DE DE DE DERRR
DF DF DF JlFTtTtTt You see. Even written out like that, it looks somehow amazing, doesn't it? If you hear a great version of it now, it's still amazing. It's one of those pieces that can make you think that you've never heard it before. And not just the opening movement. Think of the last movement, in all its glory. It's MASSIVE. Huge and glorious, it takes no prisoners, it's immense. History, too, dealt it a helping hand when it became heavily associated with the Allied call-sign for Victory in the Second World War. The reason? The opening motif, which I think you'll agree is splendidly portrayed above, was similar to the Morse Code signal for V - three dots and a dash, or dot dot dot DASH, or, as it were, de de de derrr, see? One year on, and 1809 is proving to be a very interesting year. France and Austria are still engaged in a huge game of army wrestling. When a man called Arthur Wellesley gets involved on Britain's behalf, and defeats the French at Oporto and Talavera, he's given the title 'The Duke of Wellington' for his troubles. Oh, and his brother's made Foreign Secretary. Very cosy. Napoleon, though, has had his sights set on the Papal States and pretty soon he has them. Annexed before you can say, 'Not tonight, Josephine!' Which reminds me - the whole stress and hassle of keeping up anything like a decent Napoleonic war has taken its toll on the Emperor, stroke Consul, stroke President, stroke my inner thigh. Indeed, 1809 also sees his divorce from Josephine, so it's a more a case of… and not any other night, Josephine, either'.
In England, Constable provided the ultimate in escapism with his picture of the delightful Malvern Hill. In fact, on a more everyday level, the 2000 Guineas is established at Newmarket Races, and finishing touches are put to Bristol Harbour. On a less everyday level, ST von Sommering invents the water voltameter telegraph. Now, what the hell is that?
Whatever it is, it clearly matters not two pins to one Ludwig van Beethoven. In terms of his deafness, he is now seriously suffering. He's not totally deaf yet, but, well, if you were to try roughly to convert what he was hearing then to what you're seeing now, well then it was probably something…??- Mm. Not very nice at all, really. And, of course, it's making him more and more irritable and fond of his own company. Being Beethoven, it's a very idiosyncratic state ofself absorption. For example, he likes to play the Austrian National Lottery in the hope of winning a fortune. In fact, he was so desperate to come up with shed loads of cash that he used to study the numbers, and gen himself up on the form. Also, by all accounts, he was a little careless about manuscripts, frequently 'borrowing' them for odd jobs. It's said some of his most famous works bear the circular imprint of the times when he used them to cover his soup bowl to keep it hot, or, worse still, to cover up his chamber pot/ p His chamber music, one would suppose.
But despite all, despite the deafness, trie lack of money, the various personal hardships brought on by deafness, despite all this he had not yet reached a bad patch musically speaking, and the great works just kept on coming. 1809, the l Emperor' Concerto - the name didn't come from Beethoven, though. He was very disenchanted with Napolean by this point - definitely wouldn't be sending him a Christmas card this year. 1810. The Egmont Overture. Wow. Each one of them I would be proud to call my life's work. Today, they remain absolute giants of their respective fields. It's unlikely a concert season goes by somewhere in the world without the 'Emperor' in there, somewhere. And although most of the rest of Egmont is not performed much, these days - it was a play by Goethe, for which Beethoven supplied the incidental music - the overture itself is still a stalwart of the repertoire. And, let's not forget, a great pick-me-up drink for coping with hangovers.
1812, now. Yes, 1812 1812. THE 1812. 1812 of'De de de de de de de den dut derrrr' fame. Of course, that - De de de de de de de den dut derr, that is - is not from 1812, it's just about 1812. Obviously. Good. I'm glad I'm making myself perfectly clear.
Anyway, as I'm trying to say in my own little way, it's 1812 and Napoleon has finally got too big even for his boots and done the whole invade Russia thing. I don't know, so 'week one'! Sad time, to be honest. He then had to follow this up with the whole retreat from Moscow thing. He finally got back to Paris with a surviving army of 20,000. That's out of the 550,000 he started the campaign with! Quite. Let's see, what else? Well, the big writers of 1812 included Lord Byron and the Brothers Grimm. To be fair, Jane Austen is also one of the big writers of 1812, it's just that nobody knows she is, as she puts out all her stuff anonymously. Last year, it was Anon's Sense and Sensibility - big hit - and she's already working on Anon's Pride and Prejudice for next year. In other stuff, Lord Elgin has just brought some trifling Utile marble bits and bobs back to England, Goya has painted the Duke of Wellington and, up north, only last year, a group named after Ned Ludd had destroyed a series of industrial machines that spelt the end of their jobs. Odd times. As for Herr Beethoven, well, it's finally here. His bad time, that is, as far as music is concerned. He's about to go into a five-year down period. Maybe the deafness was finally getting to him? Maybe he just lost the muse? I don't know. He just finished the amazing Seventh Symphony and the somewhat lighter Eighth Symphony, and, well, more or less shut up shop. Apart from yet another rewrite of Fidelia, he would produce very little, and what he did wasn't masses to write home about.
So, if Beethoven is having some well-earned down time, who is around and writing what it would be worth our while covering? Well, there is, of course, the chef. The man who put honey back into symphony - OK, OK, needs work - and who added an extra pinch into the Thieving Magpie. Yes it's Gioachino 'Does this need more pepper?' Rossini. And not only is it going to be Rossini who saves the decade, it's going to be, would you believe it, our old friend opera. And not just any old opera: but only your 100 per cent genuine kosher comic opera, no less. As true as I'm holding this carrot.
1816 is the year. And what can you say about 1816 that hasn't already been said? Quite. But let me try, anyway. It's one year on from both Waterloo and the Battle of New Orleans, interesting if only because they both were not only big-hitting battles, but also big-hitting songs. Indeed, the Battle of New Orleans kept Lonnie Donegan very happy in retirement for many years. What else? Canova has sculpted his 'Three Graces', Jane 'You ain't seen me' Austen has written Mansfield Park and Emma, and Samuel Coleridge-Taylor has finally completed Kubla Khan, which he'd started back in 1797. That was back in the classical period. Huh! How primitive. At home in Britain, things are not looking great. Money is tight, some would say non-existent, and the generally gloomy economic oudook is causing a huge migration of people to Canada and the US.
Beethoven, incidentally - well, he's still scribbling a little, screwing up the manuscript paper… scribbling a little, then screwing up the manuscript paper. In fact, he's doing this over and over again. It's not going well, the poor lhtle sausage. So let's see what Rossini can do to fill the gap.
Rossini, of course, was far happier. He was, by now, already becoming known as 'the swan of Pesaro', for reasons perhaps best known to himself. OK, so he was from the Italian coastal town of Pesaro, in Italy? Fair enough, but the 'swan' bit - well, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it's because it's said that when he went swimming in the Pesaro lido, although he appeared graceful above the water, beneath the surface his chubby little legs were paddling like billy-o.© Whatever. By 1816, he was just twenty-four to Beethoven's forty-six, and had already been 'bubbling under' for a few years now. His first operas were utterly unremarkable, but nevertheless led to more commissions. Suddenly, though, things started to happen. The opera Tancredi was a huge hit - the aria 'Di tanti palpiti' was massive at the time. It got a nickname 'The Rice Aria' because Rossini was said to have written it in four minutes flat, while his rice was cooking. Then came The Italian Girl in Algiers when he was twenty-one and, in an instant, he was famous throughout all Italy. His next opera was very, very eagerly awaited. Could the young man with die ear for some of the most hummable tunes of die day do it again?