Frans Liszt was the miraculous pianist who became the “ancestral god” of all later piano virtuosi. He was a “giant” in many ways – as a lover he would have provided present-day gossip-columnists with almost inexhaustible material, as a musician he was an innovator who gave ideas to a host of composers for the next two generation – and today there are two opposite and irreconcilable views of his life, work and personality. To some his music has faded, and to others it is among the most exciting products of the nineteenth century. To some he was one of the great “Hungarian” composers, unflagging in his attachment to his nation’s freedom. To others he is primarily a cosmopolitan romantic genius, a leading figure in the movement for a “new music” that included Berlioz in France and Wagner in Germany.
The Hungarian and German aspects of Liszt are reflected in the bare facts of his birth and death. He was born Ferencz Liszt at Raiding in Hungary, in 1811.
He died in 1886 at Bayreuth, the centre which his son-in-law, Richard Wagner, had built in Germany for the performance of his own operas. And in a curious way, the events at Bayreuth reflected both Liszt’s musical powers and the decline of his reputation. For the innovations of Wagner, as the “composer of the future”, had pushed those of Liszt entirely into the background. Yet is was from the Liszt tone poems that Wagner had taken many of his ideas, and even actual musical motifs. The story is told that in 1876, when Wagner attended with Liszt a rehearsal of Die Walkare, he said, “Now, papa, comes a theme which I got from you.” Liszt answered, “All right, then one will at least hear it.
The Hungarian Rhapsodies embody the national Hungarian aide of Liszt. James Huneker wrote wittily of them. “The majority begin in a mosque and end in a tavern.” This points to the origin of both Hungarian folk music and Gypsy music in the East, and the use of Gypsy bands for uproarious town entertainment. For it was Hungarian popular music as it has been taken up and developed by the Gypsies that Liszt used in his Rhapsodies. He thought that the Gypsies had given Hungary its folk music, and admired them as apostles of untrammelled freedom:”they reject all despotism of law,” he wrote in his book, The Gypsies and their Musk in Hungary. Modern research has disclosed a Hungarian peasant music quite different from the popular and urban music of the Gypsy bands. But to the defence of Liszt comes none other than the great Hungarian composer who more than anyone else has studied and disclosed the old and basic folk music of Hungary. Whilst disapproving of the tunes themselves that Liszt chose in the name of “Hungarian music,” Bela Bartok wrote that the Rhapsodies “are perfect creations of their own kind. The material that Liszt used in them could not be treated with greater artistry and beauty.” And nobody has put better than Bartok the contradictory sides of Liszt as a composer. “Everything that had ever existed in music, whether trivial or sublime, left a lasting imprint on his work. Side by side with triviality, he displayed almost everywhere amazing boldness, either in form or in invention. The boldness was really a fanatical striving towards something rare and new.
The first fifteen Hungarian Rhapsodies, composed for piano, were published by Liszt in 1848-53. Four more appeared in 1882-5. Six of the most popular teem arranged by Liszt, with the collaboration of Franz Doppler, for orchestra. The four on this record correspond to the piano versions as follows: Orchestra: No. 1 in F minor No. 2 transposed to D minor No. 3 transposed to D No. 4 transposed to D minor Piano: No. 14 in F minor No. 6 in D flat No. 2 in C sharp minor No. 12 in C sharp minor.
