1 8 2 Y R E C O R D I N G S I N R E V I E W D E W E Y F A U L K N E R January 2012 is the 150th anniversary of the birth of Frederick Delius, a composer whose music you either love or hate, usually passionately. On the surface the music is not di≈cult to appreciate, at least until you begin to examine it closely. Everyone agrees that it’s beautiful. Delius haters will claim that it vanishes into formless air, without melody or vigor or structure. Delius lovers will claim that it generates its own forms, its own melodies, its own momentum. The music, most of it symphonic and much with voices, throws over most conventions and rules of composition and takes advantage of post-Wagnerian chromaticism without wallowing in dissonance for the sake of producing ugly sounds. It is modern without being obnoxious, and in being so it flies in the face of much of the past century of musical development. Structurally, Delius abandons all conventional forms except variations. He uses neither full melodies nor themes to develop music. In Sir Thomas Beecham’s phrase, ‘‘Delius eliminated the ‘development section.’ ’’ He does so by starting with mildly dissonant chords containing numerous unconventional notes that allow him to ‘‘modulate’’ as he wishes. The chords are shaped into 1 8 3 R snatches of melody that dissolve and reappear depending on where Delius’s imagination leads him. As Christopher Palmer notes, ‘‘The essential quality of Delius’ chromaticism is that the harmony is chromatic, the melody not.’’ All this is clothed in an iridescent orchestral garb, in which a huge orchestra is deployed in a restrained way, with each note in a motif, often each within a chord, having its own instrumental color. Delius’s pieces nearly all begin imperceptibly and finally die away, like organisms in nature. Between these markers the sound of his forces is exceptionally beautiful, always, though with a beauty tinged by awareness of loss and sorrow and regret. There are few noisy a≈rmations and almost no happy endings. The music has an uncanny ability to evoke mood and place, whether twilight across vast ranges of Norwegian mountains or the heat and humidity of dying afternoons in the American South. More than almost any other composer, Delius created the landscapes he saw in his memory. Sitting in a landscape and listening to Delius, listeners find that nature and music are continuous, somehow identical. It is an e√ect almost unique in music. Delius first absorbed nature into music in America, specifically in northeast Florida. In March 1884, at age twenty-two, he went to Jacksonville with his brother to set up an orange plantation south of the city on the broad St. John’s River. Then in September 1885 he moved north to Danville, Virginia, where he taught violin during the 1885–86 school year to young ladies at the Roanoke Female College. Both Jacksonville and Danville were modest southern cities, recovering well twenty years after the end of the war. Jacksonville was a thriving Atlantic port and Danville, long a major center for tobacco on the Virginia–North Carolina border, had erected the Dan River Mills in 1882, making it a growing center for cotton as well. On the river in Florida in the lengthening spring and summer twilights, Delius would hear black singers from neighboring plantations . The words were probably lost, but the melodies and harmonies impressed themselves deeply on the young Englishman, along with the light, the heat, the humidity, the languor of evenings and darkness. In Virginia he heard black singers in the tobacco stemmeries and the cotton mills and added specific tunes 1 8 4 F A U L K N E R Y and words to his memories, some of which he would use later. It is claimed that Delius discovered himself musically in America. Yes, but the America he discovered and internalized was the South. Delius published his first piano composition in Jacksonville in 1885, but his orchestral composing began only in 1887, in Leipzig. Most of his work from 1887 to 1899 consisted...
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