Album insights
Upon encountering this masterpiece for the first time, one discovers a novel landscape of singing—a wonderfully hybrid terrain where Italian folk ruggedness intertwines with the pinnacle of German artistry. Wolf had already established a significant reputation in the realm of lieder with his settings of poems by Mörike (1888), Goethe (1888/9), and others. By 1890, the composer had reached a point where the immense grandeur of German literature was no longer necessary to achieve his aims. What surprises us in the Italian Songbook—primarily translated by Paul Heyse from anonymous folk poetry collections like Tommaseo's, Tigris's, Dalmedico's, and others—is the fact that the composer also found delight in "Lilliput." This newfound affection is evident in "Auch kleine Dinge..."—the first song in the collection.
When scrutinized under the song microscope, Wolf's fusion of music and poetry reveals a vibrant substance teeming with frenetic activity—never perceived by the masses, invisible and inaudible to untrained eyes and ears, yet exceptionally colorful when viewed through the right lens, heard with the correct amplifier. Even in the simplest song texts, there is an abundance of diverse protons and neutrons. At the peak of his creativity, Wolf, following Einstein's method, knew how to harness the mysterious power of these poetic atoms to craft music of explosive force—music that surpasses its modest dimensions. The diligent human activity of a southern village is mirrored through an array of the tiniest and most delicate musical tools and variations, seemingly possessing a life of their own, reflecting the sophistication and inevitability of living organisms. The individuals depicted by Heyse in his collection are societal atoms, parts of a bustling and vibrant community, yet somehow anonymous in the sense that their behavior, whether in love or in anger, malice, or humor, is archetypal—repetitive and inevitable like life itself. By profoundly immersing himself in the words, the composer lends a timelessness to this blend of music and poetry, elevating the work far beyond the confines of 19th-century songs and Italian pastiches.
The narrative delves into models of life—constantly shifting yet always the same. In Wolf's hands, a celebration of these living liturgies signifies nothing less than a glorification of life itself. We hear so much beneath the surface that we do not pause to question whether these rispetti belong to contemporaries of Cosimo de Medici, Victor Emmanuel, or Mussolini. An adaptation of the Italian Songbook for the stage would be inconceivable. Wolf's intentions revolve around immersing us deeply into the music and poetry with minimal distractions. The mundane aspects of mere storytelling are overshadowed by a music that requires no illumination, internally radiant, and no stage design, as it is held together by life's diversity and unpredictability. The composer functions as the conductor, providing performers with detailed instructions to maintain control. Of the three-member ensemble, the pianist remains firmly planted and hopefully at a superior instrument than those commonly found in an Italian village. The two singers take turns in the songs, never singing in duet. Only once or twice does the composer allow them to address each other directly. While this approach might seem less promising to opera enthusiasts for an entertaining evening, listening attentively reveals that the song triumphs over the operatic form revered by true Italians. These contradictions highlight a work that is both small yet grand, intricate yet straightforward—a masterpiece destined to endure.
Wolf never heard the two parts of his Italian Songbook together, although an October 1893 letter to Dr. Strecker in Mainz proves that a complete performance was planned when only twenty songs existed. Despite this plan not materializing, the work is akin to Schubert's Winterreise, as both composers and their friends initially treated Book I of their respective cycles as finalized works worthy of performance.
The absence of a performance tradition for the Italian Songbook during Wolf's lifetime gave subsequent performers the freedom to determine the sequence of the songs. Various suggested orders were published in a Wolf handbook by Edition Peters, with Erik Werba, since deceased, also devising and publishing several orderings, some of which were adopted. Mixing and connecting the songs based on phrases like "she said to him" and "then he said to her" has brought joy to countless singers and pianists. The pleasant aspect is that while the work can appear different each time, there are risks involved. Despite attempts to present Wolf's cycle as an opera and the work being "adapted for the stage" at American music colleges, it is crucial to note that the "cycle" actually comprises two distinct works—one completed in 1891 and the other in 1896. Greater stylistic disparities and much more time separate these two books than the two books of Winterreise. The second Italian collection exudes a different mood and undoubtedly features a different accompaniment. As the work is always performed with an intermission, it seems fitting that this twenty-minute break represents the five-year gap between the two groups of songs.
When performing the work with Felicity Lott and Richard Jackson for the first time in October 1975 at the Purcell Room in London to celebrate Flora Nielsen's 75th birthday, I devised a sequence where the two parts were mercilessly intermixed. The songs were arranged under subtitles from Tommaseo's Canti Toscani—one of the sources of Heyse's translation—such as "L’amore ineguale," "Serenate," and "Preghiere e rimproveri." At that time, this seemed like a good idea, but I am now convinced that the composer knew precisely what he was doing when compiling his own sequence for publication. Wolf selected a wonderful motto song for both books and a jovial, virtuosic conclusion. Throughout, there are subtle key shifts, metric and tempo changes to provide contrasts and relaxation, except when the composer aims to indicate a connection and, therefore, lets certain songs seamlessly glide into one another.
Walter Legge ingrained in me (during lengthy rehearsals with my young colleagues in 1975 and with Schwarzkopf in 1976) that Wolf, among all composers, was a master, if not of his own sad fate, then of his songs. Wolf's associations with his publishers were problematic due to his meticulous oversight of the exact pagination of his music. When a concert program was printed, he monitored every detail, including the vignettes at the bottom of each page. His relationship with singers (whom he mostly viewed as unintelligent) was always tense, as he insisted on complete adherence to his intentions. Undoubtedly, he was a musical tyrant, a tradition that Legge joyfully continued. He would show up at my door with a cigar in one hand and a metronome in the other—both serving as instruments of torture—to work with my young team. However, I am now extremely grateful to him, as he showed me that Wolf, regarding his music, knew best at all times. No other composer had left such detailed instructions (including metronome markings) as Wolf did in this work, and I believe that adhering as closely as possible to his dynamics and tempo indications (easier said than done) yields the best results on the concert stage. Admiring the way the composer can "rule from beyond the grave" (a gesture I believe he intended regarding the songs), I find it unimaginable that the Italian Songbook, composed with immense effort and meticulous care, would have been haphazardly arranged in any order based on whims, without the careful thoughts and considerations of the exacting artist. Following the composer's sequence, which largely avoids an almost operatic echo of dialogue and clever response, we hear the kaleidoscope of village life (more than we see it), and our ears are encouraged to listen to all the riches lying beneath these serenades, laments, and dramatic confrontations. In this manner, the composer carefully planned to present his work to posterity.
However, I must confess to a divergence that, in my opinion, holds certain musical merit. The evolution of a work like this with lengthy pauses and sudden bursts of creative energy is incredibly fascinating. I staged a cycle performance in the Wigmore Hall and another on the Walton Estate in Ischia, where the songs were performed in the order they were composed. These were interspersed with readings from letters the composer wrote to friends, showcasing the various moods and influences that shaped the work's creation. Of course, this order benefits from keeping the songs from two distinct periods separate. By doing so, we deprived ourselves of the pleasure of concluding the evening with "Ich hab’ in Penna…" and instead heard the unforgettable beautiful (and fitting) "Was für ein Lied…". Presenting such an evening signifies portraying the cycle as an "evolving work." I am convinced that the correct order on a CD, without spoken inter-commentary, is that of the composer.
Graham Johnson © 1994
Translated from German by Gundhild Lenz-Mulligan