Music for Two Guitars

Mussorgsky declared in his early works his love for "all that is Russian" and for "life as it is really lived". Mussorgsky's form of nationalism was intensely realistic and his thematic material drew from historical or social events. Nevertheless, his complex personality equated "life as it is really lived" to a certain extent with abnormality. That became a source of unimaginable moral pain and an obstacle to the consolidation of his work. The conviction that conventional forms and true content were opposites led to an endless struggle to complete his work; many of his most ambitious projects remained unfinished after his death. The remarkable exceptions are a few songs, the opera Boris Godunov, Night on Bald Mountain and his most famous piano piece, Pictures at an Exhibition. Even then his closest friends considered his music technically deficient and produced polished versions; his rough, unique original versions only came to light later in the 20th century. Mussorgsky was born in 1839 into a wealthy, large landholding family with a military tradition. He learned to play the piano from his mother and at thirteen entered military school. Although music remained important to him, he became interested in history and German philosophy. It was probably there that he also developed alcoholism. At seventeen he met fellow composer Alexander Borodin; this led to friendship with Dargomyzhsky and Balakirev, both prominent composers. Balakirev taught Mussorgsky composition and modern music. At nineteen he resigned in an attempt to dedicate himself entirely to music. Although an instructive visit to Moscow made him aware of a Russia he did not know, he also experienced the first of many mental crises, often of a mystical nature. Mussorgsky was a true child of his time, as described in Russian literature, where even educated people were susceptible to morbid thoughts, fascinated by extreme behavior and humiliation, and drawn to superstition or the supernatural. In St. Petersburg he worked as a low-ranking civil servant. In his early thirties he reached the peak of his career with the opera Boris Godunov. This was followed by a gradual decline, as he found it increasingly difficult to complete his work and struggled with alcoholism. He was eventually permanently dismissed from public service and was on the verge of begging. He died at the age of 42 from a heart attack; his most famous portrait, with a pitiful expression, was painted by Repin a few weeks before his death. Mussorgsky and architect Viktor Hartmann had a strong artistic and personal affinity, which may have developed into a personal relationship. Hartmann was a rather unorthodox artist, notoriously bad at carrying out ordinary commissions, but capable of great creativity when his imagination was given free rein. He died suddenly in 1873 at the age of 39, leaving Mussorgsky, as he quoted King Lear: "Why should a dog, a horse, a rat live on when creatures like Hartmann must die?". The following year an exhibition of some 400 of his paintings and drawings was organized, which inspired Mussorgsky to write the piano suite, Pictures at an Exhibition. Atypically, this was written in just three weeks, painlessly and without interruptions. Many of those paintings were created during Hartmann's travels through Europe and have since been lost; the remainder are more remarkable for their brilliant content than for their artistic level. Mussorgsky leads us to the exhibition with a recurring, metrically skewed promenade – perhaps to tell us how grand and self-assured a drunkard's walk can be. This will appear from time to time and form a transition between sharply contrasting scenes. These drag us into a lively, claustrophobic, hallucinatory and morbid world, inspired by Hartmann's paintings. It begins with Gnomus, whose image has not been preserved; it was rather a caricature in the form of a design for a nutcracker. Accordingly, very chromatic and disjointed music jumps grotesquely and unpredictably. Another promenade leads us to Il Vecchio Castelo, an old Neapolitan castle, with a troubadour nearby to suggest scale. Mussorgsky's interpretation is a melody with a pronounced Russian flavor, set to an ancient Sicilian rhythm. He continues through the exhibition, gazing at the Tuileries. These represented an avenue in the Parisian gardens, with a swarm of quarreling children and their nursemaids. Mussorgsky, who had focused particularly on the children's universe, wrote music that seems to mock the na-na-like jesters. He moves without transition to Bydlo, a Polish ox cart that plods along with heroic regularity until it disappears into the distance. This is precisely the kind of music that has created an auditory image of Russia worldwide. A short, reflective version of the promenade leads us to the next piece, Ballet of the Chicks in Their Eggshells, a preserved design