Alas, it proved to be a will o’ the wisp. Works like the “Suite mignonne” and “Suite champêtre,” while unquestionably charming, were not a patch on the maddening ubiquity of “Valse triste.”
“Valse triste” itself was to be choreographed a number of times, including, in tandem with “Scenes with Cranes” (also distilled from “Kuolema”), by Peter Martins for New York City Ballet.
Trip the light fantastic with Twinkletoes Sibelius!
“Valse triste”
“Suite mignonne” and “Suite champêtre”
“Belshazzar’s Feast”
“En saga”
EIGHT DAYS OF SIBELIUS – DAY 1
In the book “Sibelius: A Close-Up” (1937), Bengt de Törne, also a composer, recollects a conversation he had with the master:
“Then his voice changed in tone as he told me that he wanted to give me some good advice. ‘Never pay any attention to what critics say,’ he proceeded, and expatiated on this theme. When I ventured to put in the remark that their articles might sometimes be of great importance, he cut me short. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘a statue has never been set up in honour of a critic!’”
This has often been simplified to the pithier “Pay no attention to the critics. No one has ever erected a statue to a critic.”
Sibelius, on the other hand, has had his share of statues and monuments erected to him.
BOTTOM, LEFT TO RIGHT:
Bust (1958), creator unknown, Cleveland Finnish Cultural Garden