Noël Coward is one of those legendary figures of the entertainment world (Shakespeare a another, Oscar Wilde a possible third) whose legend, far from diminishing with the passage of time, actually increases with the years. Whatever critics may have said in the past (for Coward like, Shakespeare and Wilde, has had his near-failures too), the purely personal interest aroused by his name, the magic touch of the born artist seen even in lesser Coward, and the myth attaching to him, are so powerful that the box-office never has to close down on one of his shows for lack of customers – only for lack of seats. …
And that in itself is something of a phenomenon On superficial evidence it would he easy to say that Noël Coward established himself so firmly as the typical representative of one small part of the twentieth century, the riotous, sad decades of the ’20’s and ’30’s, which now seem almost as dated as the sumptuous plushery of the Edwardian Era, and more than that as the representative of one rigidly exclusive group of the society of that period, the Bright Young Things, that, with the decline and fall of the spirit of the ’20’s, Coward’s own star would have waned. In fact, it was predicted when his lyrics and sketches scintillated on the stage for the first time, that his brilliant success would be short-lived, and that when he passed the age for being a Bright Young Thing he mould degenerate into that very dreary bore, a Middle-aged Young Thing. But of course Noël Coward triumphantly, and with the polished ease with which he does everything in the theatre, proved his gloomy prophecy false. It had to be false because in the first place it missed the vital point that he is constitutionally incapable of being dreary, of being a bore, he his always, in every sense. entertaining. He fooled the prophets by catching, the effervescence of the ’20’s so well, the flappers and crazy parties and irresponsible gaiety, that they wrote him off as merely another clever young man. The clever young man showed, however, in his play “The Vortex”, and has shown since in works like “In Which We Serve”, The Astonished Heart”, and “Cavalcade”, that he could respond, none more sympathetically, to the spirit not merely of a decade and a group, but of a whole time, a whole nation. And although his own songs and satires hale a brilliant finish, a darling surface, they are successful because they penetrate below the surface. his sharply witty revue pieces Noël Coward created situations and people worthy to be ranked as small masterpieces: the four young men of The Stately Homes of England who knew “how Caesar conquered Gaul and how to whack a cricket-ball…”, the “toughest Malay bandit” pausing to ponder over the madness of Englishmen, and more recently the solid citizens, formidable in their mackintoshes, who forbade us to make fun of the Festival. But there is another side to the acidly serene mocker, the debunker admired even bu his victims that is more sentimental Coward, the troubadour, whose gentler songs – Sigh No More, Dear Little Cafe, Room With A View, I’ll Follow My Secret Heart, I’ll See You Again, and many more – are featured on this record. The fact that he has a gentler side, that he makes his appeal to the warm-hearted plebs as well as to the glittering debs, and that his songs in this manner are as beautifully executed as the verbal ingenuities of the revue pieces, ensures that the legend will never die. As id to remind us of his virtuosity, Noël Coward at the age when most men are thinking of devoting their energies to bumbling golf, has recently appeared in two new roles, that of the smart and wildly popular cabaret entertainer, and , boldest of all, the man who dared to make Oscar Wilde wittier, in “After the Ball”. But who could be more fitted to the task, when the world is wondering, comes up as sharp and suave and gentle as ever, to astonish us again? Frank Chacksfield, who guides us on the week-end tour, is now one of this country’s leading light music conductors. Records such as Ebb Tide and Limelight, the first record he made for Decca and which won him the “New Musical Express” Record of the Year award, have earned fro him a worldwide reputation. In America, in 1953, he was voted by the juke box operators in a nationwide cash Box Poll to have the most promising new orchestra of the year, a result justified by the magic of his latest recordings. He was born in battle, Sussex, and studied music from the age of seven, displaying an unusual interest in musical theory for a boy of that age. He learned to play the piano and the organ, passed the Trinity College exams, and appeared as a soloist at the Musical Festival in Hastings, by the time he was fourteen. At the same time he was deputy organist at Saleshurst Parish Church, near Robertsbridge, Sussex. He formed his first dance band at the age of fifteen, but his parents were against a musical career and he entered a solicitor’s office. It became a case of working all day at the Law, and working all night at Music until ever-increasing popularity convinced him that music was to be his career – a happy decision for his now international legion of admirers. the war broke out and Frank joined the Army in 1940. During a period of convalescence from an illness, he made his first broadcast from the B.B.C. Glasgow studios, singing songs at the piano. Transferred to the Southern Command Entertainments Section of the R.A.S.C. at Salisbury, he became staff arranger to the War Office show “Stars in Battledress”, and shared an office with Charlie Chester, both being demobbed on the same day. This led to a job with “Stand easy” at Blackpool, with Frank conducting the orchestra. later he became composer, conductor and arranger for the B.B.C., working with shows such as John Pertwee’s “Puffney’s Post Office”, the “Frankie Howerd Show”, and “Up the Pole!” he made his first record in 1948, and has recorded with, among many, Charlie Chester, Petula Clarke, Bill Johnson and the Radio Revellers. After many successful recordings he recorded Limelight for Decca in April 1953, and so the success story continues. So here is the Chacksfield Orchestra in its present full glory, with a selection of songs eminently suited to its style, and, we hope, to the listener’s taste.