sketch for ballet costumes depicting canary chicks in a harness-like eggshell. Again the composer crosses the childish terrain with aplomb in a finely distorted, ornamental style. It cuts cinematically to Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuÿle, two pieces in Mussorgsky's possession (Schmuÿle is the Yiddish version of Samuel), described by Stasov as "two Polish Jews, rich and poor". Two strongly characterized ideas, one based on the Phrygian mode with an augmented second to evoke traditional Jewish music and depict power and wealth, while a stuttering figure represents the begging poor man. A reconstruction of the original promenade leads us to the Market of Limoges (The Great News), a deftly crafted scherzo describing a market quarrel in the French countryside. Mussorgsky wrote a note saying that the important news was a gentleman who got his cow back, along with someone with new false teeth. At this point the music takes a sharp turn of plot. Hartmann takes us to the Catacombs and Cum Mortuis in Lingua Mortua (With the Dead in a Dead Language). In two separate blocks Mussorgsky also transports his listeners. The Promenade theme, previously a connecting element, is woven into this section, leading the listener inside the painting and descending with the creative spirit of Hartmann to the catacombs in Rome, between glowing skulls in the weak light of a lantern. That fades into the clouds of antiquity to be violently struck by the opening of The Hut of Baba Yaga. This is Hartmann's most interesting painting, a design for a clock in the form of a witch's hut on chicken legs. It is also one of the most disturbing pieces of music from the 19th century; it seems for a long time to be atonal, with brutal seventh intervals evoking bells and carrying the listener into an atmosphere of persecution. It rushes fiercely towards the final section, The Heroic Gate (in the old capital Kiev). Hartmann considered this his best work, a grand design for gates for the Ukrainian capital Kiev, in honor of the escape of Tsar Alexander II from an assassination attempt. Hartmann won a national competition for the project, but the gates were never built. As soon as the listener is drawn into the image, Mussorgsky creates a sparkling vision of glory, amplifying Baba Yaga's bells to gigantic proportions and transforming the promenade into a solemn chorale. The last three sections together create a very satisfying form that symmetrically mirrors the first three sections. Mussorgsky played the suite for friends; some fans showed enthusiasm, but his fellow composers received the piece with bewilderment. He felt he had gone too far and did not even attempt publication, instead turning to a new opera. It was published five years after his death and only began to gain some popularity after it was orchestrated by Ravel in 1922. The impression of a rough, misshapen and somewhat inconclusive piece lingered even among Mussorgsky's friends. Its intense roughness translates as a kind of experimental ground. That, combined with Ravel's successful orchestration, has led to an abundance of transcriptions and orchestrations, ranging from large bands to solo guitar. Contrary to the skill of the composer, the performers on this recording have taken many years to produce this beautiful version for two guitars. They have experimented with different bass tunings to retain the depth of the low register and the mournful effects of the original. This also applies to the most suitable keys for each piece and their suitability for the guitar. Above all, an attempt is made to maintain the hieratic quality of the original with appropriate guitar figurations, a difficult task when much of Ravel's orchestration disturbs our auditory impression of the work. The end result is a labor of love and deep respect for Mussorgsky's music. Ronald Stevenson (1928-2015) is one of the most prominent Scottish composers, with a career spanning five successful decades, marked by prestigious commissions from artists such as Yehudi Menuhin and teaching positions. His music reflects his ability as a transcriber to recreate the music of other composers and his profound knowledge of folk traditions. Thus he traversed the 20th century with music that has a strong signature and explores new territories, yet retains recognizable melodic content. This also applies to his extensive guitar duet cycle, Don Quixote & Sancho Panza, composed in 1982-83. As expected, it contains descriptive elements in 17 interconnected sections, but the illustrative character does not override the formal coherence, with recurring motifs that reappear here and there. Their character is highly varied, ranging from Quixote's apparent meditations and Sancho's musings to the exciting puppet fanfares and Moorish songs. The reserved and orderly aspect makes it an unexpected, contrasting complement to Mussorgsky's cycle.