One day, someone asked me "What's a symphony?" Instantly my mind went "Oh, oh. This is something that people would assume a musician can rattle off a 12-word definition of and be done with, but in fact it has never occured to me 'what' a 'symphony' was." So I quickly made something up.

Thankfully, a sudden moment of inspiration came up with something. "A Symphony," I said to my all-ears friend with a voice full of smoke and 'learning', "is like an essay. Like a GP essay. Instead of arguing about a topic your English tutor asks, the composer picks up on an idea or two, say a short phrase of music or an entire melody, or perhaps a story or even a philosophical concept, and using that as a 'topic', writes a musical essay on it. Whereas writers argue about The Person I Admire Most or How to Extricate Your Head from Between Elevator Doors in their essays, composers argue a musical theme of motif in a symphony, creating an introduction, a development, an argument and ultimately a conclusion." Breathing a mental sigh of relief at having saved myself from embarassment, I added uselessly: "That's a symphony!"

Will you buy that? I think it's a useful way of thinking about it.

Wilhelm Stenhammar (left) was born in Stockholm, Sweden in 1871. At the age of 21, he made his debut in Stockholm as a pianist (with and without orchestra) and a composer. Composed between 1911 and 1915, Stenhammar's second symphony is written in the Dorian mode (white keys on the piano starting with D). I feel that it is distinct for the composer's intentions in it. In a letter to Nielsen after conducting the latter's First Symphony, Stenhammar remarks that "its greatest value is its very Nordic chastity and formal simplicity ... I know that you have always tried and also succeeded in warding off the influence of Wagner and I am increasingly convinced that that is the only possible way for us Nordic people, if we are to create our own style." Stenhammar's Second Symphony was to be itself "lucid and honest music without vulgar showiness."

Readers must forgive me for first saying that in this 43-minute work, there is an appealing combination of Dvorakian drive, Tchaikovskian swirling, Brahmsian lyricism and also the Nordic full-throated singing of early Sibelius, whose Second Symphony had completely overwhelmed Stenhammar. The Symphony opens with one of those simple, broadly striding themes on strings that you simply don't forget. Immediately, scenes of Scandinavian landscape fills the air. The music seamlessly moves from between dusky melancholy and brassy Norse heroism, accompanied by Sibelian woodwind birdsong. The conclusion, which appears almost out of nowhere, is stirring and confident. The Andante is an elegaic walk in the evening twilight, melancholic and thoughtful. The following Scherzo has a rustic character to its waltz, cleverly shifting from folksong simplicity to ballroom formality to a quick burst of joy. The Finale begins slowly, but soon develops into a frenzied "Grosse Fuge" in the manner of Tchaikovsky's finales. The final pages of the symphony ardently sing a long sighing string theme, accompanied by woodwind staccato, before the brass enter with a dark heroic chorale of epic tones.

Excelsior! (Latin "higher" or "towards the heights") is a symphonic overture which, as the notes suggest (and as usual, Naxos provides a long and detailed 5-page essay), would work equally well in a symphony. It is by turns atmospheric (there is a violin solo in the middle) and energetic (more of those driving, rhythmic passages), with a recurring ascending string theme rather remiscent of Richard Strauss. At the end, Stenhammar demonstrates his considerable knack for short but effective conclusions.

It is inevitable that comparisons are made, but in my opinion, Stenhammar's individual personality and originality shine forth from his influences, as well as the composers I have compared him with. Really! I'm very impressed with his stuff! It has good ideas equal to many other composers', and he makes a good case for them.

So what makes a good symphony is essentially the same as what makes a good essay. Even if the theme argued for is silly or unfriendly, if the composer/writer makes a good argument, he has created a good symphony/essay. In a good symphony (and "good" will always remain subjective, by the way), one can often feel or hear the musical material grow, develop and hopefully blossom. The trick is to listen carefully and repeatedly, like reading a passage of Nietzsche repeatedly until you "get it."

But yes, you say that a word is not the same as a musical note. But I disagree -- they can be the same, only at different levels. People say you can't extract meaning from a musical note. First, the word "meaning" here refers to a written and defined meaning (=crude), not a musical feeling meaning (=transcendent). When you read a sentence, doesn't the meaning of each and every word come automatically to you? Do you have to make yourself define every word before you understand the sentence? No -- your brain does it automatically. The same with music: let the note speak for itself and your brain (and heart) will automatically hear the "meaning." The next step is to try not to define it, because words will almost always fail, as I myself have demonstrated in these pages. Music is more powerful than words, so let it be so.

"If someone writes about my music and finds, let us say, a feeling of nature in it, all well and good. Let him say that, as long as we have it clear within ourselves, we do not become a part of the music's innermost sound and sense through analysis ... Compositions are like butterflies. Touch them even once and the dust of hue is gone. They can, of course, still fly, but are nowhere as beautiful ..."

Guess who said that? I'll give you a clue: his initials are J.S.

Everytime the Federation Starship Enterprise is hit, the Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase wonders aloud flabbergastedly why these 24th century brains don't install seat belts on the command bridge.

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117: 5.10.1997; up.10.2.1998 ©Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase

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