Allan Pettersson – Complete Edition: Final works, 1979-80

Symphony No. 16 (1979)

Allan Pettersson’s final completed work shares some similarities to Violin Concerto No. 2, inasmuch as it blurs the distinction between symphony and concerto. Pettersson went as far as to describe the concerto as “a symphony for violin and orchestra”, and it’s tempting to regard Symphony No. 16 as “a concerto for alto saxophone and orchestra”. The aural reality is somewhere between the two, with the saxophone neither a soloist nor an obbligato, in the strict sense of those roles. There’s another blurring at play in the symphony, one that continues Pettersson’s never-ending fascination with juxtaposing highly lyrical and rhythmically driven materials. It’s a fundamental question regarding which of those two is the “life force” of the symphony, inspiring it on and giving rise to all that ensues. The best way to elaborate this is to consider how this question is answered in each of the three available recordings, as they’re all different, and they all make a strong case.

For the performers who gave the world première, Frederick Hemke and the Stockholm Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Yuri Ahronovitch, it’s motoric drive that lies at the heart of the work. For them, the opening moments of the work – a snare drum roll, a “tally ho” from the horn, and we’re off – are a paradigm of the essence of what’s to come. As a result, this performance is the most daunting, in terms of the way it highlights the work’s hugely convoluted textures and makes them the standout feature of the symphony. In this reading, Hemke’s saxophone is almost lost at times, swallowed up in swelling instrumental waves and drowned out by vast tutti overloads. One of the things going for Hemke is the timbre of his instrument, somewhat nasal and projecting much more than in the other two recordings (in this respect he’s unquestionably a soloist, which, depending on your perspective, may or may not be problematic). There are times, it must be said, when his tone sounds a bit relentless, even off-putting, but it does at least help him to face up to the regular onslaughts with which he’s confronted. Yet this is a performance that also captures the lyrical music beautifully, giving these clearer sequences an elegance and transparency that couldn’t be more of a contrast to the bigger context. Furthermore, as it progresses there’s a palpable emotional weight in the large-scale climaxes that makes them so much more than mere noise. Nonetheless, it’s a performance that makes energy the source of the music, and it’s definitely the most ferocious, even abrasive, of the three.

Symphony No. 16 has a very different point of origin in the recording by John-Edward Kelly and the Rundfunk-Sinfonieorchester Saarbrücken with Alun Francis. For them it’s melody that’s the wellspring and motivational force of the work. The opening turbulence, though volatile, is framed more as a bubbling atmosphere, within which the saxophone is an integral part, acting more as an extension of the orchestra (as in Violin Concerto No. 2). With the shift in fundamental emphasis, not only are Pettersson’s textures clearer and much less disorienting, but the enormous swells also have a strongly lyrical quality, conveying glory rather than overload. That being said, this performance goes much further than Hemke in bringing out motivic elements that propel the piece, very similar in nature to those in Pettersson’s previous compositions, forming an engine at the music’s core. Interestingly, having integrated it earlier, the saxophone later comes to feel occasionally disconnected, a satellite free-wheeling over the top of the orchestra, but the motoric momentum holds them together.

But of course, it’s melody that predominates here, with the orchestra bringing out lovely countermelodies to the sax’s material and giving the cantabile second movement a beautifully gentle atmosphere in which to sing. The coherence of the music is so much better resolved when the sax isn’t dominant throughout (as with Hemke), though Kelly is by no means a wallflower, becoming wildly exuberant in the symphony’s biggest moments. With its emphasis on melody, this performance raises a question concerning the very end of the piece, when an extended chord turns out to be a dominant, resolved right at the end. It brings to mind the final “Amen” of Symphony No. 9, which there seemed fittingly tongue-in-cheek. Here, it feels as if it’s not really a dominant at all, and that Pettersson’s ending is less inevitable than contrived, but that’s a judgement call. An important word of caution: Kelly describes in the liner notes changes he has made to the saxophone part, in the belief that Pettersson didn’t understand the full range of the instrument. Regardless of whether one believes him or not, to go so far as to alter Pettersson’s music is very serious (not to say arrogant), so this performance cannot be regarded as a fully faithful representation of Symphony No. 16. It’s a shame, as otherwise it’s very strong indeed.

