The topic of artistic inspiration is having a heyday in today’s classical music circles. Whereas Schubert’s contemporaries were content with the general conclusion that his Lieder were inspired by notions of romance and love, modern concertgoers (and concert promoters) appear to need much more detail. Thus there is a proliferation of “green” compositions, “social justice” compositions, “pandemic” compositions, and the like. Yet as the music critic Jay Nordlinger has astutely pointed out, such descriptions leave us with a nagging question: What, exactly, is a “green” composition? What about this piece of music makes it inspired by, and reflective of, a pandemic?
As I see it, only two kinds of inspiration can be readily apparent in music: love of another person and love of country. For instance, Schubert’s Lieder are immediately apparent as being drawn from feelings of affection, and Smetana’s Má vlast (“My Fatherland”) is immediately apparent as a tribute to Czech culture, Czech landscapes, and Czech music. Many composers have done this: Dvořák (Hungarian folk dances), Bartók (Romanian folk dances), and Copland (Appalachian Spring), among others.
The American composer Michael Kurek, however, has written a symphony based on love of another country. He is a native of Tennessee, but his third symphony, English, released on the Navona label in February, is a tribute to the natural beauty and history of England. The album was recorded with the European Recording Orchestra under the baton of Robin Fountain.
Kurek’s love of England is no secret. His second symphony, Tales from the Realm of Faerie, felt almost like a melodic exploration of Tolkien’s imagination. Kurek writes unabashedly tonal music, music that is cinematic in feel, lush, vibrant, and narrative-driven. That he has been awarded some of the world’s most prestigious awards and fellowships should tell us something about the broader cultural appeal of tonal music (as opposed to serial, or twelve-tone, music, developed in the twentieth century and still in vogue among many composers today).
His distinctive style is clear from the first moments of the symphony’s opening movement, which is titled “Upon a Walk in the English Countryside.” Strings and light woodwinds seem to emerge out of the ether, rising and surging with lilting melodic lines that mimic the way one might stride through a verdant moor. Texturally, the music is reminiscent of Ralph Vaughan Williams and Edward Elgar; tonally, it feels almost like film music.
The second (“Stonehenge”) and third (“The Lady of Shalott”) movements are similar to the first. Too similar, even. Kurek makes space for the little things, usually by highlighting the woodwinds and the lighter percussion, but for the most part the music alternates between sweeping heights and miniature retreats. In the second movement, he captures a sense of ancient mystique; in the third, he brings out a running texture that could be a depiction of the stream on which the doomed Lady herself floats toward Camelot.
Overall, though, it was difficult to distinguish between the first three movements. Lovely as it may be, the music lacked a discernible direction. Perhaps this was due to the nature of the melodic material; perhaps it was due to the absence of a definable motif; perhaps it was something else. Either way, more variety and direction would have improved the work. Kurek could have done something like Copland’s third symphony, for instance, with its contrast between upbeat syncopation and meditative awe. To be sure, not all music requires a motif. And Kurek’s abilities as a composer remain formidable in any estimation. Still, the lack of a clear structure detracted from the listening experience and left me waiting, not for the next note, but for something to change.
This could be why the fourth movement seemed the most effective. In it, Kurek incorporates chimes, new sounds from the brass section, and other devices that seem to lift the veil of conformity that pervades the earlier movements. Titled “The Major Oak of Sherwood Forest,” the fourth movement establishes roots early on and builds, like the timeless arboreal giant of its namesake, to towering heights. And yet the ending felt rather out of place. After spending most of the symphony alternating mildly between E Major and E minor, B Major and B minor, C Major and C minor, the symphony concludes with an abrupt crescendo to three strikes in the key of E-flat Major, a tonality featured almost nowhere else in the fourth movement. I looked up in surprise when the symphony ended, so unexpected was this tonal switch.
Still, Kurek should be applauded for his distinctive musical vision and lovely melodic sensibility. And his proud promotion of tonal music amidst the swirling distractions of serialism, minimalism, and the various other compositional schools in vogue with the classical music academy is admirable. He seems to understand something that most other modern composers cannot grasp (or admit): that listeners want to hear music of which they can actually make sense. The third symphony may not be concert hall music in the purest sense—a better label might be cinematic music, or even textural music—but it is nonetheless enjoyable and beautiful, both of which are wonderful things to be. Kurek’s English symphony, inspired by love of one country, translates that love into a musical language that can be understood and appreciated by listeners anywhere.