Over the last few years Ray Conniff has made a name for himself as one of the foremost conductor-arrangers of our time, dynamic, highly imaginative and equally skilled in handling voices and instruments. As this truly delightful album demonstrates, he has struck out along bold new paths; he has explored the fields of colour and texture with such effect that he has attracted a host, of imitators who are unable to conjure up his magic but are conscious that he has recreated the essence of popular music.
Born in Attleboro, Massachusetts, U.S.A.. Ray received his initial musical training on the trombone, taught by his father. Within a remarkably short time, there were two trombonists in the Conniff family, and by the time Ray entered his junior year in high school, he was playing and arranging music as well. The second musical talent was largely self-taught, with some help from a mail-order device which taught him the difference between chords. Graduation in 1934 took Ray to Boston, where he worked with a number of society-type orchestras and other musical groups, improving both his playing and his ability as an arranger. In 1936, he moved to New York, and found work with Bunny Berigan’s band, where he was heard as trombonist and arranger for two years. Thereafter he played with Bob Crosby’s orchestra on numerous tours, and then moved along to Artie Shaw’s group where Ray emerged as a first-rate arranger (vide such memorable contributions as Prelude in C sharp minor and Jumping on the merry-go-round). During the four years he remained with Shaw. Ray also worked on various radio shows and studied at the Juilliard School of Music.
After service in the Army, Ray was hired by Harry James not as an instrumentalist but as an arranger. He thereupon turned out such fine settings as Easy on. The Beaumont ride. and September song. While working with the James group, Ray wrote so many fine arrangements that he soon attracted the attention of recording companies, and was signed to write backgrounds for such vocal stars as Rosemary Clooney, Johnnie Ray, Guy Mitchell and many others. From there it was a short step to full-scale musical direction. His success can be measured in terms of a magnificent series of records, some of which we list for your interest.
“Like the selection of drinks on the menu of a swank cocktail lounge, this selection of music for after 5 P.M. relaxation runs the gamut of pleasure“. Well who is going to argue with Richard Hayman and His Orchestra? My only doubts are the swankiness of the lounge and whether 5pm is a little too early for such a gamut of pleasure. Regardless, this example of harmonica infused Long Player joy from Richard Hayman would no doubt have lifted many a mood around 1954. The front cover model has been cut in two and placed on opposing sides. Listen to some of this smooth fifties sound below.
Sleeve Notes:
Like the selection of drinks on the menu of a swank cocktail lounge, this selection of music for after 5 P.M. relaxation runs the gamut of pleasure. If you’re the straight highball type, enjoy the plait and simple relaxation offered by Spring Is Here. If you delight in the creamy luxury of a Grasshopper, try the richness of Port of Spain. For those who delight in vintage, there is Alt Wein. Melody for every taste and temperament, designed to wear off the day’s tensions, is Haymon’s “Mission Accomplished.” Richard Hayman’s harmonica is interwoven into many of the melodies like the tinkling, cooling ice chips that put that extra sparkle into an evening’s drink.
New England born and bred, Richard Hayman is a self-taught harmonica player and musical arranger. At 18 he joined Borrah Minnevitch’s world-famed Harmonica Rascals. At 21 he became a member of the Vaughn Monroe group, doing a specialty novelty harmonica act. After several years, he joined the Horace Heidt troop, which eventually brought him to Hollywood. Here he played bit roles in a score of musical films, and gained further experience arranging under the expert tutelage of George Stoll. Hayman, himself, has composed such outstanding instrumentals as Skipping Along and No Strings Attached, Huckleberry Finn and Carriage Trade which were also composed by Hayman are part of this WING Long Play album.
