Sex, Death, and Kurt Weill in 1920s Berlin
This music, pieced together from triads and off-notes with the good beat of old music hall songs […] remembered as an heirloom, is hammered and glued together with the fetid mucilage of a soggy potpourri of operas. This music, made up of the debris of past music, is completely contemporary.[1]
Theodor W. Adorno seems to have initially found Kurt Weill’s songs virtually Frankensteinian: ‘the fetid mucilage’ of the past, barely cold in the grave, is ‘hammered and glued’ into something uncannily familiar. Having already claimed Schoenberg as his own—Daniel Albrecht refers to him as Adorno’s ‘idol’—the critic recognised in Weill’s collaboration with Bertolt Brecht something with which he wanted to align his own modernist socialism.[2] The question of what the revamped ‘good beat of old music hall songs’ could possibly have in common with Schoenberg’s hyper-formalist serialism, however, is a pertinent one.
Here are two radically different composers who stand either side of an interwar Austro-Germanic schism outlined by Laura Tunbridge at the beginning of her chapter, ‘The Death of the Song Cycle’: Schoenberg’s ultra-formalist dodecaphony on one side, and Weill’s ‘simpler, familiar musical forms whose points of reference were dance and light music, jazz, and classical and baroque idioms’ on the other.[3] Seeking to ‘pinpoint a twentieth-century lied’, James Parsons asks,
was it a Janus-faced genre simultaneously traveling the paths of revolutionary upheaval and conservative retrenchment? If yes, what elements from the Lied’s characteristic union of music and words were retained from the nineteenth century and what were discarded?[4]
He goes on to suggest that some of the answers to these questions may lie in a ‘story yet to be told’, namely a ‘transformation’ of this ‘Janus-faced’ genre ‘in the hands of a number of composers coming to maturity in the 1920s’.[5] This was when ‘the lied begins to intersect with popular culture in a way that too long has been swept under the musicological carpet’.[6] It is this intersection with ‘the good beat’ of popular culture that Adorno found so ‘fetid’.[7] Weill’s approach is broadly aligned with Neue Sachlichkeit (new objectivity), a term coined in 1925 by Mannheim Kunsthalle director Gustav Friedrich Hartlaub to describe a pushing-back against expressionism’s cerebral elitism; Weill once called Schoenberg a ‘fanatic’, accusing him of a bourgeois ‘contempt for the public’.[8] Tunbridge argues that neither of these approaches had much to do with the song cycle.[9] With collections of serialist songs often acting as ‘vehicles for experimentation’ and a Neue Sachlichkeit tendency towards the theatre, she suggests that ‘the song cycle lost its radical edge’.[10] While it is true that Weill’s principal mode of output from Mahagonny Songspiel (1927) onwards was theatrical, this essay will begin to ‘tell’ Parsons’s untold ‘story’ of the twentieth-century lied, asking how far and in what ways Weill’s art-songs from the 1920s are conduits for modernism.
S
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| Figure 1: George Grosz, 1920. Daum marries her pedantic automaton George. Berlinische Galerie. |
Models of musical modernism such as Botstein’s allow for a pluralism which, writes Daniel Grimley,
[dismantles] the binary model of twentieth-century modernism focused on the twin figures of Schoenberg and Stravinsky, prevalent in academic writing ever since the publication of Adorno’s seminal Philosophy of Modern Music, [… challenging] the primacy of a particular avant-garde repertoire as the century’s progressive aesthetic mainstream.[15]
Marginal to this ‘mainstream’, Weill’s accusation of Schoenbergian ‘contempt’ for the public situated his socialism apart enough from Adorno’s to prompt what Kim H. Woalke describes as the ‘virtuoso display of dialectical gymnastics’ that opened this essay.[16] Writing as much about Weill and Schubert as he was about the lied, Alban Berg once tried to reconcile his anxiety in the face of both composers’ popularity with recourse to audience ‘misunderstanding’, avoiding the accusation that either had sold out.[17] By way of rebuttal, Weill writes that ‘Schubert counts among very few artists who have found direct contact with their public at large [….] His melodies have found their way into the hearts of the people because they are born of popular feeling’.[18] His discussion of Schubert even has the ring of Schoenbergian rhetoric when he writes that ‘in Schubert’s lieder there is not one superfluous note’.[19] Weill cuts the figure of a young composer who, with specific reference to the lied, simultaneously valued modernism and lauded populism.