Very fortunately, the recording in the Complete Edition, featuring Jörgen Pettersson and the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra conducted by Christian Lindberg, finds an excellent balance between the approaches taken by the other two. The opening of the piece encapsulates it, with flowing lines over a nicely brisk chugging tempo. As he has in all these recordings, Lindberg allows Norrköping to get as rambunctious as necessary, but clarity is always maintained. There’s never a sense here of being disoriented or lost in Pettersson’s complex textures. The motivic elements are powerfully present, acting not only like a motor but almost like gear changes as they manifest in different ways. The sense of propulsion is absolute, driving on forcefully with everyone, including the saxophone, a passenger. This is significant, as in this recording saxophone and orchestra are clearly presented as interconnected, two parts of the same expressive voice. Considering what Pettersson did in Violin Concerto No. 2, this makes great sense, and in no way inhibits the sax, just as individual instruments are often allowed full freedom to act as temporary soloists in the symphonies. In this regard there’s a powerful impression of equality, saxophone and orchestra matching each other for intensity, which only makes its undulating contours more exhilarating to traverse.

The lyrical language of the work is given very special treatment here, with Lindberg even revealing occasional hints of Tchaikovsky when the harmonies simplify, followed shortly after by a distinctly Brucknerian passage, underpinned by gently plodding low pizzicatos. They’re allusions, nothing more, but they lend extra weight to the extent of its lyricism. Lindberg always likes to take his time in these melodically meditative passages, and once again it pays off, creating a gorgeous place of quietude in an otherwise highly-strung environment. Apropos: the conclusion of the performance features a climax so enormous one imagines Norrköping had been saving up for this the whole way through, answered shortly after by another swell cancelled so quickly it’s as if the entire orchestra changed their mind simultaneously. This is the final work Pettersson wrote before he died, and Lindberg acknowledges this in his interpretation of the ending. In the other two recordings, it either rings false (Francis) or feels like it’s just a pause, like elsewhere in the piece, before things get going again (Ahronovitch). Lindberg gives it finality, the last chord quietly stating, “that’s it”.

Viola Concerto (1979-)

Allan Pettersson died on 20 June 1980, at the age of 68. Following his death, two further scores came to light, the most substantial of which was a “Concerto for viola and orchestra”. The evidence suggests that, though the work has a duration of around 28 minutes, it remains incomplete, lacking the functional details usually found in his scores (such as a complete list of instruments, and a final date at the end), as well as, at times, surprisingly thin textures that one would have expected Pettersson to flesh out in his familiar fashion. The Viola Concerto is therefore a work to be approached with caution, on the one hand a clear continuation of Pettersson’s exploration and intermingling of the symphony and concerto forms, yet both materially and structurally suggesting there was more – perhaps, bearing in mind the length of Violin Concerto No. 2, considerably more – left to do.

Nonetheless, it’s deeply poignant that Pettersson, at this late stage of his life, should have returned to his own instrument (for many years, prior to focusing on composition, he played viola in the Stockholm Philharmonic Orchestra), and in hindsight it seems surprising he never wrote more for the viola. As in Symphony No. 16, melody dominates over rhythmic and metric concerns, though whereas in that work, and the Second Violin Concerto, it wasn’t necessarily appropriate to think in terms of a ‘soloist’, the viola’s role here is much more suited to that conventional role. Furthermore, where hitherto Pettersson often leads one to question to what extent the solo instrument and orchestra are truly connected, in the Viola Concerto a fundamental connection is unequivocal. The overall impression is of a large group of players who all have their own ideas about what they want to do, and those ideas are broadly in sympathy with those around them. That’s not to say there’s no tension, but the extreme volatility that characterised Pettersson’s earlier works is gone, however the fecundity of invention is such that ideas jostle in close proximity and overlap in ways that sometimes seem divided. All the same, it’s a product of enthusiasm more than anything else, and we’re presented with music overwhelmingly keen to explore ever new ways to articulate their song.

