Category Archives: Music

Rachmaninoff’s 2nd Piano Concerto, as used in Brief Encounter (1945)

Sergei Rachmaninoff’s second Piano Concerto in C Minor stands on its own as a masterpiece of the late Romantic period, but what a great idea it turned out to be, to pair it with David Lean’s classic love story of 1945, Brief Encounter.

It was Lean’s collaborator, producer Noël Coward, on whose one-act play the film was based, who insisted on the use of his favourite piece of music, despite there being a composer, Muir Mathieson, waiting in the wings to write an original score. With all due respect to Mathieson and however his score might have turned out, the use of Rachmaninoff, played by Australian pianist Eileen Joyce and the National Symphony Orchestra, raised the film’s emotional level sky-high.

The film is told in flashback, as the lead character of Laura (Celia Johnson) sits in her living room with her husband, staring into space, listening to the Second Concerto and thinking about her time with another man, Alec (Trevor Howard). She remembers the day they met, at the café in the train station. When a piece of grit gets in her eye, Alec, a doctor, removes it, and a bond starts between them, quickly developing into love as they  embark on a series of clandestine assignations.

This love story is doomed, of course, as Laura is a married mother and we are deep in the territory of 1940s middle-class manners. Granted, the strait-jacketed morals and linguistic quirks of the times leave us in no doubt that the film is a period piece, but it rightly remains a hugely popular British movie.

The development, and inevitable demise, of the relationship is subtly underpinned by the repeating strains of Rachmaninoff’s music. The enduring popularity of his piece, meanwhile, is demonstrated by its consistently topping the Classic FM Hall of Fame, firmly securing its status as Britain’s favourite piece of classical music. Watch and listen to a pleasing montage of Brief Encounter to Rachmaninoff’s music below:

Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard

Bob Dylan sings Mr Tambourine Man, Newport Folk Festival (1964)

Era defining. Voice of a generation. Urban poet. Folk troubadour. No, not Justin Bieber; I’m referring to Bob Dylan and in this post I’m looking at Dylan’s performance of Mr Tambourine Man at Newport Folk Festival in 1964.

Dylan played the influential and long-running festival for three consecutive years from 1963 to 1965.

His first appearance in 1963 was as a guest of Joan Baez, and though little known outside Greenwich Village, he was taken to heart by the folkies. That year saw the beginnings of international success with Dylan’s breakthrough second album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, which he had completed that May. Its combination of traditional folk with a personal and authentic edge and a social message, proved a hit with an ever-widening demographic of music fans.

Skip forward to 1965. His final year at Newport gave us the great Electric Controversy, when Dylan walked on stage clutching a Fender Stratocaster guitar and backed by a full electric band, shocking the folk purists in the audience, and provoking bewilderment, consternation and an iconic place in musical history. Incidentally, that guitar sold at auction a couple of years back for just short of a million dollars!

But we return to the year of his second appearance at Newport, 1964, when the young Dylan was now established as a fully-fledged “protest singer”, his rising star in momentous upward trajectory and the new darling of the festival goers. Here, we watch some delightfully informal and upfront footage of his rendition of Mr Tambourine Man, listened to by a politely enthralled audience (and a bizarrely poker-faced guy, stage-left).

The song is gentle and dream-like, flowing repetitively through the same three major chords, so typical of Dylan. Lyric-wise, it’s replete with another Dylan trait, the multiple rhymes that somehow pull together coherently despite what should be the increasing implausibility and diminishing returns of stringing so many rhymes together (take note, rappers of the world). What’s it about? Death, musical inspiration, drugs, weariness, doubts about the efficacy of the protest movement to change the world, a “tambourine man”…take your pick, or just let the music take you to a nice corner of your mind! Here’s the boy from Duluth himself, having been announced as the “boy who ran away from home seventeen times and got brought back sixteen”…

 

Bob Dylan

Lale Andersen sings Lili Marlene, 1939

Without any doubt the most popular song of the Second World War was Lili Marlene. Recorded by Danish cabaret artiste Lale Andersen in 1939 under the title Das Mädchen unter der Laterne (“The Girl under the Lantern”), the song sold a mere 700 copies on release and faded into obscurity.