Four years before Weill’s first collaboration with Brecht prompted the comments from Adorno that opened this essay, he wrote a song cycle. Frauentanz, Op. 10 is a cycle of seven settings of medieval Minnesang poetry for soprano and a small ensemble comprising of the instruments of the wind quintet, but with viola supplanting the oboe. Robert P. Morgan hears all of ‘the hallmarks of neoclassicism’ in this cycle: ‘the evocation of earlier music, the reduction of instrumental forces […,] and the use of a cooler, more detached and hard-edged expressive language’.[20] These evocations of distance and the past are pertinent to Weill’s choice of a medieval text, markedly different to the hedonistic Americana of the Brecht texts he would later use. In the words of David Drew, ‘nothing is more remarkable in [Weill’s] post-1920 music than its withdrawal from those areas which might loosely be described as ‘psychological’.[21]
Situated by Morgan’s comments on the Stravinskian side of the historical modernist binary identified by Grimley, the modernist ‘conflicted sense of tradition’ of which Johnson writes manifests altogether differently in Frauentanz to Weill’s musical theatre.[22] Between the courtly love poetry of the text’s constant state of hope and what Wolfgang Rathert hears as ‘romanticism latent in, or audibly held in check by, the deliberate coolness and erotic playfulness’ of Frauentanz, a rhetoric of desire renders this ‘detached’ music paradoxically sensual.[23] Rudolph Kastner’s contemporary review describes Frauentanz with vivid imagery of the liminal space between romanticism and dodecaphony that it occupies, taking up Rathert’s ‘sensual’ language:
Here with the most reduced musical means, the most extremely fluid expression is found in the most compressed form. With particular power Weill avoided any opulence of harmony or the reef of Schoenbergian interval-reproduction, on which so much runs aground. Weill has coined his own melodic arch and impregnated the poetic content with his music.[24]
The erotic in this statement has been implicitly consummated in ‘impregnation’, and courtly love’s condition of desire thereby undone. The latent sex and death in Kastner’s romantic ‘opulence’ and the dangerous Schoenbergian ‘reef’ are reminiscent of the sensual Daum and automaton George in Grosz’s painting (figure 1), and to think of Weill’s compositional ‘coinage’ existing in a contested space between two such opposing influences sheds light on Parsons’s ‘Janus-faced’ engagement with tradition.[25]
Taylor identifies formal tensions in Frauentanz at the level of text-setting in dramatic-prosaic terms, hearing a ‘nervous series of unequal, word-dictated segments’ in the ‘recitative-like’ voice which ‘creates a tension by cutting across the poetic form […] as though the starting-point of each song were a passage of prose’.[26] Taylor’s rhetoric of rationality—‘vehicles for argument’—are what he identifies as the locus of Frauentanz’s ‘challenging modernity’, giving rise to its ‘rhythmic sophistication’ and ‘desiccated, Stravinsky-like texture’.[27] Deemed ‘a key work within Weill’s output, in that it signals his final departure from romantic idioms’, this cycle is canonised precisely because of its modernist edge, taking stylistic cues from Stravinsky’s neoclassical musical theatre to ‘hold in check’ the ‘latent Romanticism’ of the genre of the song cycle.[28]
For example, the sixth movement, a bacchanal, is established fairly literally by the horn’s short-long-long, bacchius-rhythm pedal which cuts across metre changes (Example 1). With reference to Stravinsky’s 1914 Pribautki—another cycle of miniatures for soprano and small ensemble—Christina Amonson writes of how both ‘employ rhythmic variety with changing meters and syllabic text settings that serve as another layer of texture’.[29] In particular, she draws a parallel between the ‘folk-like qualities’ in the ‘stark, accented delivery of text’ in Stravinsky’s third movement (‘The Colonel’) and Weill’s second movement.[30] The anonymous text, like Weill’s setting, is a bacchanal:
Ich will
Trauern lassen stehn,
Auf die Heide
solln wir gehn,
Vielliebe
Gespielen mein,
Da sehen wir
der Blumenschein.
