UNIVERSITY OF CINCINNATI

Date:______

I, ______, hereby submit this work as part of the requirements for the degree of: in:

It is entitled:

This work and its defense approved by:

Chair: ______

Red, White, and Blue Notes: The Symbiotic Music of Nikolai Kapustin

Submitted to the Graduate Division of the University of Cincinnati In partial fulfillment of the requirements For the degree

Doctor of Musical Arts in Piano Performance

By Jonathan Edward Mann

B.M., Indiana University, 1999 M.M., Indiana University, 2001

May 19, 2007

1301 E. 5th St. #13 Moscow, ID 83843

Advisor: Professor James Tocco

Abstract

Nikolai Kapustin’s solo piano music synthesizes classical form and jazz texture. He uses the language of jazz improvisation, but does not improvise. Instead, a jazz vernacular is presented in a contrapuntally dense framework of thematic organization, development, and restatement. Kapustin’s output is enormous, consisting of over 120 opus numbers for nearly all instrumental combinations in the codified Baroque, Classical, and Romantic forms including concertos, sonatas,, and etudes. No matter how vivid the incorporation of jazz may be, whether it be blues licks, symphonic stride, or propelling bebop syncopations, the level of workmanship and compositional technique are qualities that inescapably link Kapustin’s music to the classical world.

This document posits whether Kapustin’s music is classical or jazz, investigates Kapustin’s musical background and education, and establishes his place in the history of jazz in Russia. It concludes with analyses of three solo piano works, Sonatina, Op. 100, Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53, and Fugue No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82.

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Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I would like to thank Nikolai Kapustin for graciously agreeing to share details about his life and music amidst a busy recording schedule.

Heartfelt thanks to Professor James Tocco for serving as advisor and musical mentor since 2002. Additional thanks to Professor Robert Zierolf, Ph.D. and Professor Michael Chertock for their patience and critical feedback.

Special thanks go to Cyril Moshkow, journalist and editor of www.jazz.ru for shedding invaluable light on the history of jazz in the Soviet Union, and Malcom Henbury-Ballan for help compiling the works list.

This project could not have been possible without the generous support of Brendan Kinsella, Dr. Robert Auler, Gregory Martin, Todd-Davis Germaine, Dr. Steven Spooner, Dr. Leonard Garrison, and all of those who believe in the notion that “we has a several meaning.”

Finally, thanks to my family and colleagues and students at the University of Idaho Lionel Hampton School of Music for their patience and understanding.

This document is dedicated to the memory of musician, musicologist, and grandfather extraordinaire, Dr. Alfred Mann (1917-2006).

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Table of Contents

I. Abstract

II. Acknowledgments

III. Chapter One: Classical or Jazz? The Symbiotic Music of Nikolai Kapustin……….1

IV. Chapter Two: Nikolai Kapustin’s Musical Development and Place in the History of Jazz in the Soviet Union…………………………………………………………23

V. Chapter Three: Reconciling Classical Form and Jazz Harmony in Sonatina, Op. 100………………………………………………………………………………..37

VI. Chapter Four: Harmonic Analysis of Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53………….66

VII. Chapter Five: Formal Analysis of Fugue No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82……………...87

VIII. Bibliography………………………………………………………...………..…117

IX. Appendix………………………………………………………………….……….121

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Chapter One

Classical or Jazz? The Symbiotic Music of Nikolai Kapustin

“to be famous isn’t important. I don’t want to become famous.”1 Nikolai Girshevich Kapustin (b.1937)

In 2006, a video appeared on the Internet in which composer-pianist Nikolai

Kapustin plays his Impromptu, Op. 83, for solo piano.2 Motionless, emotionless, and clad in an impeccably tailored grey suit, Kapustin executes a rigidly structured work one might expect from a classically trained composer-pianist. The music is intricate, virtuosic, and rooted in the tradition of late Romantic European piano playing. This comes as no surprise: Kapustin obtained a diploma in piano performance from the

Moscow Conservatory, studying under Alexander Goldenweiser, a classmate of Sergei

Rachmaninoff and Alexander Scriabin. What does come as a surprise, however, is that

Kapustin’s musical language does not evoke the sounds of the great classical masters.

Incredibly, Kapustin’s sound-world is jazz. And it is not merely a superficial appropriation of jazz, as in Dmitri Shostakovich’s two suites for jazz orchestra, or the coopting of blue notes, as in Maurice Ravel’s two piano concerti and Igor Stravinsky’s

Ebony Concerto. Unlike other classical composers who have used jazz elements in their compositions, Kapustin has years of experience performing in high-profile jazz combos and big bands, including those led by Russians Juri Saulsky and Oleg Lundström.

1 Martin Anderson, “Nikolai Kapustin, Russian Composer of Classical Jazz,” Fanfare 24, no. 1 (September/October 2000): 98. 2 Nikolai Kapustin, “Impromptu, Op. 66 no. 2,” Nikolaikapustin.net, Real Media video file, http://gmlile.brinkster.net/kapustin/kapustinvideo.html (accessed October 19, 2006).

1 In his compositions, Kapustin uses the language of jazz improvisation, but does

not improvise. Instead, a jazz vernacular is presented in a contrapuntally dense

framework of thematic organization, development, and restatement. The overall effect

can be summarized in a hypothetical scenario: Art Tatum and Herbie Hancock, having

studied counterpoint with Simon Sechter and composition with Sergei Prokofiev, adopted

a son, named him Nikolai, and raised him in a musically bilingual household.3 What

results is a symbiotic compositional technique in which two genres are fused but kept

genetically distinct: classical structure hosts jazz texture. The music is never eclectic, nor

does it rely on allusion; it consistently sounds like jazz but can never escape its overall

atmosphere of diligent pre-meditation. Over the course of the four-minute Impromptu

video, the listener is forced to reconcile many dichotomies, most importantly, whether

this music is classical or jazz.

In 2000, Hyperion Records released a recording of solo piano music of Kapustin,

played by Stephen Osborne.4 Interest in the recording sparked two interviews for Fanfare and International Piano Quarterly magazines, and since then, with the help of concert pianist Marc-André Hamelin, who, in 2001 and 2005, also recorded Kapustin’s piano music, the music has officially entered the international spotlight.5 Kapustin’s greatest fear has now been realized: he is famous.

Helping to seal Kapustin’s fame, publishers in Russia and Japan are now issuing his scores, which, up until the early 2000s, were practically impossible to find without

3 Simon Sechter (1788-1867), an Austrian teacher, theorist, organist, and professor of composition at the Vienna Conservatorium, taught counterpoint to Franz Schubert, Anton Bruckner, and Eduard Marxsen, who later taught Johannes Brahms. 4 Kapustin, Nikolai Kapustin Piano Music, Steven Osborne, Hyperion, CDA67159, 2000. 5 Kaleidoscope, Marc-André Hamelin, Hyperion, CDA67275, 2001; Kapustin, Nikolai Kapustin Piano Music, Marc-André Hamelin, Hyperion, CDA67433, 2004.

2 resorting to clandestine trading of blurry manuscripts.6 Kapustin’s music has even found

its way to the piano competition circuit, which speaks to the confidence musicians have

in his work.7 More and more performers, pianophiles, and other music lovers are clamoring to experience his ingeniously riveting music.

As Kapustin’s music enters the international musical lexicon, public and critical reaction has struggled to categorize it. Confusion abounds as terms such as “crossover,”

“fusion,” and Third Stream are tossed around. One aficionado, after listening to the

Osborne disc, was unable to reconcile Kapustin’s sound.

I wonder how the recording label, Hyperion, decided to put this in the ‘classical’ category. Probably they did so because Kapustin himself called these pieces ‘Sonata’ or ‘Prelude.’ But, truth to tell, I’m hard pressed to find very much in the way of easily identifiable classical music procedures here.8

Easily identifiable, no, but if this skeptic had the good fortune to read from the printed score he would come to the conclusion that the procedures found in Kapustin’s sonatas and those found in the sonatas of Ludwig van Beethoven, for example, are quite similar.

Leslie De’Ath, in his Musicweb International article “Nikolai Kapustin, A

Performers Perspective” writes that Kapustin’s style is “crossover, in the best sense of the term, and belongs to the ‘third stream’ trend of the later twentieth century.”9 Third

Stream pioneer Gunther Schuller might take umbrage with this statement. While

Kapustin’s music may sound like jazz, it never incorporates improvisation, crucial to some Third Stream music. Regarding his own compositions, Kapustin explains:

6 The Russian edition is A-Ram (Moscow) and the Japanese edition is Zen-on Music Co., Ltd. (Tokyo). 7 In 1999, Vasily Primakov, a prize winner in the Cleveland International Piano Competition, played two movements of Kapustin’s Sonata No. 2, Op. 54. 8 J. Scott Morrison, “It Doesn’t Matter What You Call It,” Amazon.com, http://www.amazon.com/Kapustin-Piano-Music-Nikolai/dp/B00004TARX (accessed February 2, 2007). 9 Leslie De’Ath, “Nikolai Kapustin, A Performer’s Perspective,” MusicWeb International, http://www.musicweb-international.com/classrev/2002/Jun02/Kapustin.htm (accessed December 13, 2006).

3 I have very few jazz compositions that are really jazz . . . There is no need to improvise with my music, although it is jazz . . . you can make improvisation only by creation; you cannot make an improvisation of a sonata.10

Kapustin adds, “I’m not interested in improvisation–and what is a jazz musician without improvisation? But I’m not interested, because it’s not perfect.”11

Adding to the bewilderment regarding Kapustin’s classification is the double meaning of the term “fusion.” A University of Florida Performing Arts press release

detailing the Ahn Trio’s performance of Kapustin’s Divertissement for Violin, Cello and

Piano, Op. 126 (2005) states, “The fusion of Kapustin’s composition and the Ahns’

performance creates a fresh and vibrant sound that is different from traditional chamber

music.”12 In jazz history, “fusion,” an adjective, refers to the movement begun in the late

1960s and 1970s by the likes of Gary Burton, Miles Davis, and Chick Corea, in which

jazz fused with rock. This is to be kept separate from the general use of the word as a

noun, as when Kapustin states, “The interesting thing for me was always this fusion

between classical and jazz, classical forms and a jazzy idiom.”13 Is the University of

Florida press release referring to Kapustin’s fusion composition, or the fusion of the

music’s ingenuity with the performers’ personalities?

Before Kapustin’s music can be defined as either classical or jazz, parameters

must be drawn. As of the twenty-first century, the terms “classical” and “jazz” have

become so diluted as to lose a great deal of defining specificity. This watering down is

due to the fact that both genres have reached and passed their entropic climaxes. Once an

10 Anderson, 96. 11 Ibid. 12 “Ahn Trio Performs World Premiere of New Work at University Auditorium on Sunday, September 17, 2006,” University of Florida Performing Arts, http://www.performingarts.ufl.edu/pdfs/AhnTrioRelease.pdf (accessed September 9, 2006). 13 Harriet Smith, “Bridging the Divide,” Piano Quarterly 4, no. 13 (Autumn 2000): 55.

4 art form has explored the ordered as well as chaotic extremes of its own spectrum, a unified definition of what that art form is becomes increasing elusive. The universal descriptor “classical” can, for example, refer to the attributes of the ancient Greeks and

Romans, something that can be used as a standard or model of excellence (regardless of place in history), and, in its broadest musical meaning, “serious” music as opposed to

“popular” music. Therefore, “classical” music includes the hyperpolyphony of

Renaissance master Josquin des Prez (ca.1450-1521), the über-Romantic gesamtkunstwerk of Richard Wagner (1813-1883), and the aleatory of the avant-garde

John Cage (1912-1992). Likewise, “jazz” includes the Harlem stride of pianist Willie

“The Lion” Smith (1897-1973), the gospel-tinged hard bop of Charles Mingus (1922-

1979), as well as the mystic cacophony of Sun Ra (1914-1993), not to mention three distinct historical incarnations of Miles Davis (1926-1991).

