Making overtures at Rossini

Do you ever have one of those "how it works" moments when listening to really good music? You know, where you want to know why that piece grabs you in that certain way. Sometimes, there's no good answer. ("I jus' loikes it, Oi say!"). Sometimes, it's as dry as bones, but far more exciting... because you can talk about the theory all day and with no application, it means nothing. And sometimes, the knowing of the brain meets the knowing of the soul, and epiphany and magic and revelation occur, and science and art are indistinguishable. So we come to the "how it works" concept for today: the Mannheim steamroller.

Mannheim steamroller isn't that guy with the "Fresh Aire" music. That is, that's not what a Mannheim steamroller is. Actually, a Mannheim steamroller isn't a steamroller at all, and it didn't come from Mannheim. So maybe that guy is the *only* actual Mannheim Steamroller. But I digress.

"Mannheim steamroller" refers, in part, to the incorporation into a piece of music of an extended thematically independent crescendo passage, or Walze. Walze means "roller," and the translation "steamroller" is incorrect (although arguably even more descriptive). This practice springs from the Mannheim style that was hot stuff in the 1740s-70s, an important element of which was to exploit dynamic effects.

So you'll have, say, a melodic line that repeats over a bass line that goes up and down, and that all starts quiet and gets loud, and thus the composer conspires with your ear into cajoling you that you really aren't hearing the same thing over and over -- and you are but you're not, because it takes on a life of its own. And only if the orchestra started in the quiet place; if not, the whole delicious appreciation of this studiedly emotive yes, orchestration, will be lost in a sea of mezzo-mezzo. There won't be a roll, let alone any room to gather steam to push it forward. (And together, the audience yawns.)

In another of those strange musicological mysteries, the style is named after Mannheim but did not originate in Mannheim, or even in Germany. Instead it grew out of Italian opera and its incidental music in the early Classical period. Italian opera, of course, was part of Mannheim's core operatic repertoire, and therefore familiar to the composers and players there. In fact, the most Mannheim-like thing about the writing is its orchestration -- the Mannheim orchestra was large, possessed of excellent musicianship and great precision, and this enabled composers to move beyond the initial Italian models. The Mannheim players handled extended passages with gradual (read: harder to control) increases in volume with remarkable finesse, thus opening up all manner of new possibilities for composers. The days of achieving difference in volume by putting half your band in a terrace were gone.

All of which is good, because if there had been no Walze from Mannheim (say *that* without singing "Waltzing Matilda" in your head), then there'd be no world-famous Rossini crescendo, and his music, while it would still delight, wouldn't take flight, not like it does. And it certainly couldn't take us along. Try it, the next time you listen to some Rossini, especially the overture to The Barber of Seville. What a coilspring of joy lies in each one, as if those Germans fifty years before he was born had developed this style just for him to employ.

From Italy to Germany to Italy again it rolls... oh, yes, Rossini wrote more than operas, and deserves to be known for more than the theme from the Lone Ranger and The Rabbit of Seville. What a gift for capturing a sound in a bottle so that someone can let it out for all to sense.

(Actually, I think Rossini would have gotten great amusement out of The Rabbit of Seville. But again, I digress.)

Listen to the overture of The Barber sometime. Hear for yourself. As it careens toward the end, mind the undertow... when you feel yourself getting caught up in it all, that's just the (NotFrom)Mannheim (NotSteam)roller doing its job.

Posted on April 26, 2004 to horticulture

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