Ich sage dir,
ich sage dir,
Mein Geselle
komm mit mir.
Süße Minne
werde mein,
Mache mir ein
Kränzelein,
Das soll
tragen ein stolzer Mann,
Der wohl
Frauen dienen kann.
|
I want to banish
grief,
Off to the heathen
we shall go,
Off to my
love-games
When we see the
flowers.
I say to you, I
say to you,
My wayfarer come
with me.
Sweet love, be
mine,
Make me a little
wreath
That a proud man
who can
Bring women
pleasure should wear.
[31] |
Pastoral and hedonistic imagery permeates this text, from the opening banishment of grief and mourning to the final declaration of sexual prowess in the trophy-wreath. Amonson hears the pastoral in bars 16-22 in its ‘use of major and minor urgent sixteenth note patterns’ between the flute and clarinet (the horn’s bacchius rhythm continues, Example 2); this is the point of spiriting away, ‘my wayfarer come to me’, that is the culmination of the bassoon’s echo of the soprano’s opening utterance in bars 2-4 (Example 1).[32]
This
is not the only example of metrical warping in Frauentanz. The second movement begins in 3/8 metre, with the
obbligato clarinet’s decorated, dotted figure, as if an upbeat. The heavy horn
and bassoon quavers follow as if on beats one and two (example 3). This is a
technique that endured for Weill, even into his later, more jazz-inflected
songs. For example, in ‘Matrosen-Tango’ (1929), the anacrusis quaver
accompaniment comes in groups of five with the chord changes syncopated over
the bar-line, rendering the bass’s relation to the beat ambiguous (Example 4). The bass could (at least
initially) be heard as an offbeat, and this (mis)hearing extends out to the
soprano’s first entry: the high E of the soprano’s first ‘hallo’ on bar 5 is
just as perceivable as an upbeat as the downbeat that it is written as,
aligning itself as it does with the last two quavers of the accompaniment’s
groups of five.
Example 4: Metrical confusion in ‘Matrosen-Tango’, particularly prominent in this London Sinfonietta recording:
The offbeats in the second movement of Frauentanz (Example 3) interact with the clarinet’s rhythms to contribute to a sarabande topic. The text directly suggests a dance, fraught with sexual tension:
Wo zwei Herzenliebe
An einem Tanze gan,
Sie lassent ihr Äuglein schießen,
Sie sehent einander an.
Sie lassent ihr Äuglein schießen,
Recht als ihn nit darum sei,
Sie gedenken in ihren Sinnen,
Ach, läg ich dir nahe bei.
|
Where two sweethearts
Began to dance,
She shot out a glance;
They gazed upon one another.
She shot the glance,
Rather than him,
They felt with their
thoughts,
|
The woman’s gaze is emphatically active—even violent—in its repeated ‘shots’, and compels both man and woman to sexual fantasy. In light of these implied transgressions, that the sarabande rhythm remains obstinately unchanged across different metres conveys grotesquery, especially with the horn’s and bassoon’s tendency towards chords that are a whole-tone apart, refusing to affirm the clarinet’s implied b-minor tonality or the voice’s implied G-relative tonal centre to the end; the final E-F♯-B chord is the same as the opening chord (Example 5). The sarabande is interrupted after the first gaze is ‘shot’ between stanzas (bars 25-6, example 5), when an extra beat is added, preparing the anomalous homophony of the reciprocal gaze’s setting in bars 35-36. Only after this rupture does the sarabande figure move onto the front beat of the bar, where it seemed to be at the start. This device of rhythmic ostinato crossing metrical boundaries is one of the aspects of Frauentanz that has invited comparisons with Stravinsky’s neoclassicism. Rathert hears ‘a precedent for [its] metrical variability’ in L’histoire du Soldat (1918).[34] Example 6 shows an extract from the opening ‘March’ (bars 9-16), where the bass’s quaver-rest-quaver-rest pattern remains unchanged through its surrounding metre changes, maintaining a march topic amid less conventionally metrically even surroundings.