In Western musicology, “Classical” is also capitalized in order to refer to the musical trends during the years ca.1750-1820. Yet even within this period there is a considerable range of styles, from the florid Rococo, or early Classical period, to the perfect reconciliation of Galant and counterpoint by Franz Joseph Haydn, to the vast, pre-Romantic expanses of Ludwig van Beethoven’s cosmos. Therefore, when a reviewer of Kapustin’s music exclaims, “At last! A worthwhile jazz-classical fusion!” what exactly is he stating?14

As light emits characteristics of being both particle and wave, Kapustin’s music displays characteristics of both classical and jazz. However, unlike the mysterious properties of photons, Kapustin’s mystery is easily solvable: it is classical music, due to the fact that classical music generally

14 Eric Levi, “CD Review,” Classic CD 15, no. 6 (2000): 67.

5 1) Does not incorporate improvisation15 2) Focuses on classical formal disciplines 3) Is defined by the notated version, rather than a particular performance 4) Is scored for and performed by a wide array of instrumental and vocal combinations 5) Is concerned with “straight” rhythms 6) Focuses on large-scale tonal plans

This is in distinct contrast to jazz, which generally

1) Relies heavily on improvisation 2) Is formally limited; form exists to stimulate musical imagination 3) Is defined by a particular interpretation and/or particular performance of a work 4) Is scored for and performed by big band or small combo 5) Is concerned with “swing” and syncopation16 6) Focuses on shorter harmonic sequences

While Kapustin’s music adheres strictly to classical criteria one through four, criteria five and six find themselves straddling both worlds.

A great deal of Kapustin’s textures are saturated with syncopation, but not

necessarily with the phenomenon of swing. Swing is a rhythmic intuition that translates a

“straight” notation, such as example 1a, into something comparable to example 1b.

Ex. 1a: Paraphrased theme from Johann Sebastian Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major, BWV

772.17

15 Notably excepting cadenzas. 16 Notably excepting free and avant-garde jazz. 17 Johann Sebastian Bach, Keyboard Music (New York: Dover, 1970), 271.

6

Ex. 1b: Example 1a realized in swing notation.

Even though a classic jazz tune such as Charlie Parker’s Ornithology is traditionally notated in straight eighth-notes (example 2a), in performance it would be swung, closer in execution to example 2b.

Ex. 2a: Charlie Parker, Ornithology, mm. 1-5.18

Ex. 2b: Charlie Parker, Ornithology, mm. 1-5, realized in “swung” notation.

18 Chuck Sher and Michael Zisman, eds., The Real Easy Book, Vol. 2: Tunes for Intermediate Improvisers (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music, 2003), 139.

7 To address this jazz performance practice, Kapustin either rhythmically notates swing, as

in his Prelude No. 17 in A-Flat Major, Op. 53 (example 3a), or indicates in the score that

a particular straight line is to be swung, as in his Prelude no. 7 in A Major, Op. 53

(example 3b).

Ex. 3a: Kapustin, Prelude No. 17 in A-Flat Major, Op. 53, mm. 17-20.19

Ex. 3b: Kapustin, Prelude No. 7 in A Major, Op. 53, mm. 17-20.20

However, unless Kapustin notates or specifies swing, his music, although intensely syncopated, often takes on a relentlessly motoric drive, closer in aesthetic to etudes, toccatas, and other technical works of the Romantic and early modern eras. Kapustin’s

Prelude No. 1 in C Major, Op. 53 (example 4a) has a great deal of syncopation, like jazz,

but is executed so rapidly and so consistently that there is no room to swing, making it

19 Kapustin, Twenty-Four Preludes in Jazz Style, Op. 53, manuscript. 20 Ibid.

8 akin to classical works such as Frederic Chopin’s Prelude No. 16 in B-Flat Minor, Op. 28

(example 4b), rather than blazing solos of Art Tatum or Bud Powell.

Ex. 4a: Kapustin, Prelude No. 1 in C Major, Op. 53, mm. 14-18.21

Ex. 4b: Chopin, Prelude No. 16 in B-Flat Minor, Op. 28, mm. 7-10.22

21 Ibid. 22 Frédéric Chopin, Complete Preludes and Etudes (New York: Dover, 1980), 26.

9

Regarding the sixth category, harmony, some of Kapustin’s works, like the

Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53, create a mosaic of standard jazz harmonic progressions

such as the ii–V–I, while other works focus on larger, classical tonal schemes, as in the

Sonatina, Op. 100, which states principal material in the tonic, secondary material in the dominant, develops this material, recapitulates (tongue-in-cheek to the subdominant), and states the return of the secondary theme and closing material in the tonic. Some works synthesize elements of both classical and jazz harmonic procedures by composing a latticework of shorter jazz harmonic constructs ensconced in larger tonal classical trajectories. Although the harmonies are unmistakably jazz, Kapustin’s music nevertheless espouses classical convention since harmonies are integrated into a larger formal presentation rather than simply acting as an elementary base from which the improviser takes flight.

In a BBC Music Magazine review, Graham Lock states that “Kapustin rejects much of the classical music of the twentieth century; he also ignores much of the jazz of the last fifty years.”23 The first portion of this statement is true. Kapustin does not forge

beyond the works of Prokofiev or Scriabin.24 However, Kapustin’s works embrace the advances jazz has made as recently as the last twenty-five years. In fact, his music is a

23 Graham Lock, “CD Reviews,” BBC Music Magazine 69, no. 1 (July 2000): 34. 24 Nikolai Kapustin, e-mail message to author, December 28, 2006. Kapustin claims that free jazz pioneers Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor were not influential, nor did he listen to them “with pleasure.”

10 vivid jazz history lesson, embracing late nineteenth-century ragtime and New Orleanean derivatives, stride, blues, swing, bebop, hard bop, modal jazz, funk, and fusion.

Stride plays a significant role in Kapustin’s textures. Thomas “Fats” Waller

(1904-1943) was a proponent of this style as seen in example 5a and imitated in

Kapustin’s Etude No. 7, Op. 40 (example 5b).

Ex. 5a: Thomas “Fats” Waller, Valentine Stomp, mm. 21-24.25

25 Thomas “Fats” Waller, Thomas “Fats” Waller: The Great Solos, 1929-1941 (Milwaukee: Hal Leonard, 1998), 103.

11

Ex. 5b: Kapustin, Etude No. 7, Op. 40, mm. 83-84.26

Kapustin recalls his first memory of jazz: “At first my friends and I could hear jazz on the radio . . . at that time what we liked most was boogie-woogie.”27 Boogie- woogie is a style of blues popular in the 1930s and ‘40s. Its key component is a driving left-hand ostinato, heard in Waller’s jumping octaves (example 6a).

26 Kapustin, Eight Jazz Etudes, Op. 40 (Moscow: Soviet Composer, 1987), 59-60. 27 Kapustin, e-mail message to author.

12

Ex. 6a: Waller, Alligator Crawl, mm. 73-74.28

Kapustin’s Etude No. 5, Op. 40 uses the same Boogie bass texture (example 6b).

Ex. 6b: Kapustin, Etude No. 5, Op. 40, mm. 61-62.29

The most influential jazz figure on Kapustin is Art Tatum (1909-1956). Kapustin has gone on record saying that Oscar Peterson (b. 1925) is “number one” for him.30

However, Peterson is essentially a byproduct of Tatum’s genius. Peterson himself states:

If you speak of pianists, the most complete pianist that we have known and possibly will know, from what I’ve heard to date, is Art Tatum. I’m not classing myself in that calibre of talent, but Art Tatum was accused of the same thing that I’m being accused of today–that he played so much in so few bars. Yet in the

28 Waller, 28. 29 Kapustin, Eight Jazz Etudes, 42. 30 Smith, 55.

13 same reviews or opinions where they say ‘Oh, he plays too much–everything is a run,’ they turn around and say ‘But he’s a genius.’ So there’s no way of satisfying them.31

It is logical that Peterson, via Tatum, has such an appeal to Kapustin. Both of

Kapustin’s progenitors promote many of the qualities classical music promotes: a

Herculean but versatile technique, propensity towards dazzling, virtuoso passagework, and a contrapuntally involved left hand. In the following excerpt from Tatum’s improvisation on Jerome Kern’s All the Things You Are, we hear those attributes, emulated in Kapustin’s Variations, Op. 41 (examples 7b and 7c).

Ex. 7a: Art Tatum, improvisation on Jerome Kern’s All the Things You Are, mm. 128-135.32

31 Les Tomkins, “Oscar Peterson: Points,” Jazz Professional, http://www.jazzprofessional.com/interviews/Oscar%20Peterson_Points.htm (accessed February 4, 2007). 32 Art Tatum, Art Tatum Solo Book (Milwaukee: Hal Leonard 1998), 20.

14

Ex. 7b: Kapustin, Variations, Op. 41, mm. 80-84.33

33 Kapustin, Variations, Op. 41 (Moscow: Muzyka, 1985), 14.

15

Ex. 7c: Kapustin, Variations, mm. 93-98.34

In Big Band Sounds, Op. 46, Kapustin utilizes a jazz style of voicing known as

“four-way close,” in which the four notes of each chord are harmonized as close together

34 Ibid., 15.

16 as possible. In piano writing, the right hand takes the four-note chord while the left hand

typically doubles the melody. Arrangers use this style when writing for a group of four

saxophones, trumpets, trombones, and so forth.

Ex. 8a: Oscar Peterson, improvisation on Ray Brown’s Gravy Waltz, mm. 136-137.35

Ex. 8b: Kapustin, Big Band Sounds, Op. 46, mm. 21-22.36

Blues vocabulary permeates Kapustin’s oeuvre. Rarely does a single work go by without exploring characteristic blues “licks.”37 Blues performers often decorate a melody with a drone note, perhaps a fifth or sixth above, such as the Es in measures one of both the following Oscar Peterson and Kapustin examples (examples 9a and 9b):

35 Oscar Peterson, The Very Best of Oscar Peterson (Milwaukee: Hal Leonard, 2005), 41. 36 Kapustin, Big Band Sounds, Op. 46 (Moscow: Muzyka, 1987), 37. 37 “Licks” is jazz vernacular for “motive.”

17

Ex. 9a: Peterson, Gravy Waltz, mm. 69-71.38

Ex. 9b: Kapustin, Toccatina, Op. 36, mm. 21-23.39

In sum, no matter how vivid the incorporation of jazz may be, whether it be blues and rock licks, symphonic stride, or propelling Bebop syncopations, the level of workmanship and compositional technique are qualities that inescapably link Kapustin’s music to the classical world. The designs of sonata-allegro form and binary Baroque dances are preferred to the twelve-bar blues and thirty-two-bar song form.40 His

incorporation of jazz is an inspired homage to a tradition, not a continuation of it. The

continuation is of classical constructs and formal procedures that flourished ca.1700-

1950.

38 Peterson, 36. 39 Kapustin, Toccatina, Op. 36 (Moscow: Muzyka, 1983), 21. 40 One notable exception is the Etude No. 5, Op. 40, which is based upon the twelve-bar blues progression.

18 As of 2007, Kapustin has completed 130 opus numbers scored for everything

from solo instruments, chamber sonatas and ensembles, to big band and symphony

orchestra. Virtually all are composed in the codified Baroque, Classical, and Romantic

genres such as Bagatelles, Concertos, Etudes, Fantasias, Fugues, Impromptus, Inventions,

Nocturnes, Preludes, Sonatas, Suites, Toccatas, and Variations. The Twenty-Four

Preludes and Fugues, Op. 82 (1997), show a wealth of motivic invention and a mastery of

craft that invites comparison to Bach and Shostakovich’s. The fourteen piano sonatas

(1984-2004) incorporate elements of Classical sonata-allegro form, replete with double-

themed expositions and motivically dense developments, while others take on qualities of

Scriabin’s later, one-movement sonatas. The Twenty-Four Preludes In Jazz Style, Op. 53

(1988) follow the examples of Chopin and Scriabin by creating shorter works in a single

mood, exploring the inherent attributes of all major and minor keys. The Suite In The

Olden Style, Op. 28 (1977) makes use of subtle ornamentation and employs the stock

binary Baroque dance forms Allemande, Bourrée, Gavotte, Gigue, and Sarabande. The

Eight Jazz Etudes, Op. 40 continue the tradition of the Romantic concert etude set forth

by Chopin and Liszt.

