Malcolm Arnold (1921-2006) – Four Scottish Dances, Op. 59

In 1948, Malcolm Arnold became a full-time professional composer. About a year later Bernard de Nevers – the head of Arnold’s publisher, Lengnick – helpfully suggested (though not necessarily in these exact words), “Y’ know, Malcolm, Dvorák made a killing with those Slavonic Dances. Why don’t you try doing some – well – English ones?” Arnold bit his whole arm off! An entire series of “national” dances threaded his prolific career: English I (1950), English II (1951), Scottish (1957), Cornish (1966), Irish (1986) and Welsh (1989).

The first four are classic examples of Arnold in his peerless prime – tuneful, colourful, irrepressibly exuberant, endlessly inventive, and bristling with razor-sharp wit; a god-send for conductors, who are licenced to wield their batons like magic wands, conjuring a cornucopia of sonic sensations. The last two stand in stark contrast – but are they really threadbare products of a burnt-out creative force, or poignant products of a creative force constrained by a burnt-out body?

All six sets have four movements, arrayed and titled like classical symphonies. Considering their content, dressing his dances in their “Sunday best” arguably began as a little Arnoldian jest that, as his really substantial works increasingly became derided, assumed a somewhat sharper edge. More importantly, it underlines the consummate care with which Arnold crafted even his lightest music.

Generally, in the first four sets at least, since his purpose was pure entertainment, he ditched anything that might complicate matters – multiple subjects, counterpoint, ornamentation, thematic development – and limited “form” to repetitions or, occasionally, rudimentary ternary layouts. Sensible as that might seem, it does create a compositional conundrum: admitting imaginative variations of tempo, colour and accompanimental “cosmetics”, how much repetition can a tune take? Arnold, innately inclined to compactness and disciplined to it by his film work, could gauge precisely what “how much” would be – and he never got it wrong. Alongside Arnold’s, even Dvorák’s gems (averaging almost twice as long) can seem overstated!

Composed for and dedicated to the BBC Light Music Festival, Arnold’s Four Scottish Dances clearly capitalised on the “Scottish” credentials established by his uproarious Tam o’ Shanter two years earlier.

1. Pesante. Could anybody else “do” bagpipes like Arnold? This stomping Strathspey bristles with assorted brayings and wheezes, yet seems stately – as though led by the Laird himself. The tune’s liberally endowed with “Scotch snaps” – or, as Arnold observes, “. . . dotted notes, frequently in the inverted arrangement of the ‘Scotch snap’” (did you know there was a right way up? I didn’t!). The mayhem rides a neat ternary form, whose centre crackles with triple-tongued trumpets, whilst the outer sections’ colours are palindromic, presumably justifying the shameless concluding “How’s That?” – music’s most brazen comic cliché.

2. Vivace. Although the tune is Robert Burns’s, this rollicking Reel’s treatment is pure Arnold. Starting in E flat, each repetition steps up a semitone. Arriving at G, it slows, and . . . well, why don’t I relate the cinematographic scenario it always brings to my mind? –

“Late leaving her Bible-reading class, Mrs. Mac hurries through the lamp-lit streets, increasingly agitated by the prospect of not being home when her husband returns from the pub. Skittering round a corner, she pulls up short. Right in front of her door is Mr. Mac, clutching a lamp-post, evidently suffering a surfeit of “Scotch snaps”. Uncertainly circumnavigating this supportive standard, he slowly sinks. Affectionately hugging the post, he starts snoring. Mrs. Mac, releasing her ’bated breath, tiptoes by and slips silently in.”

3. Allegretto. Somehow, within the aforementioned “rules”, Arnold often comes up with “miniature tone poems”. The preceding Vivace is one – and this Allegretto another! Soft chords and harp arpeggios frame four statements of a stunningly lovely melody – more a song than a dance. In fact, Arnold himself said it’s “in the style of a Hebridean Song, and attempts to give an impression of the sea and mountain scenery on a calm summer’s day.” You may also imagine young lovers, arm-in-arm – particularly when you feel “the wind in your hair”.

4. Con brio. Into this sporran-spinning Highland Fling Arnold squeezes an asymmetrical ternary form and a coda. Its breathless brevity is surely a concession to the old Laird’s aching legs!

© Paul Serotsky, 2013

 

 

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