The period music historians call 'classicism' gave us the symphony, the string quartet, and silly powdered wigs that tended to fall in the soup at some vulnerable social moment. Around 1750, new departures in ensemble string technique, pioneered by the Stamitz brothers in Mannheim, enabled composers a direct emotional freedom, and a route to an audience's heart much more immediate than the heady convolutions of the Baroque. At the same time, instruments resembling the modern clarinets, horns and trumpets enabled composers a rich, if limited, chromatic range. In the hands of Haydn and Mozart, the symphony became an iconic art form of rich variety, and its formal structures, sonata, song and rondo, were embedded firmly in the psyches of the generations of composers that followed. Depending on who you read, Mozart wrote his first symphony at the age of eight, while Haydn wrote his 104th at the age of 63, his third that year. As the form expanded, no-one was ever as prolific in the form again. Shostakovich managed a measly fifteen, while composers as great as Lloyd-Webber, Britney Spears and Fat Boy Slim are yet to manage one between them.

In my first attempt at the symphonic form I felt I had to enter into a discourse with classicism; a sort of where-are-they-now of the early symphonic forms and practices. At the same time I was searching for relevance to more modern music, particularly Webern; you might think Webern, killed by 'friendly fire' from a US GI in 1945 is hardly modern; but to my ears the retrogression of minimalism and machine-made dance music leaves Webern as still about as modern as you get within the conventions of the orchestra. There was no point in a 21st century symphony based on 18th century textures; that would be mere neo-classicism, a style Prokoffiev and Stravinsky had already excelled in. If truth be told though, I simply wanted to write in the symphonic idiom just to see if I could.

I started my first symphony in the Spartan and generally unreliable score window in a version of Cubasis AV that came free with Computer Music magazine. At first all I had were the notes, bald, uninformative notes, without articulation, phrasing or dynamics. The more I wrote, the more likely the program was to crash during playback, but, eager to make the best of what I had rather than becoming one of those unhappy chaps interminably upgrading and never getting round to writing anything, I consider this added a slightly Weberian economy to what I wrote. Shunning ranks of brass, percussion, harp, piano, and keeping the string technique to bare essentials, I set about adopting classical forms in a contemporary context, to see what my symphony could make of itself. I discovered very quickly that one of the main advantages of, say, a sonata structure (comprised of exposition, development and recapitulation in musicologist parlance) is that to a considerable extent the music writes itself. Each 'original' idea is stated, considered and combined with other ideas with a strict adherence to structure not dissimilar to a sonnet or other rigorous poetic form. I wanted to combine conventions in harmony with purely arbitrary notions, giving me an almost unlimited degree of harmonic freedom as I considered each possible dissonance in a loose definition of 'the musical' as opposed to the arithmetically suitable. I found myself using the high aesthetic of the classicist harmonic triad in a sort of Piccaso-esque primitivism; and found this gave me the opportunity to be both impressionist and expressionist in almost equal measure. While fundamentally a chamber symphony (no trombones, timps but no percussion), and while on the reasonably small scale of the classical idiom, I felt it necessary to echo in places the sheer grandeur of the orchestral pallette, and, particularly in the later movements I was consciously aware of Beethoven's 'Eroica' as both the highest summit of classicism and the death of classical ideals of scale and balance, already alluded to by the 'Jupiter' and 'Don Giovanni' of Mozart from a liitle more than a decade earlier. In the last movement i've adopted an almost 'Sturm und Drang' first theme, everything but the tremolos; emphasising the so-called Classical period less as a quaint and effete set of conventions, and more as a breathing, sweating attempt on the summit of highest culture, back in the days when there was no breathing apparatus. Not to wave a flag and collect a knighthood; but merely to take in the splendid landscape that results.