Weill borrowed directly from at least one composer in this piece: the ostinato in the fourth movement comes from an unfinished 1921 piano polka by his teacher Ferruchio Busoni, varied later in Weill’s ballet-opera The Royal Palace (1926).[35] Furthermore, Amonson hears Frauentanz’s fourth movement to be modelled directly on Busoni’s ‘Lied des Mephistopheles’ from Fünf Goethe-Lieder, op. 49 no. 2 (1919), with their respective bass ostinati in octaves and running middle accompaniments creating an ‘orchestral texture’ underneath the declamatory word-setting (see examples 7 and 8).[36] In these instances, the lied works as a direct conduit for shared material between composers. The influence of Busoni on Weill’s work had a key institutional effect on Frauentanz’s reception. The former was nearing the end of his time teaching the young Weill, and had just recommended him to Universal Edition for a contract in 1923. The 23-year-old published as part of what was essentially a canonic the roll-call of twentieth-century composers, among them Mahler, Schoenberg, Webern, and Berg.[37]
Example
7: ‘Orchestral texture’ in
‘Lied des Mephistopheles’.
Example
8: ‘Orchestral texture’ in the
third movement.
Weill’s Universal Edition contract led to the composition of a new and altogether different lied after Frauentanz. He wrote ‘Klopslied’ (1925) to be part of an album of manuscripts by Universal Edition composers presented to Emil Hertzka, the firm’s director, on its twenty-fifth anniversary in 1926. The album also contained submissions from Schoenberg (‘Tapfer sind solche, die Taten vollbringen’) and Béla Bartók (‘Tót nepdál’).[38] The text is a Berlinisch-dialect nursery rhyme replete with percussive aural ‘knocking’ puns:
Ick sitze da—un esse Klops—
Uff eemal klopp’s.
Ick kieke, staune, wundre mir,
Uff eemal jeht‚se uff, de Tür.
Nanu, denk ick, ick denk nanu,
Jetzt is‚ se uff, erscht war‚ se zu—
Ick jehe raus un blicke
Un wer steht draussen?
Icke!
|
I’m sitting there and eating meatballs
When someone knocks.
I stare, sit, and I wonder
When suddenly the door opens.
Now now, I think, I think now now.
Now the door is open when first it was shut.
I go outside to have a look
And who is out there?
|
My favourite recording by far.
The irreverent tone of the poetry is matched by the eccentric instrumentation (two piccolos and bassoon), as well as what Taylor characterises as an ‘ambiguous use of pseudo-diatonic harmony’ which ‘anticipates the musical irony of which Weill later became such a master’ in his theatrical writing.[40] The most overt example of pseudo-diatonicism comes in the ‘presto’ final eight bars. A hocket texture of falling E-B quavers spans four octaves between the bassoon and piccolos, interjecting the soprano’s setting of ‘icke’ and mimicking perfect cadences. It derails into a falling four-note bass chromatically descending to a first inversion a-minor chord, drawing the lied to an abrupt and unresolved end (Example 9).
