Béla Bartók (1881-1945) – Seven Romanian
Folk Dances
Bartók’s early compositions reflected the gypsy music
and folksong that had always fascinated him. However, this fervent
nationalist was unaware that, like Liszt and Brahms before him, he’d
been HOODWINKED – by polite parlour fare, politically promoted
as Hungary’s “true” folk music.
In 1904, when he stumbled upon REAL peasant music, he got the shock
of his life. Galvanised by its raw, earthy vitality, Bartók
needed only a nudge from Kodály, and away he yomped, armed
with phonograph and manuscript paper – and often with his compatriot
– to harvest the real McCoy.
Familiarity bred reverence – in these centuries-old, unwritten
melodies he saw the basis of a genuine Hungarian tradition. Discovering
that encroaching civilisation was progressively obliterating these
riches, Bartók promptly elevated preservation above personal
gain.
After each survey he meticulously applied scientific method to studying,
collating, comparing and classifying both music and words. To trace
developments and influential sources, he penetrated ever further beyond
Hungary’s borders. Eventually, he was hailed as a founder of
ethnomusicology. Much sooner, he became the most profoundly informed
of nationalist composers.
Switching his stylistic model from Brahms/Strauss to Debussy/Stravinsky,
he began basing original compositions on authentic folk idioms. Moreover,
he produced a plethora of arrangements, by no means exclusively Hungarian.
These were distinguished by Bartók’s refusal to elaborate,
other than as demanded by the necessary evil of squidging justly-intoned
melodies into 12-tone equal temperament.
The best-known foreign-sourced arrangement is the diminutive but
delectable Seven Romanian Folk Dances for piano (1915), whose orchestral
garb (1917) signally fails to diminish Bartók’s unusual
approach. Although he variegates simple alternations and repetitions
of “calling” and “answering” phrases merely
with delicate dustings of colour and dynamics, the result is more
than merely magical:
1. Jocul cu bâta (Stick Dance). A striding, high-stepping tune
is punctuated by periodic genuflections and pleasingly prickly pizzicati.
2. Brâul (Sash Dance). The perky tune, four tiny phrases played
on clarinet, then again on strings, nowhere near outstays its welcome!
3. Pe loc (In One Spot). Over whispered chords, the piccolo weaves
an exotic, static yet sinuous melody, that simply stops, apparently
in mid-air.
4. Buciumeana (Horn Dance). A lonely, yearning melody, stated twice,
first piano then forte, fading wistfully to prepare for . . .
5. Poarga Româneasca (Romanian Polka). With its toe-teasing
“4+2” rhythm, this rollick is belted out in the treble,
then again in the bass.
6. Maruntel (Fast Dance). Briefer than the Brâul, the tune’s
lively, two-phrase “call and answer” is literally repeated.
7. [attacca] Maruntel (Fast Dance). Strings stomping, horn droning,
woodwind skirling, this whirls in an accelerating crescendo. In a
rush of blood, Bartók adds a thrilling codetta. May he be forgiven
this modest sin? I think so.
© Paul Serotsky, 2012
Footnotes:
Years ago I saw a TV documentary about Bartók, one sequence
of which became burned into my brain. It involved cross-fadings between
a performance of the astonishingly savage finale of the Fourth String
Quartet and some old film footage of two Hungarian peasants, fiddling
away with unfettered vigour and pungency in front of (I presume) a
local watering hole. Not only did this illustrate the accuracy of
Bartók’s distillation of style, but also it underlined
the sheer refinement of his music! Really, this ought to be compulsory
viewing for anyone who dares to baulk at Bartók.
Regarding Pe Loc, a musicologist once told me that the apparently
unresolved ending was because the real final note didn’t exist
on the “piano” scale. However, it’s my understanding
that this would be true only if the final note was not the tonic,
since the tonic is the one and only degree that is common to a justly-intoned
and a corresponding equally-tempered scale. Hence, the original must
also have ended “up in the air”, which is probably why,
in his arrangement, Bartók didn’t concoct a closing cadence.
.
© Paul Serotsky
,
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