Like earlier forays into synthesizing classical and popular music, Kapustin’s

music has been met with some skepticism. “Crossing over” (a term referring to an artist

from one genre, such as jazz, performing or composing in another genre, such as

classical) carries with it a history of negative reaction, which maintains that combining

characteristics of two musical genres dilutes and compromises the originals.41 In the

41 Robynn J. Stilwell, “Crossover,” The New Grove Dictionary of Music Online, http://www.grovemusic.com (accessed January 2, 2007). Stilwell writes that crossing over is an “artificial concept, dependent on the sometimes arbitrary and/or non-musical definitions of the charts, which measure

19 January/February 1999 issue of American Record Guide, a recording by crossover

vocalist Helmut Lotti was given the following review:

How low can a classical music label sink? . . . Helmut Lotti is an utterly second- rate crooner–an imitator of the American style of crooning. He can’t actually sing. He is so disgusting you will have to struggle not to lose your dinner. This is titled ‘Helmut Lotti Goes Classic,’ but nothing at all is classical music. Oh, yes, he sings the Brahms Lullaby, but it’s his words–and they are so sickeningly sentimental that you will probably coat the disc with honey and send it back to RCA. He even sings his own version (solo–who needs the chorus?) of the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust–also disgusting. His ‘Amazing Grace’ is enough to make you give up Christianity.42

In the August 16, 1992 edition of The New York Times, pianist-composer Keith

Jarrett unleashed a scathing polemic against, among other things, classically trained opera

singers “trying to sing black spirituals.”43 This stance, however, does not stop Jarrett, primarily known for his jazz playing, from playing the works of Bach, Mozart, or

Shostakovich. Of Jarrett’s Mozart piano concerti, a reviewer wrote:

Keith Jarrett evidently has carte blanche to do anything he wants at Manfred Eicher’s ECM label–and thus encouraged, he takes ample risks in a field that is swamped with able and formidable competitors . . . Jarrett cannot do very much with this music beyond playing the notes accurately and cleanly . . . much of it is precious and monochromatic.44

A reviewer of Kapustin’s recording, despite praising the music, cannot help but cynically

begin with “Attempts to write music that effects a genuine fusion between jazz and

classical idioms almost invariably sound contrived and unconvincing.”45

the popularity of recordings, ranking them by style. The pop chart is the overall singles chart: normally a hit ‘crosses over’ from a speciality chart – jazz, classical, dance/disco, country, rhythm and blues – to pop.” 42 Donald Vroon, “Helmut Lotti Goes Classic,” American Record Guide 62, no. 1 (January/February 1999): 244. 43 Keith Jarrett, “Categories Aplenty, But Where’s The Music?” The New York Times, August 16, 1992, quoted in Robert L. Doerschuk, 88: The Giants of Jazz Piano (San Francisco: Backbeat Books, 2001), 263. 44 Richard Ginell, “Keith Jarrett: Mozart Piano Concertos No.21, 23, 27,” All Music Guide, http://www.starpulse.com/Music/Jarrett,_Keith/Discography/album/P6804/R513365/ (accessed October 10, 2006). 45 Levi, 29.

20 Furthermore, crossing over carries with it a motivation to make money, as more

than one musical market can be tapped at one time. When reviewing pop singer Michael

Bolton’s album of opera arias, Terry Teachout wrote:

Would that Bolton sang as well as he sells, for My Secret Passion is a grotesque example of what can happen when a famous amateur suffering from delusions of adequacy falls into the hands of cynical record executives looking to boost the bottom line by any means necessary. The results sound just like–well, like Michael Bolton singing Italian opera arias in the shower. . . . No doubt starry- eared optimists will claim that My Secret Passion is reaching people who might otherwise never hear opera, but trying to save the ailing classical-record business by pushing this kind of trifle is like trying to revive a failing economy by printing counterfeit money.46

Graham Lock of BBC Music Magazine reviewed Steven Osborne’s recording of

Kapustin’s first two piano sonatas stating that the music, despite being a “well-crafted synthesis,”

remains a pastiche that imitates and blends without ever transcending its sources. . . . The result is a music that, for all its surface vivacity, sounds contrived and rather quaint.47

This criticism warrants the question, can Kapustin emulate not only the classical masters

but the likes of Art Tatum, Charlie Parker, and John Coltrane, and transcend them as

well? It is a fallacious argument, against which there exists no logical defense. Symbiotic

artwork need not transcend its derivatives simply to validate its existence.

Third Stream (a term coined by Schuller to describe a category of music in which

elements of classical and jazz music are synthesized) faced similar criticism forty years

ago, prompting Schuller to clear up any misinformation and prejudice surrounding the

new music. Schuller lamented that critics refused to judge the music autonomistically, as

its own creative work of art, rather than moralistically, as an unwarranted, lascivious

46 Terry Teachout, “With An Aria in His Heart,” Time, http://205.188.238.181/time/magazine/article/0,9171,988131,00.html (accessed December 4, 2006). 47 Lock, 25.

21 “frontal attack on their own traditions.”48 Fortunately, Kapustin’s music has not been met with nearly as much vitriol, not only because the concept of a jazz-classical synthesis is not novel, but because Kapustin does not create a music that, like Schuller’s, is “halfway between jazz and classical music.”49 It sounds like jazz, but does not evoke jazz

performance practice, and, therefore, does not threaten the tradition that sets jazz apart from classical, namely improvisation. In fact, for that very reason, Kapustin’s music avoided intense scrutiny and censorship from the anti-jazz Stalinist and post-Stalinist regimes because, despite the sound, the music is clearly constructed in the traditions of the masters that the government endorsed.

The following chapters will explore Nikolai Kapustin’s solo piano music, establishing Kapustin’s musical background, the history of jazz in his native Soviet

Union, and analyses of Sonatina, Op. 100, Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53 and Fugue

No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82.

48 Gunther Schuller, Musings: The Musical Worlds of Gunther Schuller (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 115. 49 Ibid., 114.

22

Chapter Two

Nikolai Kapustin’s Musical Development and Place in the History of Jazz in the Soviet Union

Maybe the government looked at jazz with some suspicion, but it seems to me that an attitude to jazz of some professors of conservatories is much worse.50

Although an email interview does not lend itself well to interpreting sarcasm, I had no doubt that Kapustin’s comment was meant satirically, considering the fact that during his formative years one could be sent to Siberian camps for promoting jazz, or worse, killed. On the other hand, Kapustin’s comment points to a two-pronged attack on his love for jazz, not only from the Communist Party, but from his native classical world.

If jazz were not assailed by legitimate musicians’ elitism, it was dismissed by their complete ignorance. Kapustin admitted that his professor at the Moscow Conservatory,

Alexander Goldenweiser, was not aware that by day young Nikolai was playing

Beethoven but by night was riffing to Duke Ellington. “In fact,” Kapustin adds, “I am not sure he knew what jazz was.”51

Nikolai Kapustin was born in 1937, in Gorlovka, Ukraine. At that time, Ukraine

was a member of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the arch political rival of the

birthplace of jazz, the United States. Only fifteen years before Kapustin’s birth, the first

jazz concert in the USSR took place. It was to begin an endless tug of war between

50 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 51 Ibid.

23 exasperated parent and enfant terrible, a relationship that would witness the apparatchik

attack jazz in two ways: total annihilation, or, when that failed, cooptation. In the end,

both strategies proved unsuccessful and stuck in the craw of a government whose legacy

since the 1917 October Revolution was to dictate cultural attitudes “from above.” Much

to the dismay of the Soviet authorities, jazz embraced social liberation and sexual

freedom.

Russia was introduced to jazz not by an American, or even a European, but a

native. Russian dancer and Dadaist poet Valentin Parnakh (1891-1951), after being

captivated by jazz in Paris in 1921, returned home a year later, bringing with him the

necessary instruments to produce the first jazz concert in Soviet history. In order to

validate such bourgeois decadence, Parnakh went to extremes to develop a convincing

explanation of why jazz should be tolerated by the Communist regime, including

publishing an essay in which the word “jazz” appears for the first time in Soviet print.52

He argued that American dance music symbolized the vigor and optimism of post-civil war Russia. Parnakh’s First Eccentric Orchestra of the Russian Federated Socialist

Republic Jazz Band gave its historic concert October 1, 1922 in Moscow.53 The music consisted of popular American tunes with no improvisation.54

After this landmark event, jazz gradually spread from the elite theaters to the

Soviet urban public. The new music was so well received that Stalinist hardliners used its popularity to decry the excess they associated with Vladimir Lenin’s New Economic

52 Frederick Starr, Red and Hot: The Fate of Jazz in the Soviet Union, 1917-1980 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 44. 53 Starr, 46. 54 It would be another decade before improvisation would enter Soviet jazz performance practice.

24 Policy.55 Under the NEP, private enterprise funding allowed entrepreneurs to open dance studios out of their own homes. Autonomous jazz combos formed and were able to compete in a commercial market. The press was beside itself, condemning this new barbaric music and lamenting over the sexually suggestive dances including the

Charleston, Boston, and Fox trot.

In 1928, Stalin’s Cultural Revolution put an immediate halt to the steady rise of jazz. It would be nearly another thirty years before a Soviet listener would hear a live,

American jazz band. The Association of Proletarian Musicians was created in order to create an alternative popular music that was staunchly Communist in ideology. By 1930, however, the APM had produced nothing of significance, and what they did present was unpopular. The APM was dismantled in 1932, allowing jazz to once again serve as popular entertainment. The relatively friendly years 1932-1936 became known as the

Soviet Jazz Age.

Jazz would have had a much more difficult time in Soviet history if it were not for the fact that some of most rabid jazz fans were high-ranking Soviet officials. American recordings, crucial to the development of jazz in the 1930s, were secretly traded by

Soviet bureaucrats after their travels abroad. An unlikely source of patronage came from jazz aficionado Lazar Kaganovich, First Secretary of the Moscow Party Committee and close associate of Stalin. Although Kaganovich’s idea of jazz was the tepid arrangements of Paul Whiteman, it was nevertheless beneficial for jazz to be positively acknowledged from such an important authority.

55 Lenin’s New Economic Policy restored private ownership to certain parts of the economy, such as farming. Peasants could hire help as well as keep a portion of their surplus after taxes. Even though the NEP helped the Russian economy recover after World War I, the Bolshevik Revolution, and the Russian Civil War, Josef Stalin, who assumed power after Lenin’s death in 1924, abolished the economic policy in 1929 for its capitalist leanings.

25 After 1936, however, jazz in the USSR was besieged and nearly exterminated.

The death of author Maxim Gorky, one of the founding fathers of socialist realism,

empowered a severe cultural crackdown. That same year Pravda, the Communist Party’s

newspaper, accused Dmitri Shostakovich of “borrowing from jazz bands their nervous,

convulsive, epileptic music in order to impart ‘passion’ to his heroine” in his 1934 opera

Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District.56 Jazz bands were broken up and band leaders

were ordered to rid their set lists of jazz in favor of honorable Soviet songs. In 1937, the

year of Kapustin’s birth, Stalin’s purges were responsible for more than a million deaths,

and many more were to die in camps. The luckiest jazz musicians were exiled to the

remote provinces.

In a desire to create a uniquely Soviet popular culture, as well as an artistic

alternative to jazz, state musicians were hired to compose “mass songs.”57 These hymns to socialism drew from folk material, marches and, ironically, jazz. The mass songs proved immensely unpopular, and the only songs that gained some momentum were those with jazz elements. Just when it seemed that jazz was on the verge of extinction, the

Soviet government established the State Jazz Orchestra of the USSR. If this music were to exist, it would at least meet the artistic criteria of what the Communist Party thought of as “proletarian jazz.” The repertoire consisted of syncopated Rimsky-Korsakov or

Tchaikovsky, as well as diluted Duke Ellington. Despite the music’s whitewashed sound, the government’s nationalization of jazz at least kept the music alive.