Rhythmic interest is heavily reduced, to the extent that the snare drum, a pivotal figure in Pettersson’s output for many years, only appears for a short time – introducing a typically driving motif – before vanishing (a possible casualty of incompletion). The composer’s fondness for chugging tempos is well represented, though here given a distinctly cheerful kick. The push-pull of ideas is mesmerising, veering as much as ever between huge swells and periods of repose. The brass are usually the ones to propel these expansions, and, as they have previously, bring both an exciting brashness as well as a sense of grandeur, nowhere more than in the work’s final crescendo a few minutes before the end, which grows and broadens slowly and seemingly endlessly. In more reflective episodes there’s a multitude of imitations and doublings, the orchestra constantly reaching out to the viola to support and reinforce their material, in the process feeding off its energy and maintaining its heightened lyrical state. There’s a moment around two-thirds through when the musical suddenly focuses attention on the winds, with a phrase redolent of Mahler’s “irregular heartbeat” motif from his Ninth Symphony, which persists for a short time and may or may not be a deliberate reference. The closing minutes (we must remember they may not have been intended as such) introduce a rhythmic regularity into the music indicative of an ending, though it plays out via filigree, and a united ascent to a strong apex where the music hangs in the violins, and stops.

The Viola Concerto has only been recorded twice, both times by BIS. The earlier one dates from 1990 and is by Nobuko Imai and the Malmö Symphony Orchestra conducted by Lev Markiz. It’s strong and convincing; Imai’s tone is emotionally-charged and she articulates her part with a real sense of inner momentum. That’s not to say she sounds like the driving force of the work – as i’ve described it’s more complex than that – but she’s certainly just as enthusiastic to express as the rest of the orchestra. Markiz demonstrates a lovely sense of control of the work’s constantly shifting ideas, always staying true to its primary melodic impulse, allowing for spritely asides and gentle reflection as well as more pushy insistence and large scale blazes of intensity. The Malmö orchestra sounds really magnificent, seemingly relishing the more complicated passages where everything becomes broken up by the welter of individual contributions. They make the ending feel like a real ending, and while there may well have been more to come, here it’s an interesting and very striking point for things to finish.

The performance in the Complete Edition once again benefits from the extraordinary clarity displayed by BIS’s more recent recordings. Christian Lindberg and the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra are joined by Ellen Nisbeth, and they establish a much greater immediacy from the outset. Nisbeth’s tone is really sublime, a perfect match for Pettersson’s twisting, searching lyricism, while Lindberg – as he has in so many of the symphonies – makes the most of the work’s dynamic range, introducing an air of mystery in the softer music. One aspect arising from the transparent clarity of this recording is that it makes the thinner textural passages overwhelming obvious, which in turn emphasises the “work in progress” nature of the piece in a way that’s marginally less apparent in the Malmö performance. The snare drum’s fleeting appearance is made more of here, through a teasing out of its motif lingering for a while in the orchestra – now as a cheerful call rather than an oppressive marching force – and one of the highlights is clarity of those doublings and imitations, making a powerful, positive connection between the viola and orchestra. Lindberg always gets zealous in Pettersson’s most looming music, and while nothing overwhelms here, he nonetheless makes the larger swells almost aggressively grandiose. The final climax, though, carrying with it a large octave unison, is absolutely glorious, which only makes the closing minutes more touching, Norrköping bringing a grand, united sense of finality to the last period of stability, before everything flies up into the heavens.

Symphony No. 17 (1980-)

Allan Pettersson’s symphonic journey began, nearly 30 years earlier, with the unfinished torso of Symphony No. 1, and it ended with another fragment, 207 bars of an untitled orchestral composition that’s conventionally referred to as Symphony No. 17. Listening to the end of the Viola Concerto, one might be tempted to think it suggests that Pettersson knew it would be the last thing he would write. Yet this attempt to make the end of the composer’s life poetically neat and tidy is emphatically destroyed by what remains of Symphony No. 17.

