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Paul Hindemith 1895–1963

by Ian Kemp

Hindemith was clearly a great composer. If one does not feel this in the bones, there is evidence in the history of music to indicate that a composer with so individual and developed a style must be regarded as such. Present critical opinion (in sharp contrast to that of even ten years back when Hindemith was confidently linked with Bartok, Schoenberg and Stravinsky as one of the four musical giants of the 20th century) tends to reject the idea that he was of real significance – this, I suppose, a natural reaction, resulting perhaps from the recent discovery of the significance of Schoenberg’s music and the consequent misunderstanding of Hindemith’s. But there is no reason to imagine that its strength and quality will remain undervalued. He will surely be regarded by posterity as one of the very great figures of the 20th century, and the last great bearer of the German tradition.

Hindemith’s music will withstand the ups and downs of fashion, but it is sad nevertheless that these should need to be remarked upon on the occasion of, as it were, a post-obituary. It would be agreeable to think that Hindemith did not particularly care about his reputation. Whatever impression to the contrary is given by his writings and his public bearing, his music suggests otherwise – this, for example.

Here is a composer of profound sensibility, disillusioned perhaps, but still of tremendous willpower, who did indeed want his works to move men’s souls. I am not appealing to sentiment. I am drawing attention to the humanity and accessibility of his music. So why this legend that he is ‘dull and repetitive’? Why should his importance be minimized?

These questions paint a far blacker picture than is actually the case of course: his finest works form part of the standard repertory, and why one should take up a defensive attitude at all will be incomprehensible to many. But the questions are prompted by influential opinion and need to be taken seriously.

The new areas of expression opened up by Schoenberg, Stravinsky and their successors have created an awareness of a ‘new experience’, which is nicely in tune with social currents today, and which is in marked contrast to the more traditional world of Hindemith. His style has so many correspondences with the 18th and 19th centuries that an assumption is quickly made that it consists of a vapid reworking of familiar gestures. Once the gesture is recognized, the mind is no longer receptive – ‘here come the same old thing again’: the actual notes and tensions expressed strike against a closed door. Thus what is obviously a contrasting second subject will be heard with impatience because it is a contrasting second subject; a fugue subject will elicit a deep sigh because it is a fugue subject – the attitude in neither case being the result of open-minded judgement. This sort of reaction received encouragement from the notion that the great composer must be an iconoclast, or must at any rate admit only the most tenuous connection with the music of his forebears. It is further bolstered by anxiety to come to terms with the ‘advanced’ composer, whose aims and methods have however so outstripped the capacities of his public that the listener has been obliged to listen ‘blind’ in order to get anything out of it at all. He simply allows himself to be stimulated by the sounds he hears. He listens for the kicks. It is therefore not surprising that in this context Hindemith be considered ‘dull and repetitive’.

These are a few of the considerations that obstruct an understanding of him. There are others. His works do have a superficial uniformity of content, and the numerous Konzertmusik pieces for example would no doubt be better known if their quantity had been disguised by different, evocative titles. His reputation as a pedagogue certainly works against his reputation as an inspired composer (although it is perfectly obvious that one so masterly at the construction of text-book melodies is not going to commit one of his own to print without being certain of its validity). His ‘dryness’, his ‘Jack of expressiveness’, his functional ‘music for use’ . . . and so it goes on. The dice certainly are loaded.

It seems therefore that the basic obstacle to appreciation is false preconception, engendered by either second-hand opinions or deceptive reflexes. The way to approach Hindemith’s music is simply to listen to it – with two unprejudiced ears. And if so, what does one hear?

It has always been based on melody, harmony and counterpoint, on tune and accompaniment, on proved formal techniques – elements which have served composers for six centuries or so and which are likely to be supplanted. Hindemith’s individuality rests in his melodic style (stemming from both Baroque and Romantic phraseology), in his notable bias towards contrapuntal treatment (this a direct legacy from Baroque methods), in his very characteristic harmonic style (perhaps the most individual feature of his music – a purification and hardening of post-Romantic developments) and, in particular, in his marvellous capacity for sustaining momentum. His early works present for the listener with the more obviously striking inspirations. They inherited something of the exuberance of the 1910s and 20s, and indeed show the influence of jazz and of the novel style of his older contemporaries (Bartok in the String Quartet No 3, for instance, Stravinsky in Kammermusik No 1 for small orchestra). The pernicious fallacy that proclaims these early works superior to the later ‘classical’ ones does not bear investigation however. To suppose that the Kammermusik No 4 for violin and small orchestra is better than the Violin Concerto of 1939 is a matter of taste: from the purely musical point of view, there is nothing in it. This is where we came in The opening of the Violin Concerto might not appear particularly remarkable. In fact it might be considered ‘dull’, ‘academic’ and ‘old-fashioned’.

But responsive listening cannot fail to be stimulated by the rich and subtle invention: the expository C sharp minor on a pedal point invigorated by the 3/4 cross-accents, a beautifully poised melody on the violin in 2/2, quietly belying its apparent four-bar phrase by a down-beat intensity on its fourth bar. The disturbed lyricism of this opening establishes a flexibility and vitality of mood characteristic of the whole concerto. In as far as the transitions are artfully concealed, and the broad shape of the movements made clear by controlled expansion and contraction of texture, the work does not grab the listener by the scruff of the neck and force him to listen. Neither does it bore him. The Kammermusik No 4 is certainly a more arresting work. This is partly due to the instrumentation, which calls for 2 piccolos, 3 clarinets and a cornet as well as more usual instruments, but particularly because the type of invention is more autocratic. There are few precedents for the opening movement with its wild cornet fanfares and peremptory calls-to order on clarinets, bassoons and tuba. And unless one cites the finale of Chopin’s B flat minor Sonata, the finale of the work is a unique phenomenon. It goes ‘as fast as possible’ sempre pp all in one breath, reaching its last bar dead on time and in the right key (Example 3).

This sort of tour de force is proof enough of the originality of Hindemith, the Violin Concerto of his mature mastery of traditional forms. One could cite many such complementary examples: the Concerto for Orchestra (1925) and the Sinfonia Serena (1946), the Kammermusik No 3 for cello and instruments (1925) and the Cello Concerto (1940), the Konzertmusik for piano, brass and harps (1930) and the Concerto for winds, harp and orchestra (1949). This is of course not to say that the earlier works are less masterly, or the later less original. The work central to his output, the opera Mathis der Maler, provides the most complete synthesis of all his characteristics and shows how the Dionysian and the Apollonian can not only live side by side but can also merge to create something new – purposeful yet resigned, intransigent yet yielding, firm yet compassionate.

Musical Times, March 1964