Soviet life changed dramatically when Hitler invaded Soviet territory in 1941.

With World War II upon them, the Soviet government quickly mobilized army units,

56 “Sumber vmeste muzyki,” Pravda, January 28, 1936, quoted in Starr, 162. 57 Shostakovich was one of these composers.

26 many of which included jazz musicians and their ensembles. There were a vast number of

state-sanctioned military jazz orchestras. That year, at age three, Kapustin and his family

were evacuated from Ukraine to Kyrgyzstan, several thousand miles east. His father

served in the reserve units.58

By now, jazz had been heard in the Soviet empire for nearly twenty years and had entered the collective consciousness of the public, especially the younger generation, many of whom were soldiers. In order to boost morale, jazz was permitted to entertain and invigorate the troops. The alliance between American and Soviet forces was an enormous boost to the health and future of jazz in the USSR. Orchestrations were traded between American and Russian soldiers, allowing Soviet jazzmen to adopt the latest big band scoring techniques.

Unfortunately for jazz, by the end of 1946, as the wartime alliance with the

United States degenerated into the Cold War, the Soviet government went about removing all traces of American influence. Soviet officials were alarmed as jazz clubs sprang up all over Europe. The government changed the State Jazz Orchestra’s name to the State Variety Orchestra, since use of the word “jazz” was strictly forbidden. Even specific musical elements were banned. Blue notes, chords based on lowered fifths, and brass vibrato were prohibited. Bass players ceased to play pizzicato and percussionists were told to keep their rhythms from getting too vigorous. In 1949-50 many saxophonists were fired from their jazz bands and ordered to surrender their instruments to government officials.59 The regime dictated that dancers bring back the polka and the waltz. Soviet

culture was barraged by socialist realism.

58 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 59 Sergei Prokofiev’s Lieutenant Kije Suite, which calls for saxophone, was removed from the repertoire.

27 In 1949, at age 12, Kapustin began piano lessons. He recalls, “My very first teacher was a violinist who tried to teach me piano.” He then studied for three years with a “real teacher,” L. Frantsuzova. “She was a pupil of a Russian composer Maikapar in the

St. Petersburg Conservatory (seemingly before 1917), and her diploma was signed by

Alexander Glazunov.”60 Samuil Maikapar (1867-1938) taught at the St. Petersburg

Conservatory from 1910 to 1930 and is best known for his pedagogical publications.

Concerning the early 1950s, Kapustin recalls that jazz was forbidden:

in the early ‘50s it was completely prohibited, and there were articles in our magazines that said it was typical capitalistic culture, so we have to throw it away and forget about it. Rachmaninov was prohibited; even writers were prohibited, like Dostoyevsky, Yesenin, Akhmatova–all prohibited. Even Shostakovich–he was not [prohibited] but there were articles saying that it was terrible music. So not only jazz: it was typical for every kind of culture.61

In 1950, with no formal compositional training, Kapustin wrote his first piano sonata. Not having heard jazz, the sonata was in an “academic style,” and he did not consider the work “serious.”62 After three years with Frantsuzova, Kapustin moved to Moscow in

1952 and began to study with Avrelian Rubakh, a pupil of pianist-composer Felix

Blumenfeld (1863-1931), who also taught Vladimir Horowitz and Simon Barere.

1953 was a defining year in Kapustin’s life: Josef Stalin died and he heard jazz for the first time. “At first my friends and I could hear jazz only on the radio. I do not remember which jazz artist I heard first. It could be Glenn Miller or Louis Armstrong.”63

Kapustin’s revelation set into motion his career path as a symbiotic composer: “I thought

I was going to be a virtuoso classical player, but at 20, 21, 22 I understood that jazz was very important. And I didn’t like performing; composition was more interesting.” He

60 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 61 Anderson, 96. 62 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 63 Ibid.

28 continues, “I understood that I had to combine the two musics–I had that idea from my

youth.”64

During the post-Stalin thaw, jazz in the Soviet Union was allowed to rejuvenate.

As they did in the 1920s, Soviet musicians sought out foreign influences and

meticulously studied their every sound. And they had plenty of catching up to do; Stalin’s

rule had isolated Soviet jazzmen from the phenomenon that took America by storm in the

1940s, bebop.

In 1954, Kapustin celebrated his sixteenth birthday at Rubakh’s house: “for the

whole evening I played jazz, still rather clumsily.” Rubakh “regarded jazz with interest,” and helped foster Kapustin’s fascination with the new music.65 Kapustin ignited his jazz

education by transcribing solos from the radio: “It was difficult to get hold of recordings

in the early 1950s, but some Soviet people still had an opportunity to travel abroad and

brought back recordings. But we mainly tape-recorded ‘Music USA’ on the radio. At the

same time I began transcribing jazz improvisations by leading jazz pianists that I heard

on the radio.”66 The Soviet authorities were naturally troubled by the immense popularity of Music USA.

Several times each evening propagandists from the Voice of America send us examples of American music, obviously in the full conviction that such musical additions to verbal propaganda on the idea of ‘Americanism’ will attract a large number of listeners.67

By 1956, Kapustin was ready to further his musical education:

For four years I studied so hard that I feel I was at the same level [as Rubakh], so these four years were critical for me. It was he who took me to [Alexander]

64 Anderson, 94. 65 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 66 Ibid. 67 G. Shneerson, “Vrednyi surrogate iskusstva,” Sovietskaia Musyka, no.7 (1948): 87, quoted in Starr, 210.

29 Goldenweiser. I played him the Liszt Don Giovanni Fantasy; he liked how I played and asked Rubakh, 'Where did you find such a pianist?'68

Kapustin began his studies at the Moscow Conservatory under Alexander

Goldenweiser (1875-1961), a pupil of Paul Pabst and Alexander Siloti (student of Franz

Liszt and cousin of Sergei Rachmaninov). Together with Heinrich Neuhaus (nephew to

Blumenfeld and teacher of Sviatoslav Richter, Emil Gilels, and Radu Lupu),

Goldenweiser was considered one of the most prestigious piano pedagogues in the USSR.

“I went to him when I was 18. He was a very interesting person–he remembered

Rachmaninov and Medtner, so it was very interesting to speak with him. But as a teacher

he gave nothing, because he was very old–he was already 81.”69 This makes Kapustin’s

artistry all the more impressive: aside from having no formal compositional training, his

piano professor amounted to no more than artistic mentor.

During the late 1950s journalists in the West noticed the rise of a disillusioned

youth culture known as “stiliagi,” or style hunters. They were Russian youths who

dressed in zoot-suits, fraternized with foreigners, despised work, and loved jazz. The

government would occasionally take them into custody, shave their heads, and

temporarily relocate them to the countryside. Uneasy Stalinists linked the stiliagi with the

loosening of control following Nikita Khruschev’s “Secret Speech” at the Twentieth

Party Congress in 1956, in which the new Soviet leader denounced Stalin’s Great Terror and xenophobic tendencies towards the West. Kapustin did his best to fit in, but ultimately was not stiliaga material:

[The stiliagi] mostly influenced my style of clothing. Once I had the nerve to publicly perform [Mussorgsky’s] ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ dressed in a ‘stialiagi’ outfit and boasting an Elvis Presley style hairdo. The performance took

68 Anderson, 94. 69 Anderson, 94.

30 place in the Hall of the Soviet Deputies and was part of a concert celebrating the anniversary of the October Socialist Revolution. The next day I was reprimanded by the director of the Music College. But I was too serious to be a real ‘stiliaga.’70

In 1957, the VI World Youth Festival took place in Moscow, attracting over

30,000 young adults from around the world to perform and compete. This event made

jazz a national issue, the result of a government that wanted to break free from Stalin’s

xenophobic legacy. The Russian government turned to bandleader Juri Saulsky to bring

together Moscow’s best jazz musicians, including Kapustin. Soviet songs were the core

of their repertoire, but the band could persuasively swing to the latest Stan Kenton and

Duke Ellington. It was at this festival that Kapustin’s Concertino for Piano and

Orchestra, Op.1 was publicly performed for the first time, with the composer as soloist.

Kapustin recalls the festival and its aftermath:

I was 19 years old at the time. Saulsky did not teach me anything; he taught the orchestra to play together and in the right style. Five musicians from the big band, including myself, decided to create a jazz quintet (tenor sax, trombone, bass, drums, and piano). I was the only professional musician among this group, so naturally I was chosen the leader. The quintet performed for a couple of months at the restaurant ‘National,’ but I played with them only during the first month, since it was hard to combine work and study. Once somebody from the American Embassy recorded us, and this recording was played on ‘Voice of America.’ It was nice to hear our names announced by W[illis] Conover himself.71

Despite Saulsky’s band taking first prize, they were still accused of misrepresenting Soviet culture and promoting the stiliagi’s shameful morals. More importantly, a lasting effect took place: at the festival, Russian musicians were exposed to American and European big bands playing the latest hits in the latest styles. Frederick

Starr states, “In public performances and in jam sessions held at the central house of

70 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 71 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. Willis Conover was the announcer of “Music USA” and “Voice of America.”

31 Workers in the Arts, those bands destroyed the last vestiges of parochialism among

young Soviet jazzers.”72 Improvisation was a main characteristic of post-Stalin Soviet jazz.

Kapustin’s continuing involvement in jazz made it more difficult to balance his classical conservatory regiment.

In the very end of 1950s a jazz festival took place in Tallinn and jazz clubs (cafes) started to open in Moscow, but I did not have time to go there, as I was preparing a monstrously complicated program for my diploma at the Conservatory.73

Tallinn, the capital of then Soviet-controlled Estonia, was always ahead of Russia in jazz development. Like other peripheral territories, Estonia was not subjected to as much focused cultural repression and the difference in languages offered Estonians a protective umbrella under which to foster new ideas.

It was during the late 1950s that Kapustin’s symbiotic style of composition was taking root. When asked at what point this style matured, Kapustin stated,

It is very difficult to give a definite answer to your question. Perhaps piano concerto no. 2, Op. 14? I tend to think that it is the piano sonata written in 1958, which does not have an opus number. But it is not ‘mature’ in any way, except that the style is close to the one I write in now.74

Kapustin points to the reason for his combining classical and jazz elements in his composition,

Because I had never heard it. And once I had started I understood that it was real. When I took it to my friends they were very excited, and so I understood that I was on the right way. I never tried to be a real jazz pianist, but I had to do it because of the composing.75

72 Starr, 250. 73 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 74 Ibid. 75 Anderson, 94.

32 In 1961, at age 23, Kapustin graduated with a diploma in piano performance from

the Moscow Conservatory. Unlike many of his classmates, Kapustin did not venture out in search of a classical concert pianist’s life. For the next decade, he toured with Oleg

Lundström’s Big Band, currently the oldest surviving jazz orchestra in Russia. He also

composed for the ensemble, which explains why his compositions during the 1960s were

dominated by orchestral/big band genre.76

Pure orchestral compositions are rare guests in my list of works, but there are many concertos for different instruments and orchestra. As to the orchestration techniques these are either classical or jazz-big-band technique. I studied this in practice . . . when I worked as a pianist at different orchestras. I had a possibility to write for them and then to hear the result. And last but not least: during my already long life I have written an overwhelming amount of arrangements and it was [a] useful thing.77

Lundström focused on American arrangements as well as original works orchestrated in the styles of Glenn Miller, Count Basie, and Duke Ellington. It was during his years with the Lundström band that Kapustin solidified his jazz education.

