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Some composers develop their style over time, while others hit their stride early on. Those who evolved step by step include Haydn, Wagner, Jan谩膷ek, Scarlatti, Liszt, Glass and Carter. Other composers appeared seemingly fully formed, including Mozart, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Richard Strauss, Saint-Sa毛ns and Boulez. As both pianist and composer, Fr茅d茅ric Chopin鈥檚 genius manifested itself from the start. At eight, the budding prodigy had his first composition published (a polonaise) and made his debut as a piano soloist with orchestra. It soon became clear that Chopin preferred to concentrate on smaller forms instead of large-scale symphonies, choral works and operas. Fortunately, his composition teacher at the Warsaw Conservatory, Joseph Elsner, had the foresight to let his pupil follow his own path.
Leaving Warsaw for good at twenty-one, Chopin settled in Paris and found himself in the vortex of a thriving intellectual and artistic scene dominated by Balzac, Hugo, Delacroix, Rossini, Berlioz, Auber, the young Liszt and other luminaries. Piano construction had evolved into something close to our modern concert grand paradigm, and virtuoso pianist鈥揷omposers like Henri Herz and Friedrich Kalkbrenner ruled the roost, pleasing the public with glittery operatic paraphrases, potpourris, battle pieces and other easy-to-digest salon fare.
While Chopin churned out a few opera paraphrases and variation sets of his own, they were informed by an entirely new level of pianistic ingenuity, where new sonorities, figurations and modulatory patterns intermingled to unprecedented, often startling effect. Even in Chopin鈥檚 earliest works with opus numbers, the essence of his keyboard style was fully formed. Take, for instance, the astonishing bravura of the seldom-played First Piano Sonata finale鈥檚 cruelly demanding double notes, or the Variations on Mozart鈥檚 鈥淟脿 ci darem la mano鈥� from Don Giovanni for piano and orchestra (the work that inspired Robert Schumann鈥檚 famous 鈥淗ats off, a genius鈥� review). Get past its rather foursquare construction, and the piano writing鈥檚 tactile fluidity and judicious deployment are immediately clear, along with subtle harmonic twists and turns not easy to absorb in one hearing.
Yet for all of these innovations, a strong classical streak steadfastly prevails throughout Chopin鈥檚 oeuvre. That much is clear from the way the composer stuck with absolute forms for his titles (Waltz, Ballade, Etude, Nocturne, Mazurka, Polonaise, Scherzo, Sonata, Impromptu and the like) instead of descriptive or programmatic fodder, as his colleagues Schumann, Berlioz, Liszt and Mendelssohn were apt to use. Beethoven鈥檚 thunder appealed to Chopin far less than Mozart鈥檚 elegance and proportion and Bach鈥檚 organizational powers and contrapuntal acumen. Indeed, Bach鈥檚 influence has more than a little bearing upon the 24 Pr茅ludes Op. 28. Chopin also adored Bellini鈥檚 operas, and it shows: Slow down the Impromptus or the faster Waltzes, sing the glittery passagework out loud, and you鈥檒l discover bel canto cavatinas. Slow down the Fourth Ballade鈥檚 thunderous coda, bring down the volume, and concentrate on the top melodic line: an instant aria!
A good guided tour through Chopin鈥檚 sound world might commence with the Nocturnes. The form owes much to the development and standardization of the sustaining pedal, which meant that sustained figurations could exceed the normal left-hand span. The Irish composer John Field first applied the word 鈥淣octurne鈥� to lyrical pieces with long, dreamy melodies supported by lilting, broadly spanned accompaniments. In his B major Nocturne, Chopin picks up where Field left off. Seeming simplicity characterizes its opening theme, which comes to a sudden halt at its first climax only to resume in tempo with another idea. Remnants of the original theme reappear like signposts while embellishments and decorations intensify the melodic discourse. Without warning, Chopin shatters his wistful mood with an abrupt, almost violent recitative in B minor, an ending that 鈥渄efies analysis, but compels acceptance,鈥� according to composer Lennox Berkeley.
