In one of the recent threads about Xenakis, I pondered what Xenakis himself might have made of some of the responses thereto; I shudder to imagine what Rakhmaninov would think about this thread, but I take leave to doubt that it would have made him smile - on the subject of which, let us now take a detour back to the great Russian Master by way of the following, which I would love to have written myself but sadly did not...
Rachmaninov, a serious child,
By nature hardly ever smiled.
He couldn't bear to play with toys
Like other little girls and boys,
But, wracked by deep, consuming gloom,
He sat alone, predicting doom.
In later life, this dismal manner
Pervaded all his works for pianner.
Said he, "I think there's nothing finer
Than making music in the minor,
But when I play a major phrase,
It puts me off my food for days."
In Summer 1892
He visited Tchaikovsky, who
Induced him, for a five-pound wager,
To write a piece in C Sharp Major:
A simple prelude, diatonic,
Avoiding canons, enharmonic
Modulations, German sixths,
And other contrapuntal tricksths.
Rachmaninov set straight to work
Upon the Prelude, like a Turk,
But writing just the first two bars
Took hars and hars and hars and hars.
"Alas," he cried, "it isn't funny,
I'm not concerned about the money;
I'd give up all the tea in China
To write this bugger in the minor!"
But still he laboured, through the summer,
With fingers growing ever number,
Abandoning all sense of keys
In murky, sharp-infested Cs.
His friend, Tchaikovsky, in the autumn,
Gave the piece a long post-mortem,
Saying, "Sergei, what the hell, you'd
Better scrap this blasted Prelude.
Write it, damn you, in the minor,
Before you give yourself angina."
Relieved, Rachmaninov concurred,
And flattened every major third,
Completing, to the world's dismay,
The horrid piece we know today.
Next time, therefore, your Auntie Maud
Proclaims Rachmaninov a fraud,
Since she herself prefers the major,
Then use this method to assuage her:
Treat her to a night in town,
And tell her, as she simmers down,
Rachmaninov's immortal soul
Is like a hidden seam of coal,
Explaining, as you wine and dine her,
To bring it out, it needs the minor!
I hope that my unauthorised reproduction of this delightful ditty here will at least go some way to restoring some kind of balanced sanity to this thread. It is © Rex Lawson 1973 and was first posted on this forum almost 2½ years ago by our esteemed member pianolist, who has been all too sadly silent here since the beginning of last year or thereabouts.
Best,
Alistair