The extensive sleeve notes for this Immortal Pas De Deux record were written by Pigeon Crowle (Eileen Georgia Beatrice Crowle) artist, sculptor, authoress and ballet-composer 1903-1960. Not much else is known about her but that she wrote a lot about ballet. In 1959 you not only got a tasteful and attractive cover you also got an essay to read while you listened.
Sleeve Notes:
The pas de deux is the love song of the ballet, a duet of unspoken words, expressed in gesture, line, and harmonised movement. In the great classical and romantic ballets it is the high-light of an act, a coloratura passage in which the grace and beauty of the ballerina is contrasted with the chivalry and strength of her partner, the danseur noble.
“How light she is!’ he seems to say as she soars from his arms into the air; or, as he supports her in an arabesque — “How graceful” and as, with her hand laid on his, he slowly sums her poised on one elegant leg —”How beautiful!” The art of the classical ballerina is one of great beauty, but in the pas de deux, if aided by a partner of understanding and artistry, it shines with increased brilliance. But it depends to an extent, not generally realised, upon the ballerina being supported with knowledge and skill, and if these attributes are missing his performance will inevitably suffer. Her partner must watch for the slightest sign of insecurity, and be able to adjust her balance in all supported steps without any appearance of effort or strain, and without drawing audition to himself.
She must assist him with her response and timing, her taut springiness. In this way, working in complete unison and with subtle interplay of emotion, the pas de deux performed by two great artists is an exciting theatrical experience. As all emotions and feelings may be expressed in ballet, so they are reflected in the pas de deux. Those recorded here vary from the poetic to the flamboyant, from the light-hearted to the tragic, but all are set within the beautiful framework of the classical ballet. The pas de deux of the first act of Giselle in which Giselle dances with her lover Albrecht, has never been equalled for its delightful expression of youthful loss and happiness. The choreography is simple and devoid of all acrobatics or sensational lifts, but the gay and tender atmosphere of the scene is beautifully portrayed in its light and lilting movements. The love theme, given by strings and woodwind, recurs throughout the ballet — later, most tragically. Giselle was first performed in Paris in 1841, but still provides the most coveted of ballerina roles. Alicia Markova has become almost legendary in a part which she endows with her own unique qualities of romantic and remote fragility, while Anton Dolin, virtuoso of the art of partnering, has never been excelled as her Albrecht.
In the old classical ballets, the pas de deux (or grand adage as it is sometimes called) usually begins with an introduction for the two dancers, followed by one or two variations for each and a coda in which both join. Fokine, creator of modern ballet, revolted against many such conventions, and in his ballet Les Sylphides, the two principals have no sharply divided solos, but a dance that flows in an effortless continuity. Their entrance is particularly beautiful. He has begun to lift her in the wings, and she is still rising as they come into view. This creates the illusion that she might float away but for her partner’s restraining arms. Beryl Grey, with her soft, fluid line and gentle romanticism, gives a perfect performance in this ballet. When, however, Delibes’’ Sylvia was revived by the Royal Ballet in 1952, the choreography, by Frederick Ashton, included the grand adage in all its traditional glory. Tender and caressing, brilliant and exciting, soaring ecstatically with the solo violin, it is a love song designed to display the great art of Margot Fonteyn and the qualities of Michael Somes as dancer and partner. It comes as the climax of the third act, and there is a thrilling moment in the coda when, arrow-like, Sylvia flies through the air and appears to reverse her position in full flight just before Aminta catches her. The pas de deux from Casse-Noisette is one of the most beautiful ever devised. It combines a lyrical sweetness with classical virtuosity and precision, and commences in a quiet tempo quickening with the music which includes the bell-like tones of the celesta. Swiftly the ballerina runs towards her partner who takes her hand and draws her proudly through the air in a series of scintillating lifts, while the music mounts with a passionate and aching intensity unusual in classical ballet — indeed, it was adversely criticised by earlier audiences, who found it strange and disturbing. Casse-Noisette was the last ballet music written by Tchaikovsky, for he died in 1899, less than a year after its production. This adage can only be performed by artists of high distinction, and Belinda Wright and John Gilpin dance it with the delicacy and crispness of spun sugar.