It鈥檚 a short step from Chopin the poet to Chopin the poet鈥搗irtuoso and his Etudes Op. 10 and 25, which many rightly consider the cornerstones of Romantic piano technique. Each of these gems addresses a specific technical challenge, without giving the pianist much respite. At first hearing, the A-flat Op. 10, No. 10 and E minor Op. 25, No. 5 offer catchy, operatically inspired themes within a basic A鈥揃鈥揂 song form structure. But notice the slight shifts in texture and phrasing when the tunes repeat, not unlike viewing an object from different perspectives and at different times of the day. Reduce the opening C major Op. 10, No. 1 and closing Op. 25, No. 2 etudes鈥� taxing arpeggios to their harmonic essence, and you get the bedrock security of a Bach cantus firmus. One wonders if Bach鈥檚 organ chorale preludes had any bearing on the E-flat minor Op. 10, No. 6, where a plaintive right-hand cantabile is supported by a chromatically undulating tenor commentary and long, sustained bass lines. The refinement of Chopin鈥檚 amazing harmonic imagination here is something to behold, and if you want more where that came from, take a detour towards the coda of the Barcarolle, Op. 60.
Before we add fire and brimstone to the mix, let鈥檚 remember that Chopin the performer geared his pianistic gifts to the dimensions of salons and small venues. His playing was about nuance, subtle effects, refinement of touch and perpetual singing, and he left flamboyance, power and audacity to his friend Liszt. What we鈥檇 give to hear Liszt wrap his paws around Chopin鈥檚 C-sharp minor Scherzo, where musical substance and high-octane virtuosity staggeringly mesh! The angular, declamatory introduction鈥攁 kind of compressed opera recitative鈥攄ives into a demonic main theme spelled out in stamina-testing octaves. The central, major-key trio features a chorale-like motive answered by delicate descending filigree. When the coda arrives, Chopin works all of the piano鈥檚 registers in seeming simultaneity. Chopin鈥檚 other principal larger-scaled compositions include the three remaining Scherzi, the four Ballades, the F minor Fantasy, the Second and Third Sonatas, the Cello Sonata (his only mature chamber work) and, of course, the aforementioned Pr茅ludes.
One cannot talk about Chopin鈥檚 style without acknowledging its deep-rooted nationalism, as borne out in the Polonaises and Mazurkas. Polonaises mostly were lightweight entertainment before Chopin pushed the form into emotionally charged, dynamically volatile keyboard epics (in scope more than size). The swaggering immediacy of the famous A major Op. 40, No. 1 and 鈥淗eroic鈥� A-flat Op. 53 stirs up Polish pride in the same way that Americans respond to Sousa鈥檚 Stars and Stripes Forever. However, the F-sharp minor Op. 44 Polonaise digs deeper and, in the right hands, sends shock waves when the sudden, fortissimo upward scales kick in, right after a central episode in the form of a Mazurka. The fifty-seven Mazurkas proper date from Chopin at age ten through his final illness. Their basic rhythms and phrase scansions embrace traditional Polish dance forms such as the Mazur, the Oberek and the Kujawiak while giving free rein to some of Chopin鈥檚 quirkiest notions. They constantly veer between simple, complex, charming and audacious, usually within the same opus number.
Take the four Op. 41 Mazurkas, for example. A dark sensibility colors the C-sharp minor鈥檚 main theme, only to quickly give way to raucous abandon, huge sonorities and a sudden dying away. The E minor Mazurka consists of a plaintive melody intoned over a restrained, chorale-like accompaniment. Nothing seems to happen in the central episode, but it gradually builds up to a startling key change twelve bars before the end. The A-flat Mazurka is wistful, lyrical and uncomplicated鈥攎ore like a Waltz. By contrast, the B major鈥檚 veiled, opening figure hardly hints at the rising melodic unisons and whirling, giddy passagework lurking around the corner; this is one of Chopin鈥檚 briefest, wildest and least known Mazurkas.