In the 1960s Kapustin met mentor and pianist Alexander Tsfasman, the leading jazzman of the Stalinist era and in 1928 the first Russian to make jazz recordings. “We

(pianists) liked Tsfasman for his elegance and easy-going style and his perfect finger technique,” Kapustin explains, “In the early 1970s a concert in his memory was organized by the Union of Composers, and I performed his piano concerto with the Radio

Orchestra.”78 After studying for six years under Blumenfeld at the Moscow

Conservatory, Tsfasman, like Kapustin, fell under the spell of jazz. He vigorously

maintained that, in order to progress, the Soviet Union must borrow whatever it deemed

76 For a works list, see Appendix, p. 121. 77 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 78 Ibid.

33 necessary from other cultures, including music. His wholesale embrace of pure,

American jazz always kept him standing on the precipice of Soviet oppression.

Tsfasman was the first professional Soviet jazzman, the first popular soloist in

Soviet jazz, and the first Soviet to garner praise from an American jazz musician. He was

the first to offer jam sessions at the end of concerts, allowing musicians to hone their

craft without as much glare from the watchful Communist eye. Against Stalin’s iron fist

Tsfasman had the nerve to change his name to “Bob,” marry an American, and hire an

African-American dancer in his shows. His stylish clothes and cool demeanor refuted the

notion that jazz was coarse and unsophisticated.

Tsfasman was fluent in the styles of stride masters James P. Johnson and Waller,

and after World War II adopted the sparser textures of Bud Powell and bravura runs of

Art Tatum. In 1937, as Stalin’s purges gripped the USSR, many musicians were snatched

from Tsfasman’s orchestra and sent to play in the State Jazz Orchestra. Later, as the Cold

War began, he was stripped of his orchestra entirely.

In 1963 Nikita Khruschev, who had once presided over a relatively moderate

tolerance of jazz, launched an all-out offensive, declaring “I don’t like jazz, I used to

think it was static when I heard it on the radio”79 Finally, after confronted by modern art and contemporary jazz, he threw down the gauntlet: “Judging by these experiments, I am entitled to think that you are pederasts, and for that you can get ten years. . . . Gentlemen, we are declaring war on you.”80 Khruschev was under severe pressure, as Mao Zedong’s government began attacking the Soviet Union for their soft position on the West, especially the United States, from which Khruschev backed down during the Cuban

79 Priscilla Johnson and Leopold Labedz, eds., Khruschev and the Arts (Cambridge: MIT, 1965), quoted in Starr, 274. 80 Ibid.

34 missile crisis. Khruschev maintained that the West was using hidden sympathizers to

thwart socialism in the arts. Bourgeois depravity was associated with all modern and

avant-garde music, art, and architecture. Jazz clubs were shut down and major touring

bands reverted to all-Soviet repertoires. Jazz was once again saved, however, as

Kruschev was suddenly ousted in 1964 and the honeymoon period of Leonid Brezhnev’s

rule began.

The pendulum had swung yet again in jazz’s favor, and it flourished during the

mid-1960s, reaching its highest level of development and success. Beginning in 1965,

Russians were allowed to participate in festivals in Warsaw and Prague. Recordings of

the Moscow Jazz Festival were made available and were eagerly traded in other cities and

provinces. In 1966, Melodiya, the Soviet recording firm, made recordings of

performances by current jazz bands and solo artists available for the first time. This surge

in jazz pride and productivity saw its apotheosis in Tallinn during May of 1967. A

festival of this size and quality had never been seen in the USSR. Ukranian saxophonist

Boris Ludmer commented, “The Tallinn festival liberated us from serfdom,” adding, “We

played one hundred percent differently after Tallinn.”81 Many stars of the Soviet jazz scene were there, including Kapustin, who took part in this festival as part of

Lundström’s big band.

While Brezhnev was not offended by jazz, stubborn Stalinists wanted to seek revenge. The jamming of radio signals, which had stopped in 1963, started again in 1968.

The same year, the Red Army invaded rebellious Czechoslovakia to restore order. The jazz establishment was once again on the defensive, and this time proved to be the straw that broke many a camel’s back.

81 Boris Ludmer, interview by Frederick Starr, 1979, quoted in Starr, 286.

35 Throughout the 1970s, musicians believed that jazz, and the arts in general, would

never completely escape the half-century pattern of Soviet censorship. For many the

answer was to emigrate to the United States, particularly New York City. Kapustin had

different plans. His career would not continue to hinge upon making it as an independent

jazzman, so, after finishing his decade-long tour with the Lundström band in 1972, he

moved outside of Moscow and focused solely on composition: “Yes, I can improvise, but

I no longer like it.”82

Kapustin, unlike many of his colleagues in the jazz world, enjoyed the benefits that came with being a “legitimate” musician. When jazz found itself prohibited, he could always find work in the classical fields performing, teaching, or composing. And because he never sought to live the jazz lifestyle, complete acceptance into the jazz culture was not a concern of his; he was in it purely for the training, to strengthen his compositional skills. Kapustin enjoyed a personal freedom that few Soviets experienced, because his compositions demonstrated classical formalities and therefore never came under suspicion from the government: “I was entirely free; no problems. My music wasn’t avant-garde.”83 Kapustin’s unique position as classical master and improvising jazzman allowed him to fully participate in the history of jazz in the Soviet Union, but not succumb to its fickle ebbs and flows.

82 Kapustin, e-mail message to author. 83 Anderson, 96.

36

Chapter 3

Reconciling Classical Form and Jazz Harmony in the Sonatina, Op. 100

Analyzing Kapustin’s music is not unlike Albert Einstein’s Unified Field Theory

conundrum. In physics, gravity is the force that explains the relationship between large

bodies in the universe, while electromagnetism explains the relationship between

individual particles such as atoms. Einstein was never able to reconcile the two forces,

and they have yet to be harmonized into a Grand Unification Theory.84 In Kapustin’s

Sonatina, sonata-allegro form is the universal gravitational force, binding and shaping large sections, but the blues holds together individual chords. Theoretically, there is no

unified way in which to analyze the work, so a synthesis of classical and jazz approaches

must be applied.

While the larger tonal trajectory of the Sonatina follows the tonic-dominant

polarity of Classical sonata-allegro form, harmony functions in the context of the blues,

which throws into relief the Classical relationship between the diatonic chords of the

scale. In a Classical sonatina, such as those by Muzio Clementi (1752-1832) and

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791), the tonic and subdominant, for example,

function as triads while seventh chords are relegated to primary and secondary dominant

functions. While blues syntax may be understood universally in terms of Classical tonic-

84 Mendel Sachs, Quantum Mechanics From General Relativity: An Approximation For a Theory of Inertia, (Boston: Dordrecht, 1986).

37 dominant polarity, the tonic and subdominant, in addition to the dominant, function as

dominant seventh chords and do not necessarily act as traditional secondary dominants.

Example 10a shows a standard twelve-bar blues progression, from which

countless other jazz musicians have drawn compositional and improvisational

inspiration.85

Ex. 10a:

A Classical composer would realize the Roman numerals as triads, except the V chord, or dominant, which would indicate a seventh chord (example 10b).

Ex. 10b:

A blues performer, however, would realize the Roman numerals as dominant seventh chords, except for the ii chord, which would be a minor seventh chord (example 10c).

85 For a detailed discussion on the blues, see Dan Greenblatt, The Blues Scales: Essential Tools for Jazz Improvisation (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music Co., 2005).

38

Ex. 10c:

This blues realization makes little sense in Classical terms (example 10d).

Ex. 10d:

A majority of the secondary dominants do not resolve to the intended chord. V7/V should

theoretically resolve to V, just as V7/IV should resolve to IV, as in measures two and

three of the following Mozart piano sonata (example 10e).

Ex. 10e: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Piano Sonata in F Major, K. 332, I, mm. 1-5.86

86 Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Klaviersonaten, Band II, (Munich: G. Henle Verlag, 1977), 178.

39 When the blues in C begins on a C7 chord, it acts as the tonic, and does not necessarily imply resolution to one specific chord. Likewise, the opening measures of Kapustin’s

Sonatina adhere to this same blues principle (example 11). In the following example, implied harmonic tones are in parentheses.

Ex. 11: Kapustin, Sonatina, Op. 100, mm. 1-8.87

The blues is an extremely flexible form. The eight-bar progression is a common variation of the twelve-bar form, still adhering to the overall tonic-subdominant-dominant structure. The opening eight measures of Kapustin’s Sonatina follow an eight-bar blues

87 Kapustin, Sonatina, Op. 100, (Moscow: A-Ram, 2004), 1.

40 formula, here set against the twelve-bar formula from Mercer Ellington’s blues tune

Things Ain’t The Way They Used to Be as performed by Oscar Peterson (example 12).88

Ex. 12:

Blues pianists, and jazz pianists in general, often rely on rootless, left-hand chord voicings as harmonic accompaniment. Measure five from Kapustin’s Sonatina functions as a C7 even though it does not contain a C (example 13a).

Ex. 13a: Kapustin, Sonatina, m. 5.

88 Oscar Peterson, Oscar Peterson Plays Duke Ellington (Milwaukee: Hal Leonard, 2005), 138.

41 This is in direct contrast to Classical music, which does not rely on referential harmony, and generally includes roots in accompanying harmonies.

Furthermore, blues and jazz harmonies make use of extended tertian harmony not found in Classical harmony. An extended chord is produced when thirds beyond the seventh are added to the triad. Therefore, a left-hand chord may not only omit the root, but add the ninth, eleventh, or thirteenth. The left-hand chord in measures six contains a

G major harmony with an added E in the left hand, implying a dominant chord, the E being the thirteenth (example 13b).

Ex. 13b: Kapustin, Sonatina, m. 6.

Kapustin’s Sonatina adheres vertically to blues principles. Linearly, however,

Kapustin follows Classical contrapuntal and chord voicing procedures. In the following excerpt, Kapustin avoided parallel octaves and fifths (example 14).

42

Ex. 14: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 9-18.

43

In accordance with Classical voicing, Kapustin avoids doubling the third of a first-inversion triad (example 15).

Ex. 15: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 13-14.

The monophonic opening of the Sonatina is a whimsical reference to both

Classical and blues performance practice (example 16a).

44

Ex. 16a: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 1-3.

It was not uncommon for Classical composers to begin a piano sonata monophonically, with both hands in unison, as in Mozart’s Sonata in D Major, K. 284 (example 16b).

Ex. 16b: Mozart, Piano Sonata in D major, K. 284, I, mm. 1-4.89

The practice continued into the early Romantic period, including Ludwig van

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 54, “Appassionata” (example 16c) and Franz

Schubert’s Sonata in C Major, D. 279 (example 16d).90

89 Mozart, Klaviersonaten, Band I, (Munich: G. Henle Verlag, 1977), 64. 90 Kapustin played the “Appassionata” on his diploma recital at the Moscow Conservatory in 1961.

45

Ex. 16c: Ludwig van Beethoven, Piano Sonata in F Minor, Op. 54 “Appassionata,” I, mm. 1-4.91

Ex. 16d: Franz Schubert, Piano Sonata in C Major, D. 279, I, mm. 1-9.92

This monophonic practice is also reminiscent of blues performance, here realized from Oscar Peterson’s rendition of Mercer Ellington’s Things Ain’t The Way They Used to Be (example 16e).

91 Ludwig van Beethoven, Klaviersonaten, Band II (Munich: G. Henle Verlag, 1980), 131. 92 Franz Schubert, Complete Sonatas for Pianoforte Solo (New York: Dover, 1970), 16.

46

Ex. 16e: Oscar Peterson, Things Ain’t The Way They Used To Be (Mercer Ellington).93

The blues employs two scales, major and minor (example 17). Compared to the seven-note Ionian scale from which they are derived (example 17b), the blues scales have six notes, do not necessarily flow stepwise, and emphasize the flattened third, fifth and seventh, or the “blue” notes.

93 Peterson, Oscar Peterson Plays Duke Ellington, 138. Transposed from the original D-flat major.

47

Ex. 17a:

Ex. 17b:

The opening of the Sonatina focuses mainly on the minor blues scale, but alludes to the major blues scale with the addition of the natural third degree, B-natural (example 17c).