First Movement: allegro moderato e sempre piano

'Sempre piano' means quietly all the way through. I didn't have the nerve to batter down the door of symphonic endeavour, but; merely to tip-toe in and hide at the back of the room until someone noticed I didn't have a neck-tie. The opening theme is set at a moderate pace so as to double as both symphonic exposition and a stately introduction so typical of Haydn. The flute is in its lowest register (not easy to play a bottom C first up, but i'm told a swift Glenfiddich can loosen the lip sufficiently) and the strings play a sort of pre-harmony, paintily smudges on the canvas as the figures take on focus. Bar 18 produces the first subject proper: it lives in a nether-world between good old C major and the C7 chord of F; melody in flute, answered by ripples from an oboe, accompanied by a distorted allusion to arpeggiated strings. Related material from bar 36 expands the harmony from tight-in expressionism to the open 7ths and 6ths of the song-like second subject, in A major, in violas and 'cellos at bar 50. As if Berg had attempted a collaboration with Ravel. Related material follows, used as antiphony, which gets more frantic from bar 70. The development proper announces itself with a repetition of both subjects simultaneously, followed by both counter-melodies. This sweeps along, exploring keys and the lack of them, until a contrapuntal figure appears at bar 90 in the lower strings. This builds to a tutti passage ('tutti' just means everyone's playing) from bar 110, which tries out alternatives in syncopation and missed syncopation, until a descending chorale-like melody appears on horns and trumpets (with double bass) at bar 120. This is the climax of the movement, gently followed by a the obligatory cigarette afterwards in woodwinds at bar 133. A mournful passage of mock-chromaticism from the strings brings us to a modified recapitulation from bar 180. This time both subjects are in a discernible C major. By way of a shortish coda ('coda' is Italian for 'pompous flashy bit at the end'), the chorale-theme is restated tutti, and the movement ends with a final polite flourish from the flute, leading us out through the door we came in.

Second movement: scherzo enigmaramous; sempre pizzicato

Sempre pizzicato means the strings play all the way through, but they're not allowed to use bows; they have to pluck (pizzicato) their instruments like epileptic gorillas picking flies.

I decided on a scherzo. Now, strictly speaking, a classical symphony didn't have a scherzo (that is a light, jokey, inner movement) but a minuet and trio, echoing the symphony's dim and distant past as a suite of dances. But it was my symphony, and I didn't see why I couldn't use the minuet structure in something, well, scherzoid.

'Enigmaramous' needs some explaining. The average buff knows one of the few composers from this damp little island who anyone considers great is Edward Elgar. A shy bloke from Worcester, Elgar scribbled away fruitlessly until he was about 40, when in 1899 his new work, 'Variations on an Original Theme (Enigma)' was first performed. Within 5 years he had fame, a knighthood, and carte blanche to write anything he pleased so long as it had 'Land of Hope and Glory' halfway through. The famous 'enigma' is the theme on which the variations are based. Musicologists have puzzled for a century now, some concluding it was some sort of anagram, some concluding it was Elgar's own, whatever the rumours, while some stuck to their red, white and blue guns and insisted it was 'Land of Hope and Glory' again. Now, courtesy of a budget CD boxed set containing ten Mozart symphonies (made in Belgium, 9), which I played as wallpaper for a year or so, I have an alternative of offer. The central movement of Mozart's 'Prague' Symphony No. 38, and a second theme that, certainly to my ears, is more than similar to the familiar languid steps of Elgar's 'Nimrod' variation, and all the other variations to boot. Now, i'm not saying 100% that i've solved the enigma and it's the 'Prague'. That would require a gaggle of Elgarophiles, raking over the late Sir Edward's notes, sketches, letters, and shaving brushes, and a score of the 'Prague' covered in pencil would be nice. Anyhow, rather than sit at home and fret that i'd discovered the musicological equivalent of Jack the Ripper but lacked the necessary bits of paper to back it up, i've incorporated my 'discovery', in a light-hearted context, into this piece.