For whatever reason, few commentators discuss one particular Chopin fingerprint, and that is his frequent use of repeated notes, either for rhythmic emphasis or to generate melodic intensity. Think of the quick, kicking repeated notes in the Second Sonata Scherzo, the Tarantella Op. 43, the E-flat Op. 18 Waltz鈥檚 second theme, the A-flat Op. 34, No. 1 Waltz鈥檚 introduction, the E minor Waltz鈥檚 main theme or the C-sharp minor Op. 64, No. 2 Waltz鈥檚 plaintive chromatic ascending scales. There鈥檚 the Op. 9, No. 1 Nocturne鈥檚 first theme, the more famous Op. 9, No. 2鈥檚 second theme, the Fourth Ballade鈥檚 first theme and the folk song quoted in the B minor Scherzo鈥檚 trio. What about when Chopin repeats the same note with shifting textures or harmonic movement underneath, such as in the Op. 25 Etudes Nos. 1, 4 and 11? This is not to say that Chopin鈥檚 repeated notes are important, but merely to acknowledge their existence.
Few composers for the piano rival Chopin鈥檚 staying power and unswerving popularity. Indeed, not one hour goes by without Chopin being programmed, listened to, edited for CD release or practiced on a piano. That was as true a hundred years ago as it is today. Chopin would be flattered by the attention, no doubt. But what would he say about his longstanding status as a pop icon? After all, Bugs Bunny has played him, Muzak musicians arrange him, and Liberace unwittingly maimed him. Would he have sued Tin Pan Alley over 鈥淚鈥檓 Always Chasing Rainbows鈥� (the Fantasie-Impromptu), 鈥淭ill the End of Time鈥� (the A-flat Polonaise Op. 53) or Barry Manilow鈥檚 鈥淐ould It Be Magic鈥� (the C minor Prelude)? Not to mention the classic playground ditty 鈥淧ray for the dead, and the dead will pray for you鈥� (鈥淔uneral March鈥� from the Second Piano Sonata) and Barbra Streisand鈥檚 riotous patter song set to the 鈥淢inute Waltz.鈥�
More likely than not, Chopin would be baffled by the myriad schools of Chopin-playing (i.e., French, German, Slavic, etc.) that evolved in his wake, all laying equal claim to 鈥渁uthenticity.鈥� What might Chopin say about the extraordinary, unprecedented proliferation of Asian pianists on today鈥檚 scene, all who consider Chopin their own? For his F minor Concerto, would Chopin prefer Lang Lang (born 1982) or Martha Argerich (born 1941) to Arthur Rubinstein (1887鈥�1982) or Alfred Cortot (1877鈥�1962)? Would Chopin cringe at or be fascinated by Rachmaninoff鈥檚 dynamic alterations in his recording of the Second Sonata?
Stravinsky famously reviewed three recordings of The Rite of Spring back to back; what about Chopin critiquing four wildly divergent interpretations of the Pr茅ludes from Maurizio Pollini, Claudio Arrau, Friedrich Gulda and Ivan Moravec? And on the touchy subject of tempo rubato, who would Chopin deem closest to the mark in his Mazurkas: Ignace Jan Paderewski, Ignaz Friedman, Moriz Rosenthal or Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli? Which of Rubinstein鈥檚 three remarkably different Mazurka cycles would Chopin download to his iPod? And then there鈥檚 the question of instrument: an 1849 Pleyel feels and sounds utterly different from a pre-war American Steinway or a brand-new, hand-built Kawai.
Still, the music itself was built to last, and what Rubinstein said many years ago is likely to remain true for generations to come: 鈥淲hen the first notes of Chopin sound through the concert hall, there is a happy sigh of recognition.鈥�
This feature originally appeared on , an award-winning music magazine.