There it might have remained had not a soldier, working for the German forces radio station in occupied Belgrade, been sent to scour Vienna for some records to broadcast to General Rommel’s Afrika Korps. One of the records he found in Vienna was Lale Andersen’s recording of Das Mädchen unter der Laterne, and it was first played over the air on 18th August 1941.

It became an instant favourite with Rommel’s men, and for the next three years Radio Belgrade played it almost every night at 9.57pm, as the closing record. It also became a huge hit throughout Nazi-occupied Europe and was soon picked up by the British Eighth Army in the desert. It also soon assumed its simple alternative song title, Lili Marlene (sometimes spelled Lili Marleen, Lilli Marlene etc).

In his memoir, British soldier Fitzroy Maclean describes the song’s effect in the spring of 1942 during the Western Desert Campaign: “Husky, sensuous, nostalgic, sugar-sweet, her voice seemed to reach out to you, as she lingered over the catchy tune…”

The next year, Maclean was parachuted into the Yugoslav guerrilla war, and the song once again played its part:

Sometimes at night, before going to sleep, we would turn on our receiving set and listen to Radio Belgrade. For months now, the flower of the Afrika Korps had been languishing behind the barbed wire of Allied prison camps. But still, punctually at ten o’clock, came Lale Andersen singing their special song, with the same unvarying, heart-rending sweetness that we knew so well from the desert…Belgrade was still remote but, now that we ourselves were in Yugoslavia, it had acquired a new significance for us. It had become our ultimate goal, which Lili Marlene and her nostalgic little tune seemed somehow to symbolise. ‘When we get to Belgrade…’ we would say. And then we would switch off the wireless a little guiltily, for the Partisans, we knew, were shocked at the strange pleasure we got from listening to the singing of the German woman (sic) who was queening it in their capital.”

It’s not hard to imagine the Tommies, and Jerries alike, crowded round their “receiving sets”, smoking fags and dreaming of Lili Marlene…

Lale Andersen

Canteloube’s Baïlèro, sung by Victoria de los Ángeles (1969)

Chants d’Auvergne (English: Songs from the Auvergne) is a collection of folk songs from the Auvergne region of France, arranged for soprano and orchestra by French composer and musicologist Joseph Canteloube in the 1920s. The songs are in the local language, Occitan (also known as Langue d’Oc, hence the name of the former province of southern France, Languedoc). Canteloube’s family had deep roots in the Auvergne region, and his arrangements are a labour of love borne from an eagerness to immortalise the folklore and beauty of his home region.

The best-known of Canteloube’s collection is Baïlèro, and this recording, by the Spanish soprano, Victoria de los Ángeles, is surely the most beautifully delivered version of it.

The song is achingly wistful. It evokes a sense of longing, for what – homeland, lost love, lost youth? – it matters not. Victoria de los Ángeles speaks directly to the heart of the listener and perhaps her Catalan background, connected as it is with the peasant traditions of the wider area sometimes known as Occitania, lends itself to the rustic charm.

I heard it years ago on a compilation CD and fell for it instantly. I feel the sense of landscape, of affinity with one’s roots, of being connected to one’s environment, and at the same time the plaintive feeling of separation and yearning that pervades the piece. It all adds up to a wellspring of emotional power.

I only recently looked up the Occitan words and their English translation; they are pastoral in tone (unsurprising given that they are peasant folk-songs), and feature a call-and-response pattern between the singer and her shepherd love.  Of course, it doesn’t matter what the lyrics are; it is the feel of the music and the voice that count, but to some extent the sense of longing and separation is corroborated by the lyric:

Pastré couci foraï,
En obal io lou bel riou
Dio lou baïlèro lèrô…

Shepherd, the water divides us,
And I cannot cross it,
Sing baïlèro lèrô…

I am presenting the music here with some imagery of the mountains, lakes and cascades of the Auvergne, but really you are as well to listen with eyes closed, feet up, in a quiet, pleasant environment, and a large glass of wine in hand. Enjoy…