Very different is the arrogant, flamboyant dance from Don Quixote, with its brilliant classical steps coloured in Spanish style. In Russia the ballet has remained in continuous performance ever since it was first produced in 1869, but in the West it is only known by this show piece for the ballerina and her partner. That dark beauty, Tamara Toumanova, and the lithe and elegant George Skibine, will long be remembered for their performance. What feats of virtuosity she displayed with no more apparent effort than a flick of her eloquent fan! With what panache he danced his variation, and partnered his dazzling ballerina in her scarlet tutu! Minkus’ music is the perfect accompaniment for this period piece.
The pas de deux performed by the dolls in La Boutique Fantastique is that lively French music hall dance, the Can Can. In their secret life whim the shop is closed, the dolls are lovers; but now they perform for the benefit of the customers, whirling their legs in the air, lifting their knees high and throwing back their heads with much jauntiness. The dance ends abruptly and, with a shake of her foaming white petticoats, the lady sinks to the ground in the “splits “, while her raffish partner runs to her side and whispers in her ear. The choreography for this dance is as sparkling and exhilarating as its music, and it comes from one of the most famous of Massine’s works. When he staged it for the Royal Ballet after the war, nineteen-year-old Moira Shearer was the gay, provocative doll and Massine her expert, agile partner.
To see Galina Ulanova partnered by Yuri Zdanov in Romeo and Juliet one of the great experiences of balIet-going. The pas de deux of the balcony scene is a symphonic picture in which the Juliet and Romeo themes are interwoven and the whole is a romantic reverie of small, gliding steps, interspersed with arabesques and — in the Bolshoi tradition — spectacular lifts. It is accomplished with an effortless ease by these two superb artists, who invest their roles with all the tragic poignancy and tender romanticism of the young star-crossed lovers.
The Aurora pas de deux from the last act of The Sleeping Beauty is the most famous of all the classical adages and of a most noble and brilliant description. The two silver and white figures make their sudden and dramatic appearance at the back of the stage and then advance with gracious yet imperious dignity to begin their breath-taking dance. This ends with a spectacular series of pirouettes and ” fish dives” to an accompaniment that mounts in excitement and finally dies on a sustained flute note and plucked strip, It is followed by a delicate solo on pointe for the ballerina and an exhilarating variation for the danseur. Every great ballerina has danced this adage, but none with more royal radiance than the lovely Svetlana Beriosova in her first great classical role at Covent Garden. For the audience it was an evening of enchantment. For her it was a wonderful yet terrifying experience, but in the assured hands of Michael Somas she triumphantly overcame all difficulties.
In all these dances the choreography owes much to its musical setting. Though so varied, all share a well-defined rhythmic line and a clear and vivid characterisation, which is inspiring to the dancers and carries the audience with them in the spell of the immortal pas de deux.
The stirring music of Bizet with exceptionally fine lyrics and a fiery front cover. Not to be confused with Carmen Miranda samba queen – that’s the fruity one. In this production “Otto Preminger… has woven together the stirring music of Bizet with exceptionally fine lyrics and the synchronisation of talented actors and actresses…” Synchronisation is a technical term to mean the actors and actresses mime to the songs, these being sung by hidden professional singers or played back from a recording.