48

Ex. 17c: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 1-3.

Kapustin’s subtle contrapuntal writing often juxtaposes the third of the major scale and the third of the blues scales (example 18). In measure 16, still in G major, he juxtaposes the major third of the G major scale and the minor third of the G minor blues scales. In measure 18, Kapustin does the same in D major.

Ex. 18: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 16-18.

49

In addition to harmony, syncopation is the characteristic that most identifies

Sonatina with the blues. Example 19 shows an idiomatic use of syncopation, as outlined by Charlie Parker’s tune, Yardbird Suite. The three examples below Parker’s, Bill Evans’ improvisation on Miles Davis’ Nardis, Kapustin’s Sonatina, and Kapustin’s Big Band

Sounds, Op. 46 for solo piano, show a similar emphasis.

50

Ex. 19: Staff 1: Charlie Parker, Yardbird Suite, mm. 1-494; Staff 2: Bill Evans, Nardis, mm. 21-

2495; Staff 3: Kapustin, Sonatina, Op. 100, mm. 88-91; Staff 4: Kapustin, Big Band Sounds, Op.

46, mm. 9-12.96

Like many Classical sonatinas the first two themes of the exposition contrast one another in character. Theme one (example 20a) is more robust and wider in range; theme two (example 20b) is more lyrical and contained in a higher range.

Ex. 20a: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 9-12.

94 Michael Zisman, ed., The Real Easy Book I: Tunes for Beginning Improvisers (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music Co., 2003), 81. 95 Bill Evans, Bill Evans: Piano Interpretations (Milwaukee: Hal Leonard, 2002), 53. 96 Kapustin, Big Band Sounds, Op. 46, 36.

51

Ex. 20b: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 19-22.

Especially effective in emulating Classical style are the closing periods of the exposition, which explore simple sequential patterns such as Alberti bass (example 21a).

Ex. 21a: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 29-32.

52

This writing is indebted to examples such as Mozart’s Sonata, K. 330 (example 21b).

Ex. 21b: Mozart, Sonata in C Major, K. 330, III, mm. 132-137.97

Kapustin’s closing phrase of the exposition (example 22a) recalls the closing phrase of

the exposition of Mozart’s Sonata in G Major, K. 283 in its Alberti-like left-hand

sequence pedal (example 22b).

97 Mozart, Klaviersonaten, Band II (Munich: G. Henle Verlag, 1977), 158.

53

Ex. 22a: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 41-43.

Ex. 22b: Mozart, Sonata in G Major, K. 283, I, mm. 51-53.98

The development section makes convincing use of motivic development, generously parceling out motives from the introductory theme (example 23a). In example

23b, these motives are used in stretto.

Ex. 23a: Introductory theme to Sonatina, mm. 1-2.

98 Mozart, Klaviersonaten, Band I (Munich: G. Henle Verlag, 1977), 51.

54

Ex. 23b: Kapustin, Sonatina, mm. 46-53.

Two analyses of Sonatina follow: a schematic including sonata-allegro outline,

Table 1 (p. 56), and the complete work with harmonic analysis, Table 2 (p. 58).

55

Table 1: Kapustin, Sonatina, Op. 100

Key: G major

Length: 107 measures

Approximate performance time: 3 minutes, 30 seconds to 4 minutes.

Exposition: 45 measures (mm. 1-45):

• Introduction: G major (I), measures 1-8

• Theme 1: G major (I), measures 9-18

• Theme 2: D major (V), measures 19-28

• Alberti episode: D major (V), measures 29-32

• Syncopated episode: D major (V), measures 33-40

• Closing phrase: D major (V), measures 41- 45

Development: 18 measures (mm. 46-63)

• Key areas: A minor (ii) -- G major (I) -- E minor (vi) -- C major (IV) -- E minor

(vi) -- C major (IV)

Recapitulation: 44 measures (mm. 64-107)

56

Table 1 (cont.)

• Theme 1: C major (IV), modulating to G major (I), measures 64-73

• Theme 2: G major (I), measures 74-83

• Alberti episode: G major (I), measures 84-87

• Syncopated episode: G major (I), measures 88-95

• Return of introductory material: G major (I), measures 96-103

• Closing phrase: G major (I), measures 104-10

57

Table 2: Kapustin, Sonatina, Op. 100

58 Table 2 (cont.)

59 Table 2 (cont.)

60 Table 2 (cont.)

61 Table 2 (cont.)

62 Table 2 (cont.)

63 Table 2 (cont.)

64 Table 2 (cont.)

65

Chapter 4

Harmonic Analysis of the Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53

Kapustin’s Twenty-Four Preludes, Op. 53 follow the traditions set forth by Bach,

Chopin, and Scriabin: each prelude is a shorter work exploring either one mood and/or

one technical device. Like Chopin’s, Kapustin’s are in all major and minor keys, each

major paired with its relative minor, ascending through the circle of fifths from C major.

Kapustin explains, “I wrote them so I could get them all onto a single disc. They’re very

short as a result.” He does not believe that they should necessarily be played as an entire

cycle: “I think they’re too long that way–pianists can play any part of it. It doesn’t

matter.”99 The mood explored in the Prelude No.9 in E Major is that of a jazz ballad.

Kapustin’s prelude incorporates the universal jazz harmonic progression known as the “two-five-one.” In jazz theory, this progression is written in conventional classical

Roman numeral nomenclature as “ii–V–I.” In its most general form, the ii implies a minor seventh chord, the V a dominant seventh chord, and the I a major seventh chord.

Therefore, the ii–V–I progression in C major would be translated as Dm7–G7–CM7.100 A simplified left-hand voicing follows (example 24a).

99 Smith, 55. 100 While the general tonic-dominant polarity of classical music applies to jazz, the tonic in jazz is almost universally a major seventh chord, a popular substitute being a major seventh chord with a sharp eleven, or “M7(#11).”

66 Ex. 24a:

While a jazz chart may notate Dm7, G7, or CM7, the performer is free to add the ninth, eleventh or thirteenth to any of the chords at any time. In addition, beginning with

Bebop pianists such as Bud Powell (1924-1966) and later Bill Evans (1929-1980), jazz relied on rootless left-hand chord voicings to color its melodies and improvisations.

Evans may have played a ii–V–I in C major like example 24b.101

Ex. 24b:

Or, wanting a more sparse texture, he may have played something akin to example 24c.

101 In this excerpt, “Dm9–G13–CM9” would be more accurate. However, it must be stressed that in the context of jazz improvisation, melodic material above these chords may change the overall symbol, hence the generic seventh-chord template. Jazz performers often derive ninth-, eleventh-, and thirteenth-chords ad libitum from a seventh-chord guide.

67 Ex. 24c:

The jazz performer is also free to generously alter chord tones, especially those of the fifth, ninth, eleventh and thirteenth. The ii–V–I may be realized as Dm7–G7(#5,♭9)–

CM7, as in example 24d.102

Ex. 24d:

While Kapustin uses standard ii–V–I voicings in the prelude, he generally includes the

roots in the harmonies. When a jazz ballad is performed in a jazz combo setting, the root

is often defined by the bass, allowing the pianist to explore rootless chord coloring.

Kapustin is merely compensating for the lack of a complete rhythm section, as well as

upholding the Romantic piano tradition of a general non-referential harmonic landscape.

102 In jazz, a dominant seventh chord with the sharp fifth (#5) as well as a flattened ninth (♭9) may be referred to as an “altered” chord. See Mark Levine, The Jazz Theory Book (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music Co., 1995), 70.

68 Finally, similar to the way in which the augmented sixth chord colors dominant

preparation in classical music, jazz decorates its dominant preparation through tritone

substitution, in which a chord a tritone away from the original is substituted into the

harmonic progression. If this were applied to the ii–V–I in C major, it may sound as a

A♭ 7–D♭ 7–CM7. What was originally the Dm7 chord has been substituted with a chord a

tritone away, likewise with the G7 (example 24e).

Ex. 24e:

In future examples, the ii–V–I progressions are indicated via Roman numerals as a general harmonic template, while the individual chord qualities are specified by lead sheet chord symbols. A ii–V–I progression in a different key is prefaced by the Roman numeral indicating its position in the tonic scale. If a piece were in the key of C major, a ii–V–I would be indicated simply as ii–V–I, while a ii–V–I in the key of F would be indicated as [IV: ii–V–I] since F is the fourth scale degree in C major.

69 Tritone substitution can be heard in measure 33, in which the first two chords of a

ii–V–I progression in the tonic, E major, are replaced by chords a tritone away. What

(#11) would functionally be F#m7(ii)–B7(V)–EM7(I) turns into CM7–FM7–EM7 (example

25).

Ex. 25: Kapustin, Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53, mm. 33-35.103

Many jazz tunes are simply chains of ii–V–I progressions in different keys, as in

Keith Jarrett’s Bop-Be (example 26a). After a tonic chord in the key of F major (FM7), the A section continues with four, ii–V–I progressions in the keys of D minor, B-flat major, A-flat major, and finally F major, whose tonic chord elides into the repeat.

103 Kapustin, Twenty-Four Preludes in Jazz Style, Op. 53, manuscript.

70

Ex. 26a: Keith Jarrett, Bop-Be, mm. 1-8.104

In the jazz standard Bluesette (example 26b) we hear a mosaic of ii–V–I

progressions, some of them truncated to ii–V. In measures 21 through 24, Bluesette incorporates another universal jazz progression, the turnaround, commonly I–vi–ii–V or iii–vi–ii–V. The turnaround is often found beginning or ending sections of jazz standards.

104 Keith Jarrett At the Blue Note: The Complete Recordings, Keith Jarrett, Gary Peacock, Jack DeJohnette, ECM records, Compact Disc B000024JEX, 1994. Transcribed by the author.

71 Ex. 26b: Toots Thieleman, Bluesette, mm. 1-24.105

Like Bluesette, Bop-Be, and countless other jazz tunes, Kapustin’s prelude is saturated with the ii–V–I progression (example 26c).

105 Chuck Sher, ed., The Standards Real Book (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music, Co., 2000), 69.

72 Ex. 26c: Kapustin, Prelude, mm. 1-8.

It sounds as though Kapustin began the prelude on a turnaround in C major

(I–vi–ii–I), but after the first two chords, he interrupts to the ii–V–I in the tonic key of E major. This mediant relationship permeates the prelude and is indicative of the harmonic

73 innovations of John Coltrane, whose 1959 composition Giant Steps exemplifies the

practice of stringing together ii–V–I progressions a third apart. Coltrane divided the

octave into three equal parts (example 27a).

Ex. 27a:

Giant Steps (examples 27b and 27c) is a chain of ii–V–I progressions and their

derivatives in the tonic, E-flat major (I), the major mediant, G major (III), and the sharp dominant, B major (#V).

Ex. 27b: John Coltrane, Giant Steps, mm. 1-16.106

106 Chuck Sher, ed., The New Real Book, Vol.2 (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music, Co., 1991), 121.

74

Ex. 27c: Mediant relationships in Coltrane’s Giant Steps.

Kapustin’s mosaic of ii–V–I progressions also work off mediant relationships, as seen in the first eleven measures (example 27d).

Ex. 27d: Kapustin, Prelude, mm. 1-11.

In Table 3 (p. 76), the Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53 is in the top two staves, while a harmonic reduction is in the bottom two staves.

75 Table 3: Kapustin, Prelude No. 9 in E Major, Op. 53

76 Table 3 (cont.)

77 Table 3 (cont.)

78 Table 3 (cont.)

79 Table 3 (cont.)

80 Table 3 (cont.)

81 Table 3 (cont.)

82 Table 3 (cont.)

83 Table 3 (cont.)

84

Table 3 (cont.)

85 Table 3 (cont.)

86

Chapter 5

Formal Analysis of the Fugue No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82

Nikolai Kapustin’s magnum opus is his Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues, Op.

