Personal note – I am a direct descendant of Aaron Burr. Yup.
Right now, the world is all about Hamilton the Broadway musical. I haven’t seen it, though I hope to one day, once the ticket price drops below the cost of a flight to Tokyo. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy this duel scene from Tchaikovsky‘s only lasting contribution to the opera world, Eugene Onegin. If you want to read about this particular duel, check the Wikipedia page. I can sum it up for you here though – don’t be stupid and don’t challenge someone to a duel, especially one of your friends. No matter what happens, it will turn out nasty.
There’s something magical about the big water. A trip to the sea refreshes us, helps us to forget, makes us think about bigger things. I myself have just arrived at the ocean for a week of trying to remember (or figure out?) who I am.
Not surprisingly, the sea has been an inspiration to countless composers. If I were to write a post about every water-themed piece, I would need to spend more than a month at the seaside, and sadly I’m not given that much vacation time.
I stumbled on today’s piece indirectly through my studies on Benjamin Britten (who, incidentally, wrote a TON of sea-themed music.) Britten was a wee lad of thirteen when he heard Frank Bridge‘s composition, The Sea, and was completely blown away by it – so much so, that Britten sought Bridge out as a composition teacher, thus starting a lifelong, loving relationship of student and mentor. Bridge was considered one of England’s leading composers during his lifetime, but has since fallen into a bit of obscurity; this just means that his music is due for a revival! The Sea was written a few years after Debussy wrote La Mer (the English and the French are always trying to one-up each other.) La Mer is better-known, perhaps, since Bridge’s take on the ocean is much more musically conservative. Even so, it’s a lovely piece, and I’m glad to have found it, even if through the back door.
Quick lesson for non-musicians: the word “opus” (often abbreviated to op.) means “work”. Composers catalog their works by opus number, which generally go in chronological order.
Many composers had their musical beginnings early in childhood, writing pieces for themselves to play, experimenting with music on paper. With the exception of Mozart, these compositions are usually just childhood games, and at best might amuse music aficionados who are curious about a composers’ early thoughts. When a composer grows up and begins to pursue “adult” composition, they begin to assign opus numbers. Opus One is probably not the first piece s/he ever wrote, but it represents the first piece that s/he releases to the world as representation of his/her contribution to Art Music.
If you are older than 25, you might think back to those early years of adulthood. A young composer’s early music reflects many of the same conflicts that many of us went through at this time. An opus one might be very conservative, trying to please one’s elders. It might be extremely edgy, trying to buck tradition and the establishment. It might be a desperate cry for attention; it might be an attempt to find some peace.
Opus One can also provide an interesting framework once a composer dies – you can listen to how far a person has come, and consider what caused him/her to change. Mention Stravinsky, and most people immediately think of the Rite of Spring, one of his earliest works (and one of his edgiest.) But after that period, Stravinsky wrote a ton of music which in no way resembles those early ballets. He came a long way, but most people know him for his early stuff.
Carl Nielsen is considered the iconic composer of Denmark. His Opus One is fairly conservative compared to his later music – a Suite for Strings.
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