The music is a total, full-blooded return to the huge energetic overload of the earlier symphonies. With that comes a pronounced turning away – at least, in the 7½ minutes of music that we have – from lyricism, such that any and all melodic strands have a searching quality, trying to figure something out or get somewhere rather than actively articulating anything specific. What pervades the music more than anything is Pettersson’s obsessive streak, one last time, in the form of a descending motif heard at the very start, initially presented gently but thereafter spreading like wildfire to become the basis for enormous, incandescent tuttis. The characteristic playfulness is in full force too, with the motif being frantically tossed around the orchestra like a grenade that could detonate at any moment. The brass are typically ferocious, going so far as to growl loudly after a couple of minutes, seemingly as a reaction to the music’s temporary reduction to more sedate chugging. They rev everyone back up to full throttle, shortly after inspiring the winds to set off at quadruple speed in mad staccato flurries. The strings’ tone becomes desperate, manifesting as shrill streaks, and in one of the later climaxes (a little after five minutes in), the brass seem to reference the Mahler “irregular heartbeat” a few final times. Everything gets broken up in a mess of rhythms, only becoming yet more extreme as the motif spreads everywhere and the texture reaches a point of saturation. We come out the other side of this to more wind flurries… where the music comes to a halt.

Possibly, probably, this was the very last music Pettersson ever wrote, and if so he went out in the most resplendant burst of symphonic brilliance. This fragment – which makes a fitting companion to the similarly short and febrile Symfonisk sats – is utterly tantalising, suggesting dizzying enormity in what would have followed. The only recording made of it so far is by Christian Lindberg (who edited the fragment together with Markus Brylka) with the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra, the final recording included in the BIS Complete Edition. It’s a spectacular reading, everyone playing as if it’s the last performance they’ll ever give. Incomplete works such as this unavoidably carry with them a profound sense of sadness and loss, yet in this symphonic fragment, Allan Pettersson demonstrated that what he lacked in physical vigour and mobility, he overwhelmingly made up for in his music. Few composers have ever reached such an intense level of raw, energetic fire, contrapuntal convolution and extreme lyrical passion.

Throughout his life, Allan Petterson evidently believed himself to be maligned, ignored and misunderstood. As i mentioned in the introduction to this Lent Series, regardless of how true that was (and it certainly wasn’t false), it undoubtedly remains true today, with malinformed and even well-meaning commentators skewing perceptions of what Pettersson was like and what to expect in his music. The CPO label, so committed to recording his music over the years, never fails to claim, in every single one of their liner notes, that he was an “oddball”. Per Broman’s contribution to the 2002 book New Music of the Nordic Countries, which includes a small overview of Pettersson, expresses the astonishing opinion that “There are never any cheerful or witty moments in his music.” Though commentary on Pettersson’s works is slight, one doesn’t need to look far to find further, similarly hyperbolic caricatured descriptions of his music. It’s definitely not all fun and larks, particularly in the black tragedy and pain of the earlier works (prior to Symphony No. 9), but as i’ve hoped to articulate in this series, there is so much more to Pettersson’s music: there’s energy, caprice, mischief, menace, playfulness, tenderness, grandeur, elation, and a unique approach to invention that in its sheer convolution often sounds nothing less than joyous.

Few composers of more recent times, apart from the most overtly celebrated ones, are treated to complete editions of their music. All the more reason why the BIS Complete Edition, compiled from recordings made between 1976 and 2023, and elaborated further with four lengthy, illuminating video documentaries, is an epic testament to the importance and necessity of Allan Pettersson’s music. He is vital to the development and legacy of the symphony, and, as one of the greatest of all symphonists (certainly the greatest of all Nordic symphonists) his place within late 20th century music needs to be much better known, appreciated and understood. BIS have made that understanding so much more possible. But it doesn’t stop there, as Christian Lindberg and the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra will be continuing to record the remaining symphonies that they haven’t yet explored. Considering the excellence of those recordings, there are some exciting things in store. One can only hope that, in years to come, Allan Pettersson’s music will become far more common in our concert halls. It demands to be heard; it deserves nothing less.

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