82 (1997) for solo piano. Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975) was the first Russian composer to present this compositional cycle in 1951 with his Twenty-Four Preludes and

Fugues, Op. 87. They were followed by examples from Russian composers Rhodion

Shchedrin and Sergei Slonimsky, both born in 1932. Along with these examples, the Op.

82 preludes and fugues are remarkable not only for their craft and creativity, but because solo piano cycles of this scope are rare in the latter half of the twentieth century.

Comprising over two-hundred pages, the fugues range from two to fives voices and the preludes extend from short, attacca introductions, to substantial character pieces that could be performed out of context. The preludes and fugues demonstrate a wide range of jazz styles, with a particular emphasis given to bebop, hard bop, and modal jazz.

Kapustin organized the key structure in a radically different way from his predecessors. Tables 4a and 4b (p. 88) compare the key organization of Bach’s preludes and fugues with Kapustin’s and his contemporaries.

87

Table 4a

Composer Date composed Key scheme

J.S. Bach 1722, 1744 Ascending chromatically from C; major paired with parallel minor

Dmitri Shostakovich 1951 Ascending circle of fifths from C; major paired with relative minor

Rhodion Shchedrin 1960-77 Ascending circle of fifths from C; major paired with relative minor

Sergei Slonimsky 1994 Ascending chromatically from C; major paired with parallel minor

Nikolai Kapustin 1997 Majors descend through circle of fifths from C; minors descend through circle of fifths from G-sharp minor; majors paired with minors an augmented fifth higher

Table 4b

Composers Key scheme

Bach, Slonimsky (C major/C minor), (C-sharp major/C-sharp minor), etc.

Shostakovich, Shchedrin (C major/A minor), (G major/E minor), etc.

Kapustin (C major/G-sharp minor), (F major/C-sharp minor), etc.

Slonimsky followed Bach’s example of pairing parallel major and minors that rise chromatically. Shostakovich and Shchedrin follow the plan laid out in Frederic Chopin’s

Preludes, Op. 28 (1839), in which majors, each paired with its relative minor, ascend through the circle of fifths from C. Kapustin’s key scheme follows neither Bach’s nor

Chopin’s: majors are paired with minors, but the major keys descend through the circle of fifths starting from C major while the minor keys also descend through the circle of fifths, starting from G-sharp minor. As a result, distantly related keys are placed alongside one another.

88 The synthesis in the Fugue No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82 is that of high-Baroque fugal procedure and bebop syntax. A bebop fugue is not nearly as odd as it may sound. Both musical traditions share many similar compositional and performance practices, including

1) An emphasis on improvisation 2) An emphasis on virtuosity 3) Complex, often angular melodies, emulating style brisé 4) A propensity towards short, melodic sequencing 5) A propensity towards shorter, harmonic sequencing, especially circle of fifths 6) Fast harmonic pace, propelled by “walking” bass 7) An open embrace of dissonance

In fact, jazz has close ties to a practice of the Renaissance known as parody, a technique of composition involving the use of pre-existing material. The practice was particularly crucial to Mass composition, incorporating melodic material derived from a motet, chanson, or madrigal. This is analogous to jazz, in which the “head” of a tune, the opening melody, is composed over the chord changes of another tune, usually a standard.

Charlie Parker’s Ornithology is based on the chord changes to Morgan Lewis’ How High the Moon. Likewise, Sonny Rollins’ Oleo is based on George Gershwin’s universal contrafactum I Got Rhythm.107

During the 1940s, bebop, sometimes referred to as simply “bop,” distanced itself from its predecessor “swing,” the dominant jazz style of the 1930s. Bebop abandoned swing’s relationship with dance and placed a greater emphasis on the virtuoso musician.108 Heads and solos unleashed torrents of eighth notes in scalar and arpeggiated

107 In jazz theory, it is referred to as “contrafact.” Dozens of jazz tunes are based on the chord changes to Gershwin’s I Got Rhythm. See Levine, The Jazz Theory Book, 415. Along with I Got Rhythm, bebop compositions were often based on the blues, such as Charlie Parker’s Billie’s Bounce. 108 Swing was the last time jazz and popular music were one in the same. Because bebop did not emphasize dancing, jazz soon became music for its own sake and therefore less popular with the public. Proponents of swing include Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Benny Goodman, and Louis Armstrong.

89 patterns built upon the original theme’s chord changes, as in Charlie Parker and Dizzie

Gillespie’s Shaw ‘Nuff based on I Got Rhythm (example 28).

Ex. 28: Charlie Parker/Dizzy Gillespie, Shaw ‘Nuff, mm. 21-28.109

In bebop, tempos are faster and require a more versatile approach, especially from the rhythm section. Pianists stop obviously marking the beat and choose sparser textures rather than full chords. Bass players spin out involved walking bass lines, relieving some of the other rhythm section’s time-keeping duties. Drummers shift emphasis to ride cymbals instead of the more dominating hi-hat or bass drum. Unlike earlier forms of jazz, bebop openly embraced a richer, more dissonant harmonic vocabulary, making much more use of altered ninth, eleventh, and thirteenth chords.

Similarities between bebop and Baroque melodic sequencing can be heard when comparing Bach’s Corrente from Partita No. 3 in A Minor, BWV 827 (example 29a) and Charlie Parker’s Ornithology (example 29b). Of particular note are the rising outlines of diminished harmonies.

109 Chuck Sher, ed., The New Real Book (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music, Co., 1988), 317.

90 Ex. 29a: Bach, Corrente from Partita No. 3 in A Minor, BWV 827, mm. 42-45.110

Ex 29b: Charlie Parker, Ornithology, mm. 13-16.111

Well into the fusion movement, which began in the late 1960s, melodic concepts often mimicked Baroque practices. Fusion pioneer Chick Corea’s Got a Match? (example

30b) resembles sequencing in Bach’s Prelude No. 14 in F-Sharp Minor from The Well-

Tempered Klavier, Book I, BWV 859 (example 30a).

110 Bach, Sechs Partiten (Munich: G. Henle Verlag, 1979), 43. 111 The Real Easy Book, Vol.2, 139.

91 Ex. 30a: Bach, Prelude No.14 in F-Sharp Minor, from The Well-Tempered Klavier, Book I, BWV

859, mm. 8-10.112

Ex. 30b: Chick Corea, Got a Match?, mm. 1-8.113

Baroque keyboard composers emulated style brisé, the characteristically broken, arpeggiated style of seventeenth-century French lute music. With its distinctive angularity, a single melody may have contrapuntal implications. The same can be said for bebop melodies. In the following three examples, style brisé elements are found in

Bach’s Invention No. 1 in C Major, BWV 772 (example 31a), Oscar Peterson’s

112 Bach, Das Wohltemperierte Klavier, Teil I (Munich: G. Henle Verlag, 1978), 68. 113 The New Real Book, Vol.2, 122.

92 improvisation on Jerome Kern’s I’m Old Fashioned (example 31b), as well as the subject of Kapustin’s Fugue No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82 (example 31c).

Ex. 31a: Bach, Invention No. 1 in C Major, BWV 722, mm. 21-22.114

Ex. 31b: Peterson, I’m Old Fashioned (Jerome Kern), mm. 63-64.115

114 Bach, Keyboard Music (New York: Dover, 1970), 271. 115 Peterson, The Very Best of Oscar Peterson, 51.

93 Ex.31c: Kapustin, Fugue No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82, mm. 1-4.116

Style brisé brings with it harmonic implications as well, as heard in the subject of

Bach’s Gigue from Paritita No. 4 in D Major, BWV 828 (example 32a) as well as

Kapustin’s fugue subject (example 32b).

Ex. 32a: Bach, Gigue from Partita No. 4 in D Major, BWV 828, mm. 1-6.117

116 Kapustin, Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues, Vol.1 (Moscow: A-Ram, 2005), 6. 117 Bach, 182.

94 Ex. 32b: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 1-4.

Kapustin’s subject begins with a harmonic sequence found in many jazz standards. Unlike the ii–V–I and the turnaround (I–vi–ii–V or iii–vi–ii–V), this progression emphasizes the subdominant (I–V/IV–IV–iv).118 Along with the ii–V–I and the turnaround, this subdominant progression is found in George Gershwin’s I Got

Rhythm (example 33a).

Ex. 33a: George Gershwin, I Got Rhythm, mm. 1-8.119

118 The subdominant progression’s most common variant is the ii – V – I in the subdominant then the 7 7 7 7 flattened subtonic, or [IV: ii – V – I] – ♭VII. Therefore, in C, it would sound: [Gm – C – FM ] – B♭ . In both the original progression and this variant, the subdominant is emphasized and briefly tonicized. 119 Chuck Sher, ed., The Standards Real Book (Petaluma, CA: Sher Music Co., 2000), 191.

95

With three simple harmonic constructs, the ii–V–I, the turnaround, and the subdominant progression, it is possible to construct a thirty-bar jazz tune, the most common form of standard songs from the 1930s and ‘40s. I Got Rhythm’s format is represented by Table 5.

Table 5

Form Harmonic progression

A section Turnaround – Turnaround – Subdominant progression – [ii–V–I] (mm. 1-16) (I–vi–ii–V) (iii–vi–ii–V) (I–V/IV–IV–iv)

Turnaround – Turnaround – Subdominant progression – [ii–V–I]

(I–vi–ii–V) (iii–vi–ii–V) (I–V/IV–IV–iv)

B section Turnaround (mm. 17-24) (III–VI–II–V)

A section Turnaround – Turnaround – Subdominant progression – [ii–V–I] (mm. 25-32) (I–vi–ii–V) (iii–vi–ii–V) (I–V/IV–IV–iv)

Rather than beginning with the more harmonically stable turnaround, Kapustin

begins the subject with the subdominant progression, creating a distinct harmonic pull all

the way to the cadence in the final bar. After the subdominant progression, the subject

concludes with a referential ii–V–I, with the ii chord substituted by a second inversion tonic chord (example 33b).

Ex. 33b: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 1-4.

96

In Baroque music, the circle of fifths is a ubiquitous harmonic force. The same holds true for jazz because the chords of the pervasive ii–V progression are a fifth apart

(descending). Both in the first movement of Antonio Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in G

Minor, Op. 3 No. 2 (example 34a), and Jerome Kern’s standard All the Things You Are

(example 34b), the circle of fifths initiates a fast harmonic pace in relatively little musical space.

97 Ex. 34a: Antonio Vivaldi, Violin Concerto in G Minor, Op. 3 No. 2, I, mm. 14-16.120

Ex. 34b: Jerome Kern, All the Things You Are, mm. 1-8.121

In this interlude from Kapustin’s fugue, one observes circle of fifths movement as well

(example 34c).

120 Antonion Vivaldi, L’Estro Armonico, Op.3 (Mineola, NY: Dover, 1999), 24. 121 The New Real Book, 4.

98 Ex. 34c: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 9-13.

Kapustin’s fugue utilizes all of the classic procedures one would find in high-

Baroque practice. An exposition is announced in the right hand by a single subject

(example 35).

Ex. 35: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 1-4.

The subject is followed immediately by its real answer for the left hand and the countersubject by the right hand (example 36).

99 Ex. 36: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 5-8.

In the third measure, the fugue subject has slightly deviated from its first statement. The same is true for the countersubject, which never quite appears again in its initial form.

Kapustin used Baroque formal strictures, but, like a good jazzman, he felt free to tweak motives and create a spontaneous texture in which the spirit of the subject is maintained, but is also allowed to develop melodically and rhythmically.

The subject enters three times, first in C major, then in G major (after a brief interlude), and again in C major, concluding the exposition. The episode directly after the exposition foreshadows a second subject, derivative of the first (example 37a). This second subject is shorter and less harmonically conclusive (example 37b).

Ex. 37a: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 1-4.

100 Ex. 37b: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 34-35.

After this episode, the first subject is stated three times, in F minor, C-sharp minor, and A-flat major. Abruptly, the second subject, in stretto, is stated in E major

(example 38a). Still in stretto, it is then inverted (example 38b), followed by a third entry of the second subject, this time in B major (example 38c).