Sleeve Notes:
Side One
Overture Opening Medley Dat’s Love (Habanera) You Talk Jus’ Like My Maw Dere’s A Cafe On De Corner ‘Dis Flower Beat Out Dat Rhythm On A Drum
Side Two
Stan’ Up An’ Fight Quintet: Whizzin’ Away Along De Track Card Song My Joe Duet And Finale
Probably no film has created more comment in recent years than has Oscar Hammerstein II’s ” Carmen Jones “. The fact that the music of Bizet had been applied to a modem story and a present-day setting, caused purist lovers of the original opera to shudder. However, none was disappointed with the brilliant treatment of this subject and that applies to this LP record, taken from the original sound-track of the film.
As Oscar Hammerstein himself says, “Carmen Jones is not in any way an opera, but is, in fact, a musical play based on an opera. The score of Bizet’s original music has not been altered in any way, nor has the traditional tempo been varied.”
Otto Preminger in his production of “Carmen Jones ” as a film, has woven together the stirring music of Bizet with exceptionally fine lyrics and the synchronization of talented actors and actresses. with the magnificent yokes of an unseen singing cast.
The story of ” Carmen Jones ” follows in a modern pattern, along the lines of its operatic counterpart, with a change of setting that brings the action into the 20th century — specifically World War II.
The story begins when Joe (Harry Belafonte) an Army corporal stationed in Jacksonville, U.S.A., is about to enter Flying School and a party is given in his honour by workers of the nearby parachute factory. Among them is his sweetheart Cindy Lou (Olga James), for whose attentions Sgt. Brown (Bros Peters) is a rival. During the course of the celebrations, Carmen Jones (Dorothy Dandridge) swaggers in and attempts to use her feminine wiles on Joe, who is not at all interested.
Joe at that time is seeking permission from his C.O. to marry Cindy Lou when Carmen chooses to pick a fight with another female employee. Sgt. Brown maliciously puts her in Joe’s custody to take her to Jacksonville Jail, and suggests to Cindy Lou that Joe has volunteered to be responsible for Carmen.
Carmen continues to lure, and her attempts are eventually successful. Meanwhile they stop at a shanty town where she proudly shows of her Joe — all the time promising him that they will soon be aboard the train for Jacksonville and the jail. Carmen’s grandmother, who is a fortune-teller, predicts evil things for the couple, which so much upsets the superstitious Carmen that she runs away.
Joe is imprisoned for his neglect of duty, and during his imprisonment he is so devoured by his passion for Carmen that he cannot face Cindy Lou when she visits him. The only reliefs in his
imprisonment are letters and promises from Carmen, with a gift of a rose.
Carmen, meanwhile, settles down at Billy Pastor’s night club to wait for Joe. Husky Miller (Joe Adams), a heavyweight champ, wants her as his girl friend, but Carmen will have none of it, despite the coaxing of her old friend Frankie (Pearl Bailey), whose job comes to depend on arranging things for Husky.
Joe is released, and joy reigns until Carmen realizes he still plans to go into flying school. She wants him to forget the army and go of to Chicago with her. He fights the temptation, but Sgt. Brown overhearing the scene, intrudes sneeringly and is knocked out by Joe, who, knowing now that the alternative is prison, hides the unconscious sergeant and agrees to Carmen’s plan.
In Chicago, they must evade M.P.’s and go into hiding. When their money has gone, Carmen goes to Husky for more. Frankie urges Carmen to be nice to the fighter, but Carmen swears she’s no two-timer. When Carmen retums to Joe, who complains to her for being away so long, he is suspicious as to the source of the money provided for food. This drives Carmen back to Husky’s where, at a party, she reads her own cards, forecasting death.
Joe follows Carmen, eluding the M.P.’s, while Cindy Lou arrives in pursuit of Joe. All meet at Husky’s training quarters, where Carmen tells Joe it’s all over between them, but helps him to escape. Cindy Lou departs in tears knowing that she has lost her Joe.
At the championship fight, the crowd acclaiming Husky’s triumph, Joe confronts Carmen, again pleading with her. When she refuses his love, he kills her. As the mob mums out of the doors screaming for their hero, the heartsick Joe weeps for the dead Carmen and voices his hope they will soon “hang him on the highest tree”, so that he might join his beloved.
