Developmental Forms

Although today’s concert music often has creative titles, composers weren’t so creative with their titles in the heyday of classical music.

In the 18th century, for example, you were much more likely to encounter a piece titled “Symphony No. 1” than, say, “Dr. Doom Gets a Root Canal.” Most classical works were simply named according to the category of music they represented.

Symphonies

The word symphony has two meanings, and for the sake of your cocktail‐ party reputation, we’d better help you get them straight. Symphony usually refers to a musical work written in a certain form. But the term can also refer to a symphony orchestra, meaning a group of musicians who perform that kind of music.

If you hear your friend say, “I went to the symphony last night,” that means that she went to hear an orchestra — specifically, an orchestra that habitually plays symphonies. (In fact, the orchestra may not have played a symphony at all that night; maybe it played a bunch of overtures or dances instead.) But if your friend goes on to say, “And they played a wonderful symphony,” she’s referring to the piece of music itself.

The parts (or movements) of a symphony are usually free standing, with one movement ending, a pause, and then the next movement beginning. But the sections, conceived as parts of a whole, somehow relate to one another. The German word for movement is Satz, which means “sentence.” The four movements of a symphony fit together like the four sentences in this paragraph.

With rare exceptions, the four movements of a symphony conform to a standardized pattern. The first movement is brisk and lively; the second is slower and more lyrical; the third is an energetic minuet (dance) or a boisterous scherzo (“joke”); and the fourth is a rollicking finale.

Actually, composers and music jocks make a big deal over the structure inside each of the four movements, which we discuss in the following sections.

First movement: brisk and lively

The first movement of a symphony usually has a structure called sonata form. Sonata form is simple, and understanding it will enhance your appreciation of almost all classical music. What follows is simplified further still, but it applies to the first movement of most classical symphonies.

A movement in sonata form has two musical themes (or melodies). The first is usually loud and forceful; the second is quiet and lyrical. These themes are often referred to as the masculine and the feminine melodies. (Yes, this stuff was invented way before political correctness.) You may also think of them as iron and silk, or yang and yin, or jalapeño and Jell‐O. Whatever. In any case, the entire movement is based on these two themes.

Second movement: slow and lyrical

Back to our symphony in progress: After the lively and energetic first movement, it’s time to relax. The second movement is usually slow and lyrical, with a lilting, songlike theme (giving the composer a chance to show off his melodic ability). No battle‐of‐the‐sexes melody thing goes on here, and the structure can be looser than in the first movement. Sit back and drink it in.

Third movement: dancy

The third movement of a symphony is dancelike — either a minuet (based on the old courtly dance) or a scherzo (meaning “joke” — a quick, often lighthearted tune). The third movement is usually written in three‐quarter ( 3⁄4) time; that is, each bar has three beats. (If you count “ONE‐two‐three, ONE‐two‐three,” you’re counting three beats to the bar.) Joseph Haydn (1732–1809), the papa of symphonic form, first made the minuet standard equipment in a symphony. Listen, for example, to the third movement of just about any Haydn symphony, from no. 31 to no. 104.

This third movement usually consists of three sections. First you hear the minuet or scherzo itself. Then comes a contrasting section (often for a smaller group of instruments) called a trio. Finally, the minuet or scherzo sec- tion comes back again.

So the entire third movement sounds like this:

MINUET — TRIO — MINUET

or

SCHERZO — TRIO — SCHERZO

The next time you listen to a symphony, try to distinguish these sections of the third movement. We bet that you can.

Finale: rollicking

Now on to the rollicking finale. The final movement is usually fast and furious, showing off the virtuosic prowess of the orchestra. This finale is usually quite light in character — that is, it doesn’t have a great deal of emotional depth. The finale’s much more concerned with having a good time. But wait — there’s more! Very often, this final movement is in rondo form. Yes, this last movement has a substructure of its own.

In a rondo, you hear one delightful theme over and over again, alternating with something contrasting. Here’s an example of a rondo, in written form:

I will not raise taxes.

I have character.

I will not raise taxes.

I will be tough on crime. I will not raise taxes.

I will make things the way they used to be, which is a heck of a lot better than they are now.

I will not raise taxes.

If you call “I will not raise taxes” theme A, and the other three themes B, C, and D, then you can describe this rondo form as follows:

A‐B‐A‐C‐A‐D‐A

• EXAMPLE

Sonata / Sonata-Allegro

Sonata may also be called sonata-allegro form. In this form, repetition and development of melodic themes within a framework of expected key changes allow the composer to create a unified long movement.