The movement opens with a rapid antiphonal passage that will define the piece ('antiphony' means question and answering, like the Basie band at its best). This time the C7 backdrop comes down firmly in F. The first 20 bars are repeated, louder, and are followed by a staccato bassoon solo passage, and we're back in C, like it was stuck to your shoe. You want wit? If in doubt, use a bassoon. A comically urgent trumpet solo in A harmonic minor follows the bassoon; and then both are repeated. Now, we are at the trio: bar 85 announces the Enigma-Mozart theme, in flute and oboe in G major. The woodwinds take the tune up, modulating to A major, and this gives way to the 2nd theme of the trio, a rising crescendo on the strings at bar 125. Repeats abound: the first section of the movement is recapitulated from bar 165, and the piece ends with a certain prat-fall abruptness,

Third movement: andante grandioso

The slow movement is in simple ABA form. Historians go on and on about the vocal background to song-like orchestral music, and they often bring up a thing called the 'da capo aria' which has absolutely nothing to do with that thing you put on the frets of a guitar to play in B flat. Still, you can keep the song metaphor, certainly in that its essence lies in the dramatic moment of performance, the lights, the mobile 'phones going off, and how that relates to the inner motivation of most artists: which is of course the promise of unlimited sex and drugs.

The piece lugubriously rolls in, like an Alaskan seashore covered in oil, or George W's brain on a good day, which leads to an impassioned passage for the strings that tries to resolve the cusp between A and A minor, tripping over E minor along the way; until delicately resolving on an over-pretty A major. The second, B, section starts on bar 31. Now in a slightly sinister E minor. This is expanded full tutti at bar 47, and this builds to a sort of fanfare figure at bar 55. Following a diminuendo, the first material returns, and the movement ends in A major.

Fourth movement: finale pointlessly optimistico

The finale is in the simplest of rondo forms. A rondo is where a recurring piece of music is interspersed with different stuff, or 'episodes'. The simples form that actually is a rondo runs: intro-A-B-A-C-A-coda. In the episodes I wanted to explore the plastic world of my contemporaries: the realm of modern dance music. I wanted to show repetitive harmonically static 120bpm can be fun after all. After a swirling introduction, we get the main subject of the rondo, in no apparent key at all; I took Shostakovich as a hint for that element of conflict which must be resolved in a good old-fashioned finale. Then at bar 45 we get the first element of the techno experiment, a thudding timpani on C. Different instruments appear and are assimilated by force into the overall C minor repetition. This is fascist music: no individual will remains under the stomping of the boots. As the forces build the key modulates to A minor in a sort of circular trance, before the tension breaks into a recurrance of the main theme. The second episode opens with a figure in fourths, rippling from one end of the orchestra to the other, giving way to a strident tutti melody, a desperate string of dissonance that culminates in an outburst of rhythm on just timps and bassoons. This is echoed tutti, leading back to the final repeat of the main theme. The conflict doesn't resolve itself. This is the philosophy of the whole piece. Conflicts are rarely solved with the heroic logic of a symphonist, less still the petty insincerities of politicians. More often a new idea, a more basic idea supplants all current ideologies; the future is never what we'd expect. But there still remains plenty of room for pessimism. My big new idea explodes in big, sunny, unrealistic C major, as the coda from bar 213. This is the sound of utopia, the hollow promise of a future marginally less painful both. Take it how you will: the eminent logic of human triumph or the shallow deceit of a Prozac pill. The Classicists held sway in an optimistic age: making giant strides in the complexities underlying both chemistry, and the slightly more difficult science of liberty. Today, chemistry specialises in producing ever more expensive face-paints for the rich; while liberty comes with the heavy price of being press-ganged into the global capitalist system. The state, which is there as a palliative to the exploitation process, instead further aggravates the situation is it descends itself into a mire of profiteering private contracts. This has two major effects for our fairly immediate future. First our civil liberties will become irrevocably compromised as any Tom, Dick or Harry corporation gets its hands on state-held information on us. Second, the social facet of the state will collapse, rendered ineffective, as capitalist firms discover they can no more run a school, hospital, or dole office than the old state employees they've replaced. And all the time, the holes in the safety net get wider, the homeless, the needy, those in ill-health will suffer as capitalism cuts its losses and sells off wards, classrooms and state housing to yet more profit-motive speculators. Before too long, the fundamental duty of every government since Lloyd-George will be no more than a terse but inscrutable bureaucratic paper-chain run out of a call centre in Lahore. Our optimism can only lie in replacing this system with another one: one which restores the values of social welfare so ignored in our privateering age.

© Richard Russell 2004

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