‘Klopslied’ takes its bizarre counterpoint to extremes. The bassoon plays a near-constant stream of semitone pairings, and the piccolos’ imitation of the soprano’s dotted rhythm is interspersed with jagged, staccato unison semiquavers (Example 10). There are frequent parallel fourths, most startlingly at bar 11, expressing surprise after the knock at the door and disturbing the implied a-minor tonality (Example 11). Albright writes that ‘the convergence of extremes [is] characteristic of modernism’, and that consequently ‘the proper irony for the modernist movement is an irony pushed so far that it converges with straightforward discourse—an irony that is ironic about its own ironicalness’.[41] What was missing from this essay’s earlier discussion of Grosz’s Daum was its wit: the wry, cartoonish bearing of Daum’s teeth, the absurdity of the disembodied hands, and the only likeness between the unlikely couple being their identical, impossibly smoothly oval-shaped heads (Figure 1).
The irreverent ‘Klopslied’ and Grosz’s Daum both exist in dialogue with their serious frames, poking fun at their own ‘conflicted senses of tradition’ by laughing at the sticking points between ‘revolutionary upheaval and conservative retrenchment’: a watercolour nude flirting with a ‘pedantic automaton’, and a lied for an unrefined Berliner, two piccolos, and bassoon.[42] ‘Klopslied’ is a hybrid lied, which stands, ‘Janus-faced’, between the seriousness of Frauentanz’s neoclassical counterpoints and the sardonic ‘off-notes’ of his Brechtian ‘good old music hall’, in which ‘irony can bite the spectator who wishes to be bitten, or in which irony can de-ironize itself, turn against itself, like a snake that swallows its own tail’.[43] As Foster Hirsch writes, Weill ‘delighted in confounding rigid categories as he set up a dialogue between elitist and popular musical forms’, and the lied’s ambiguous status between high and low art is one of his sites for this confounding.[44] Flying in the face of Virgil Thomson’s truism that ‘after Weill came to live in America, he ceased to work as a modernist’, this dialogue is as true for his Berlin songs as for his later tango-lieder; it ‘dreams while mocking its dreaminess’.[45]
Weill never stopped composing stand-alone song, and to reduce so diverse an output which, Jürgen Schebera writes, ‘sweeps heterogeneously’ through late romanticism, neoclassicism, jazz, and Broadway (the ‘fetid mucilage’ of all of the above so often audible) in 35 short years of activity to fringe populism would fundamentally misrepresent it.[46] In Albright’s words, Weill
was able to put on any clothes—ranging from Protestant chorale to Jewish melisma to Euro-tango to Schoenbergian atonality to Richard Rogers’s popcorn [….] He was not a fake, but a serious composer adept at wearing any sort of frivolous musical drag […] responsive to the whole tradition of Western music in the language of Stravinsky or of Adorno’s beloved Schoenberg.[47]
Weill’s promiscuous output intersects with his overt socialism to confront modernist anxieties surrounding populism and bourgeois elitism. This is the story that, in Parsons’s words, ‘is yet to be told’.[48] To address the question of whether he did, in fact, ‘cease to be a modernist’ from 1933 is beyond the scope of this essay, but his undeniably more populist approach feeds tantalisingly into Tunbridge’s suggestion that the song cycle was re-born after the second world war as the concept album.[49] To the tango strains of ‘Youkali’ (1935) or ‘Je ne t’aime pas’ (1933), perhaps it could be tentatively suggested that, while the cycle lay dormant, a Frankensteinian corpus of songs that were liminal between the popular domain and the concert hall was being ‘hammered and glued’ together. Perhaps, for Weill, the song was always un-dead.[50]
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Adorno, Theodor W. ‘Mahagonny’ in The Weimar Republic Sourcebook ed. Anton
Kaes, Martin Jay, Edward Dimendberg. California: University of California
Press, 1994: 588 ff.
Albright, Daniel. ‘Kurt Weill as
Modernist’. Modernism/modernity 7, no. 2 (2000a): 273-84.
———Untwisting the Serpent: Modernism
in Music, Literature, and Other Arts. Chicago, Ill.; London: University of
Chicago Press, 2000b.
Amonson, Christina. Kurt Weill:
Lieder to Legend, an Examination of ‘Ofrah's Lieder’ and ‘Frauentanz’ Op. 10.
Doctoral thesis, University of Arizona. 2012: 79.