Youtube video of someone explaining sonata form in a SONG:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7PfGTtUC84

Here’s a folder of stuff about Sonata-Allegro Form:

https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B2XBMRkY9S4KTlgwaGY4MGRKV2M

The sonata form is probably one of the most common forms in classical and romantic music. This form is commonly used in the first movement of sonatas, string quartets, symphonies and even concerts. It has three main sections:

1. Exposition
2. Development
3. Recapitulation

The Exposition

The themes to be used in the sonata are presented in the exposition. It generally has two sections, the first section in the main key and the second section in the key of the dominant - or in case of minor keys - in the relative major or dominant key. Each section can have one or more themes. The themes may be similar or contrasting. The exposition can begin with an introduction.

The first and second section are connected using a transition. This transition modulates to the new key. Composers as early as Mozart and Beethoven sometimes experimented with other keys for the second section.

The exposition ends with a codetta.

The Development

In the development section, the composer develops the themes presented in the exposition.

Recapitulation

The recapitulation is a varied repetition of the exposition. The most important difference is that the second section is now in the main key. The composer can add, remove or develop sections and make variations in the texture and orchestration in the case of orchestral works.

The movement ends with a coda that sometimes becomes a second development.

The following image illustrates the sonata form:

A few different ways to visualize Sonata Form:

Sonatas and Sonatinas

A sonata is a symphony composed for a much smaller instrumental force — for one or two instruments. Composers have written hundreds of sonatas for piano alone and countless others for piano plus one other instrument (violin, flute, clarinet, trumpet, horn — you name it).

The word sonata simply means “sounded.” Such a piece gives an instrument the chance to show off its sound. But it’s usually in a strict form, especially in the first movement. The sequence of events in that opening section has become so standardized that it’s often called sonata form. Hey, you already know that one! As we said, symphonies’ first movements are generally also written in sonata form.

Now, what’s a sonatina? In your musical travels, you’re very likely to encoun- ter this term. A sonatina is nothing more than a sonata of smaller propor- tions. (It’s good to know that ‐ino or ‐ina at the end of a word means “little.” Just as concertino means “little concert,” just as Katerina means “little Katherine,” just as wrestlerina means “little wrestler,” so sonatina means “little sonata.”) A sonatina is little in many ways. It may have fewer move- ments than a sonata — only two, perhaps. And each movement is short. The first movement usually has no development section, and we get to the reca- pitulation quickly.

Sonatinas are generally easier to play than sonatas. Often, they’re composed for beginning or intermediate players, like a bicycle with training wheels. If MTV played classical music, this is the kind it would play — sonata lite.

Concertos

Concerto (“con‐CHAIR‐toe”) started life meaning “concert” in Italian. In today’s musical lingo, though, a concerto is a piece of music in which one player (the soloist), who often comes from New York and is paid astronomical fees, sits or stands at the front of the stage playing the melody while the rest of the orchestra accompanies her. The concerto soloist is the hero or hero- ine, the lead of the play, the prima donna. She doesn’t even have to look at the conductor — the conductor follows her.

In most great concertos, the orchestra doesn’t just accompany the soloist by playing quiet oompahs under the soloist’s melody. In the greatest con- certos, the orchestra has an equal part, conversing back and forth with the protagonist, “Dueling Banjos” style. The third track available online at www. dummies.com/go/classicalmusic is a movement from one of the greats: Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 22.

Sometimes (as in the great concertos of the Danish composer Carl Nielsen [1865–1931]), one other member of the orchestra even acts as antagonist, seemingly arguing back and forth with what the soloist has to say. (This argument is done musically, of course — although we feel that concert attendance would go up if the antagonist could really argue with the soloist. “What?!? You call that a melody? Get off the stage, you amateur!”)

Concertos are a lot of fun for the audience. If you haven’t heard one, you’re in for a treat. Many audience members go to a concert mainly for the concerto. They come to hear a great, famous soloist; to witness her flashy pyrotech- nics; to be swept away by her outpouring of musical passion; and to check out her outfit.

For this, soloists are paid dearly — sometimes $50,000 to $100,000 for one performance. Orchestras pay because they know that they’re going to make the money back. Sometimes concertgoers buy a season ticket just to have the chance to hear a single famous soloist.