Ex. 38a: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 34-35.

101 Ex. 38b: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 39-40.

Ex. 38c: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 45-46.

What follows is a large episode, building to the return of the first subject in C major. In this return Kapustin combined the subject with its own augmentation in two separate instances (examples 39a and 39b).

102

Ex. 39a: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 63-65.

Ex. 39b: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 77-79.

Uncharacteristic of fugal procedure, Kapustin, in the final episode, engaged in extended periods of homophony. The final bars of the fugue are less concerned with counterpoint as they are with a sense of denouement. The contrapuntal texture gives way to fragmented motivic pieces slowly disintegrating, finally pausing on the dominant, G, setting up the final bars in C major (example 40).

103

Ex. 40: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 81-93.

In the coda, or “tag” as it is called in jazz, the subject is stated monophonically, unison in both hands (example 41). A tag is characteristically whimsical, and, like some codas in nineteenth-century opera performance practice, taken at a slightly faster tempo.122

122 On Nikolai Kapustin, Kapustin: Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues, Op.82, Violin Sonata etc., Nikolai Kapustin, Triton Records, OVCT-00010, 2001, Kapustin plays the tag faster. In a lesson with the author, April 4, 2000, conductor Imré Pallò, in reference to Escamillo’s “Torreador” aria from Georges Biet’s

104

Ex. 41: Kapustin, Fugue, mm. 94-97.

Table 6 is a formal and harmonic schematic of the fugue. “S1:C,” for example, would indicate the first subject in C major.

Table 6

Exposition Episode Thematic statement Thematic statement

S1:C S1:G Interlude S1:C S2:D S1:f S1:c# S1:Ab S2:E S2:e S2:B

M.1 5 9 13 18 22 26 30 34 39 45

Episode Thematic statement Episode Tag

S1:C S1:C S1:C S1:F S1:C

M. 52 63 67 77 81 84 94

Carmen, noted that playing the endings of opera arias faster is in “poor taste” because “it sounds like vaudeville.”

105 This chapter concludes with Table 7, a complete analysis of the Fugue No. 1 in C Major,

Op. 82.

Table 7: Kapustin, Fugue No. 1 in C Major, Op. 82.

106

Table 7 (cont.)

107

Table 7 (cont.)

108

Table 7 (cont.)

109

Table 7 (cont.)

110

Table 7 (cont.)

111

Table 7 (cont.)

112

Table 7 (cont.)

113

Table 7 (cont.)

114

Table 7 (cont.)

Unlike Gunther Schuller, Kapustin does not strive for a “mutual fructifying” in which classical musicians learn from jazz performers’ “timing, rhythmic accuracy, and subtlety,” and jazzmen learn from classical performers’ “dynamics, structure, and contrast.”123 Kapustin’s music is thoroughly classical and meant for the classically trained pianist. While it would behoove the performer to familiarize themselves with the jazz influences, one need not have any experience in jazz improvisation to execute the music, just as a classical ballet dancer need not have studied jazz dance in order to incorporate jazz elements into their footwork. Prominent jazz artists have yet to embrace Kapustin’s music; those classical concert pianists who have performed his works, namely Nikolai

Petrov, Stephen Osborne, and Marc-André Hamelin, have no experience improvising in jazz combos and big bands.124

123 Schuller, 117. 124 Hamelin is also a composer with over a dozen piano works, but these works mainly consist of hypervirtuosic transcriptions, and do not incorporate improvisation. Hamelin has, however, improvised on stage, as in the optional cadenza to Frederick Rzewski’s The People United Will Never Be Defeated!

115 Weary from the postmodernist cry of “anything goes,” listeners may find the

music of Nikolai Kapustin naive. There is no concern for metanarratives, temporal

disorder or polystylism. He does not seek to destroy the boundaries of “high” and “low”

art. Rather, he acknowledges these politically incorrect hierarchies and unapologetically

maintains that they can and should coexist. But it is even simpler than that: Kapustin is an

unassuming, classically trained pianist-composer fulfilling his love for jazz in the way he

feels most comfortable, via classical forms. It is music for its own sake, without precept or pretense. Kapustin has no desire to create anything new or achieve a lasting, international status. He gives one the distinct impression that it would never matter whether he makes it to the history books, even though he is well on his way. It is my sincere hope that this document is the first of many celebrating the music of Nikolai

Girshevich Kapustin.

116

Bibliography

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120

Appendix: Works List

Opus 1: Concertino for Piano and Orchestra (1957) Opus 2: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 1 (1961) Opus 3: Variation for Piano and Big Band (1962) Opus 4: Chorale and Fugue for Orchestra (1962) Opus 5: Piece for Trumpet and Orchestra (1962) Opus 6: “Rose-Marie” Fantasia for Orchestra (1963) Opus 7: Fantasia on Three Children’s Songs for Orchestra (1963) Opus 8: Toccata for Piano and Orchestra (1964) Opus 9: “The Trial” for Orchestra (1966) Opus 10: “Big Band Sounds” for Orchestra (1966) Opus 11: “Estacade” for Big Band (1966) Opus 12: “Aquarium Blues” for Big Band (1967) Opus 13: Intermezzo for Piano and Orchestra (1968) Opus 14: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 2 (1974) Opus 15: “The Forest Story” for Orchestra (1972) Opus 16: Nocturne for Piano and Orchestra (1972) Opus 17: Three Pieces for Orchestra (1972) Opus 18: Four Pieces for Instrumental Ensemble (1973) Opus 19: Etude for Piano and Orchestra (1974) Opus 20: Nocturne for Piano and Orchestra (1974) Opus 21: Minuet for Big Band (1974) Opus 22: Piece for Five Saxophones and Orchestra (1975) Opus 23: “Enigma” for Big Band (1975) Opus 24: March for Orchestra (1975) Opus 25: Concert Rhapsody for Piano and Orchestra (1976) Opus 26: “Sunrise” for Piano (1976) Opus 26a: “Sunrise” for Orchestra (1976) Opus 27: Fantasia for Jazz Quartet (1976) Opus 28: Suite in the Old Style for Piano (1977) Opus 29: Scherzo for Piano and Orchestra (1978) Opus 30: Two-movement Concerto for Orchestra (1980) Opus 31: Elegy for Orchestra (1980) Opus 32: “The Wind from the North” for Orchestra (1981) Opus 33: Piece for Two Pianos and Orchestra (1982) Opus 34: “Meridian” for Orchestra (1982) Opus 35: “Closed Curve” for Orchestra (1982) Opus 36: Toccatina for Piano (1983) Opus 37: “The Pleasant Meeting” for Orchestra (1983) Opus 38: “Presentiment” for Orchestra (1983) Opus 39: Piano Sonata No.1 “Quasi Una Fantasia” for Piano (1984) Opus 40: Eight Concert Studies for Piano (1984)

121

Appendix: Works List (cont.)

Opus 41: Variations for Piano (1984) Opus 42: “Rush Hour” for Ensemble (1985) Opus 43: “An April Day” for Ensemble (1985) Opus 44: “The Morning” for Ensemble (1985) Opus 45: “Motive Force” for Piano (1985) Opus 46: “Big Band Sounds” for Piano (1986) Opus 47: “Contemplation” for Piano (1987) Opus 48: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 3 (1985) Opus 49: Sinfonietta for Orchestra (1987) Opus 50: Concerto for Alto Saxophone and Orchestra (1987) Opus 51: Overture for Big Band (1987) Opus 52: “Intrada” for Big Band (1988) Opus 53: Twenty-Four Preludes for Piano (1988) Opus 54: Piano Sonata No. 2 (1989) Opus 55: Piano Sonata No. 3 (1990) Opus 56: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 4 (1989) Opus 57: Chamber Symphony for Chamber Orchestra (1990) Opus 58: Andante for Piano (1990) Opus 59: Ten Bagatelles for Piano (1991) Opus 60: Piano Sonata No. 4 (1991) Opus 61: Piano Sonata No. 5 (1991) Opus 62: Piano Sonata No. 6 (1991) Opus 63: Sonata for Cello and Piano No. 1 (1991) Opus 64: Piano Sonata No.7 (1991) Opus 65: Berceuse for Piano (1991) Opus 66: Three Impromptus for Piano (1991) Opus 67: Three Etudes for Piano (1992) Opus 68: Five Etudes in Different Intervals for Piano (1992) Opus 69: Sonata for Viola and Piano (1992) Opus 70: Sonata for Violin and Piano (1992) Opus 71: Capriccio for Piano (1992) Opus 72: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 5 (1993) Opus 73: Ten Inventions for Piano (1993) Opus 74: Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 6 (1993) Opus 75: Humoresque for Piano (1994) Opus 76: Concerto for Double Bass and Symphony Orchestra (1994) Opus 77: Piano Sonata No. 8 (1995) Opus 78: Piano Sonata No. 9 (1995) Opus 79: Piece for Sextet (1995) Opus 80: Theme and Variations for Piano (1996) Opus 81: Piano Sonata No. 10 (1996) Opus 82: Twenty-four Preludes and Fugues for Piano (1997)

122

Appendix: Works List (cont.)

Opus 83: Impromptu for piano (1997) Opus 84: Sonata for Cello and Piano No. 2 (1997) Opus 85: Concerto for Cello and Orchestra (1997) Opus 86: Trio for Flute, Cello and Piano (1998) Opus 87: Seven Polyphonic Pieces for Piano Left Hand (1998) Opus 88: String Quartet (1998) Opus 89: Piano Quintet (1998) Opus 90: Concerto for Eleven Instruments (1998) Opus 91: Divertissement for Two Flutes, Cello and Piano (1998) Opus 92: Suite for Piano (1999) Opus 93: Introduction and Scherzino for Cello Solo (1999) Opus 94: Ballad for Piano (1999) Opus 95: Scherzo for Piano (1999) Opus 96: Elegy for Cello and Piano (1999) Opus 97: Burlesque for Cello and Piano (1999) Opus 98: “Nearly Waltz” for Cello and Piano (1999) Opus 99: Duet for Alto Saxophone and Cello (1999) Opus 100: Sonatina for Piano (2000) Opus 101: Piano Sonata No. 11 “Twickenham” (2000) Opus 102: Piano Sonata No. 12 (2001) Opus 103: Concerto No. 2 for Cello and String Orchestra (2002) Opus 104: Concert for Two Pianos and Percussion (2002) Opus 105: Concert for Violin, Piano and String Orchestra (2002) Opus 106: Suite for Viola, Alto Saxophone, Piano and Bass (2002) Opus 107: Variations on “Sweet Georgia Brown” for Viola, Alto Saxophone, Piano and Bass (2002) Opus 108: Paraphrase on a Theme of Paul Dvoyrin for Piano (2003) Opus 109: “There is Something Behind That” for Piano (2003) Opus 110: Piano Sonata No. 13 (2003) Opus 111: “Gingerbread Man” for Piano (2003) Opus 112: “End of the Rainbow” for Piano (2003) Opus 113: “Wheel of Fortune” for Piano (2003) Opus 114: “No Stop Signs” for Piano (2003) Opus 115: Fantasia for Piano (2003) Opus 116: Rondoletto for Piano (2003) Opus 117: “Spice Island” for Piano (2003) Opus 118: Paraphrase on “Aquarela do Brasil” by Ary Barroso for Piano (2003) Opus 119: “Nothing to Lose” for Piano (2004) Opus 120: Piano Sonata No. 14 (2004) Opus 121: “Vanity of Vanities” for Piano (2004) Opus 122: Two Etude-like Trinkets for Piano (2004) Opus 123: Paraphrase on “Blue Bossa” by Kenny Dorham for Piano (2004)

123

Appendix: Works List (cont.)

Opus 124: Suite for Cello Solo (2004) Opus 125: Sonata for Flute and Piano (2004) Opus 126: Divertissement in Four Movements for Violin, Cello and Piano (2005)

124