Berg, Alban. ‘Zu Franz Schuberts 100.
Todestag’, Vossische Zeitung, 18
November 1928, cited in Morgan, Robert P. Modern times: From World War
I to the Present. Man & Music; v. 8. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1993, 90.
Drew, David. ‘Frauentanz’ (liner notes)
in Gruber, H. K., Rosemary Hardy, and Ensemble Modern. Berlin Lit Up.
Frankfurt: Largo, 1990. CD: 4-5.
———and J. Bradford
Robinson. ’Weill, Kurt’. Grove Music Online. Oxford
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Botstein, Leon. ‘Modernism’ in Stanley
Sadie and John Tyrrell (eds.), The New
Grove, 2nd edn. London: Macmillan, 2001. Vol. IIX, p. 472;
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Stage: From Berlin to Broadway. 1st ed. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2002.
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of Modernity. New York, 2015.
Parsons, James. The Cambridge
Companion to the Lied. Cambridge Companions to Music. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004, 276-7.
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in Chamber Music. Weill, Kurt, 1900-1950. Works. 1996; Ser. 2, v.
1. New York: Miami: Kurt Weill Foundation for Music; European American Music,
2004.
Schebera, Jürgen. Kurt Weill: An Illustrated Life. New
Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1995.
Taylor, Ronald. Kurt Weill:
Composer in a Divided World. London: Simon & Schuster, 1991.
Tunbridge, Laura. The Song Cycle. Cambridge Introductions to Music. Cambridge:
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‘Composers and Works - Universal
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http://www.universaledition.com/composers-and-works.
‘George Grosz | Berlinische Galerie | Ihr Museum Für Moderne Und
Zeitgenössische Kunst In Berlin’. 2017. Berlinischegalerie.De.
Accessed March 23 2017. https://www.berlinischegalerie.de/?id=79&L=1.
Score
Editions
Busoni,
Ferruccio, and Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe. Fünf Goethe-Lieder : Für
Bariton Und Klavier. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1964.
Mahler, Gustav, and Hans Bethge. Das Lied
Von Der Erde: Eine Symphonie Für Eine Tenor- Und Eine Alt- (oder Bariton-)
Stimme Und Orchester. Verbesserte Ausgabe. ed. Mahler, Gustav, 1860-1911.
Works. 1960 ; Bd. 9. Wien: Universal Edition, 1990.
Weill, Kurt, Wolfgang Rathert, and Jürgen
Selk. Chamber Music. Weill, Kurt, 1900-1950. Works. 1996; Ser.
2, v. 1. New York: Miami: Kurt Weill Foundation for Music; European American
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Weill, Kurt, Charles Hamm, Elmar Juchem, and Kim
H. Kowalke. Popular
Adaptations, 1927-1950.
Weill, Kurt, 1900-1950. Works. 1996; Ser. 4, v. 2. New York: Kurt Weill
Foundation for Music: European American Music, 2009.
Weill,
Kurt. Kurt Weill Songs: A Centennial
Anthology. Weill, Kurt, 1900-1950.
Visual
Grosz, George. Daum marries her pedantic automaton George. Berlinische Galerie,
1920.
[3] Laura Tunbridge. The Song Cycle. Cambridge Introductions
to Music. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010, 122 ff.; ibid, 124-5.
[4] James Parsons. The
Cambridge Companion to the Lied. Cambridge Companions to Music. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2004, 276-7.
[5] Ibid, 295.
[6] Ibid, 295.
[7] Adorno 1994, 589.
[8] Daniel Albright. ‘Kurt
Weill as Modernist’. Modernism/modernity 7, no. 2 (2000a): 275.
[9] Tunbridge 2010, 125.
[10] Ibid, 125.
[11] Leon Botstein,
‘Modernism’ in Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (eds.), The New Grove, 2nd edn. London: Macmillan, 2001. Vol.
IIX, p. 472; Ronald Taylor. Kurt Weill: Composer in a Divided World.