If you’re going to an orchestra concert that includes a concerto, buy a seat a little to the left of center. The soloist almost always stands or sits just to the left of the conductor. If it’s a piano soloist, sit even farther to the left (the extreme left is okay, as well). The piano is always situated with the keyboard on the left side, and you’ll have more fun if you can see the pianist’s hands. (You’ll have no fun sitting front‐row center, however, because the piano completely blocks your view.)

Concerto structure

The average concerto lasts about 30 minutes. Concertos almost always have three movements — that is, three contrasting sections separated by pauses. For most classical composers of old, a concerto was expected to have three movements, just as most Hollywood movies are two hours long, just as most Broadway shows have exactly two acts, just as a limerick has exactly five lines, just as most rock songs are three minutes long, just as Lady Gaga’s hair color changes every six weeks.

In most cases, the three movements of a concerto fall into this scheme: FAST‐ SLOW‐FAST. This setup, which has been around for centuries in all kinds of music (and, we should also mention, movie plots), works especially well in a concerto, enabling the soloist to show off her amazing technique in the first and last movements and to bring the listener into a more intimate, soulful world in the middle.

Soloists almost always play from memory, unlike the musicians in the orches- tra, who read from sheet music, or the conductor, who’s probably using a big, bound score. This habit is a holdover from the days of the great virtuoso superstars, such as Franz Liszt (1811–1886), who were the “rock stars” of their generation. The audience expects to see a star, and stars don’t mess with sheet music.

Meanwhile, the orchestra is chugging along like a train on its track, unable to deviate from the written music. In other words, the soloist cannot slip up. But sometimes she does — with hair‐raising results. The conductor and orchestra must react with split‐second timing. If the soloist skips three pages of music — which is entirely possible, because the music at the beginning of a piece often repeats at the end — the conductor must figure out where she skipped to and somehow signal to the orchestra when to come back in.

If conductor and orchestra can react quickly, the audience may never even notice the mistake. But sometimes orchestra and soloist are out of sync for a minute or more. And in some cases, the conductor must resort to desperate measures to let the orchestra know where the soloist has gone. If you’re ever listening to a concerto and the conductor yells, “Skip to Letter F!” you know what happened.

The cadenza

Near the end of every movement of a concerto is usually a moment where everything seems to stop — except the soloist. The soloist takes off on a flight of fancy, all by herself, lasting anywhere from ten seconds to five min- utes. This is not a mistake. It’s called the cadenza: a moment devised by the composer for the soloist to show off.

Cadenza is Italian for “cadence” (not to be confused with credenza, Italian for “piece of dining room furniture”). A cadence is a simple falling progression of harmonies, one chord to another, ending with a natural resting‐place chord.

But toward the end of a concerto movement, this falling progression is inter- rupted. Before the final chord or chords of the progression can be heard, sud- denly everything stops and the soloist does her thing. (Check it out online at www.dummies.com/go/classicalmusic, Track 3, at 8:50. You’ll hear a beautiful little cadenza at this point in Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 22.) If the soloist does it well, she can actually create suspense and anticipation, just like a sneezer who goes, “Ah . . . ah . . . AH . . .” and makes you wait for the “choo!”

Then, just as the soloist finishes, the orchestra comes in with the final chords. It’s great.

In the old days, soloists made up their own cadenzas on the spot. The great composers, who were often wonderful soloists themselves, took special pride in doing this kind of improvisation. But other composers, including Beethoven, wrote down specific notes to be played in their cadenzas. These days, soloists usually play a cadenza that somebody else has composed. In any case, the cadenza is meant to sound improvised. If you get the impression that the soloist is making up the whole thing as she goes along, she’s playing it well.

Just about every cadenza ends with a trill. A trill is the quick alternation of two notes that are next to each other. Try it — it’s easy and fun!

1. Sing any note.
2. Now sing the note right above it.
3. Repeat steps 1 and 2, faster and faster.
4. This is a trill.

A trill is actually quite a bit easier to play on an instrument. In the old days, a trill was the signal from the improvising soloist that she was just about done with her cadenza. It was the sign to the orchestra and conductor to wake up, put their magazines down, and get ready to come in with the final chords.

At the end of the trill, the soloist and conductor watch each other, breathe together, and play those final chords together.

Dances and Suites

The earliest music was composed primarily for singing (for example, in church) or dancing. Very little “easy listening” took place in ancient times.

If you go to a concert and hear a minuet, you’re hearing a form that was originally meant strictly for dancing. In the old days, the only people who simply listened to minuets were people without dates.

But as concert music began to develop, composers drew upon what they knew. And so it was that certain rhythms, changes in harmonies, and musi- cal structures — originally created strictly for dances — found their way into music that people just listen to. Ironically, these days, virtually nobody in the concert hall gets up and starts dancing when a minuet begins.

Much of the classical music you hear today falls into this category — it’s composed in a form that was originally designed for dancing.

If you’re listening to a dance form, several things are likely to be true:

• ✓ The rhythm is steady. After all, who can dance to an unsteady rhythm? Even in 500 B.D. (Before Disco), people needed a good beat.
• ✓ The music is likely to be repetitive. That is, it’s not developed too much. The musical ideas that you hear come back again and again. Here, too, nothing has changed; think “That’s the Way (I Like It)” or “Let’s Get Physical” or “Hey Jude.”
• ✓ The title sounds like the name of a dance. It might be “Waltz,” for exam- ple, or “Mambo.”

A suite is a bunch of musical movements grouped together. Suite comes from a word meaning “follow,” and it refers to a sequence of things that follow, one from the next (as in a suite of rooms).

In early times (the Baroque period, for example — late 1600s to mid‐1700s), a musical suite consisted almost entirely of dances, and the movements were named according to the type of dance they represented — for example, allemande, gavotte, bourrée, minuet, rigaudon, sarabande, gigue, and courante. Much as they may sound like a roster of the French Parliament, these were, in fact, courtly dances of the European royalty.

The first track available at www.dummies.com/go/classicalmusic — Handel’s ever‐popular Water Music — is from a Baroque suite like this. If you listen to this track, you’ll see what we mean about steady rhythms and a dancelike feel.

In the last century, the word suite came to signify any grouping of movements that belonged together: “Suite from Carmen,” for example, consists of various melodies and interludes from the opera Carmen, by the French composer Georges Bizet (1838–1875). You can also find suites from The Nutcracker, West Side Story, Star Wars, and Shaft. Probably.

Serenades and Divertimentos

If anything is less gratifying to a serious classical composer than having his Great Work of Western Music listened to only for dancing, it’s having his Great Work of Western Music not listened to at all. But that’s precisely what composers who wrote serenades and divertimentos had to endure. These kinds of music were the original Muzak.

Suppose King Friedrich needed some background music for a little soirée with his closest friends. He couldn’t very well pop a CD into the old stereo. So he had a band of musicians on call to play for him. These guys worked for him full‐time, playing background music all day long. Occasionally, they’d perform a formal concert, but their presence was primarily to enhance the ambiance of the occasion. And so it was that composers were hired to write serenades and divertimentos for these background‐music bands.

As you may expect, a typical serenade or divertimento had several move- ments (usually five or more). After all, if you’re having dinner, you don’t want too much complex musical development. You don’t want deep, passionate, gut‐wrenching utterances. Not before dessert, anyway.

Serenades were written for winds, for brass and percussion, for strings, and for various combinations of these instruments. Composers chose their forces to fit the occasion. A string quartet was generally more appropriate for the dining room than, say, a bunch of trumpets and drums. On the other hand, a group of woodwind or brass instruments was more appropriate outside on a warm evening.

Most serenades and divertimentos are between 20 and 30 minutes long. Some serenades (for example, Mozart’s beautiful Haffner Serenade) are nearly an hour long, suitable for a quiet outdoor evening. Others, such as the Posthorn Serenade, are barely 15 minutes long, suitable for the occasional royal Quarter Pounder with cheese.

If you go to www.dummies.com/go/classicalmusic, one particular spot on Track 3 (at 4:16) can give you an idea of what Mozart’s serenades were like. Right in the middle of this final movement from his Piano Concerto no. 22, Mozart has added an oasis of tranquility, imitating the sound of a ser- enade for winds.

As you listen to a divertimento or serenade in concert, keep in mind the atmosphere in which it was first performed. Try to imagine the scene, sit- ting along the banks of a river, centuries before the invention of cellphones or Facebook, engaging in genteel conversation, perhaps nibbling on an hors d’oeuvre, a canapé, or someone else’s ear, with this heavenly music permeat- ing the air.