London: Simon & Schuster, 1991,
49.
[12] ‘George Grosz | Berlinische Galerie | Ihr Museum Für
Moderne Und Zeitgenössische Kunst In Berlin’. 2017. Berlinischegalerie.De.
Accessed April 23 2017. https://www.berlinischegalerie.de/?id=79&L=1.
[13] Adorno 1994, 588-89.
[14] Julian Johnson. Out
of Time: Music and the Making of Modernity. New York, 2015: 9.
[15] Daniel M. Grimley. Carl
Nielsen and the Idea of Modernism. Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2010: 3.
[16] Kim H. Kowalke, Kim
H. Kurt Weill in Europe. Studies in Musicology; 14. Ann Arbor, Mich: UMI Research Press, 1979: 29.
[17] Alban Berg, ‘Zu Franz Schuberts 100. Todestag’,
Vossische Zeitung, 18 November 1928.
Cited in Robert P. Morgan. Modern times: From World War I to the
Present. Man & Music; v. 8. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1993, 90.
[18]
Ibid, 90; (W-HW) 27th June 1919 cited in Daniel Albright. Untwisting
the Serpent: Modernism in Music, Literature, and Other Arts. Chicago, Ill.;
London: University of Chicago Press, 2000b: 30; Kurt Weill, ‘Schubert-Feiern’, Der Deutsche Rundfunk, 16 November 1928.
Cited in Morgan 1993, 90.
[19]
Weill in Ronald Taylor. Kurt Weill: Composer in a Divided World.
London: Simon & Schuster, 1991: 49.
[20] Morgan 1993: 13.
[21] David
Drew and J. Bradford Robinson. ’Weill, Kurt’. Grove Music
Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press,
accessed March 20, 2017
http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/30032: 2.
[22] Grimley 2010, 3.
[23] Wolfgang Rathert. ‘Frauentanz’ in Chamber Music. Weill, Kurt, 1900-1950. Works.
1996; Ser. 2, v. 1. New York: Miami: Kurt Weill Foundation for Music; European
American Music, 2004.
[24] Rudolf Kastner, ‘Kurt Weill: Eine Skizze’, Musikblätter des Anbruch, July 1925: 454
in Kowalke 1979, 30.
[25] Parsons 2004, 276-77.
[26] Taylor 1991, 55.
[27] Ibid, 55.
[28] Ibid, 20.
[29] Christina Amonson. Kurt
Weill: Lieder to Legend, an Examination of ‘Ofrah's Lieder’ and ‘Frauentanz’
Op. 10. Doctoral thesis, University of Arizona. 2012: 79.
[30] Ibid, 79.
[31] Translation my own.
[32] Ibid, 80.
[33] Translation my own.
[34] David Drew. ‘Frauentanz’
(liner notes) in Gruber, H. K., Rosemary Hardy, and Ensemble Modern. Berlin
Lit Up. Frankfurt: Largo, 1990. CD: 4-5; Rathert 2004, 21.
[35] Drew 1987, 149.
[36] Amonson 2012, 83.
[37]
‘Composers and Works - Universal Edition’. Universal Edition.
Accessed March 24 2017. http://www.universaledition.com/composers-and-works.
[38] Drew 1987, 161.
[39] Translation my own.
[40] Taylor 1991, 55.
[41] Albright 2000a, 274.
[42] Johnson 2015, 9.
[43] Parsons 2004, 276; Adorno
1994, 589; Albright 2000a, 276.
[44] Foster Hirsch. Kurt
Weill on Stage: From Berlin to Broadway. 1st ed. New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
2002: 13.
[45] Virgil
Thomson, ‘Kurt Weill Concert’, New York Herald Tribune, 5
February 1951 cited in ibid, 29.
[46] Jürgen Schebera. Kurt Weill: An
Illustrated Life. New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1995:
viii.
[47] Albright 2000b, 180.
[48] Parsons 2005, 295.
[49] Tunbridge 2010, 169ff.
[50] Adorno 1994, 589.
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