Composers › Isaac Albéniz › Programme note
Iberia Book 3 (1907)
Gerald Larner wrote 2 versions of differing length — choose one below.
El Albaicín
El polo
Lavapiés
When Debussy declared that Albéniz “put the best of himself” into Iberia he was seriously understating the extent of his Spanish colleague’s achievement. In Iberia Albéniz transformed himself. It is a big work - four books of three pieces each, lasting not far short of ninety minutes in all - and it is an immense virtuoso challenge. But its greatest quality is a new keyboard language, evolved over a period of eight years, to match the Spanish folk-song material which had long been Albéniz’s major source of inspiration. The keyboard idiom of Iberia is a translation into piano terms of the authentic texture of Andalusian folk music, not just its characteristic rhythms and its modal harmonies but its actual sound, the plucked articulation of the guitar, the impassioned singing voice, the percussive effects of castanets, hand claps and heel taps. The Liszt influence is still there but, for the most part, merged into the new style, to fill it out and elaborate it but not to contradict it.
There is no more attractive example than El Albaicín, the first piece in Book 3. A sultry nocturnal scene in B flat minor set in the old gypsy quarter in Granada, it is one of the most poetic of all Albéniz’s evocations of Andalusia. Debussy was reminded “of those Spanish evenings filled with the perfume of carnations and the alcoholic fumes of aguardiente.” It is based on two themes, each representing a basic element of flamenco music - a dance rhythm heard as though on a distant guitar that gets nearer and more animated and, after a short pause, an expressive cante jondo melody introduced in octaves in the Dorian mode. The two are developed in alternation and, though not without Lisztian bravura at one point, ever more passionately. At least as moving as the central climax, however, is the epilogue that reintroduces the cante jondo in a serene B flat major and sustains the tranquillity until a suddenly violent but still B flat major ending.
El polo is a peculiarly ambiguous piece, an unhappy guitarist’s brooding improvisation on an obsessive polo rhythm, the lively dance implications of which are negated by the tortured modulations it goes through and the bitter harmonies it collides with. There are two vocal entries, both of them passionate three-note exclamations followed by an ominous silence. The radiance apparently achieved just before the end is brusquely dismissed by the closing bars.
The last piece in Book 3 is reputedly the most difficult in the whole work and is certainly the only one (apart from the introductory Evocación) which finds its inspiration outside Andalusia. Although it is named after a district of Madrid traditionally associated with the Maundy Thursday washing of feet, Lavapiés is an impression not of a church ceremony but of a rowdy popular celebration. Beginning as decorous habanera, it is at an early stage confronted by a riot of conflicting harmonies and then, on an emphatic cadence, it just stops. This, it turns out, is to make way for a vigorously strummed rhythmic figure heralding the entry of a new tune - a sentimental song which becomes the much varied, much abused and much teased subject of the rest of the piece.
From Gerald Larner’s files: “Iberia - Book 3/w533”
El Albaicín
El polo
Lavapiés
When Debussy declared that Albéniz “put the best of himself” into Iberia he was actually understating the extent of his Spanish colleague’s achievement. In Iberia Albéniz transformed himself. It is a big work - four books of three pieces each, lasting not far short of ninety minutes in all - and it is an immense virtuoso challenge. But its greatest quality, what distinguishes it from even the most accomplished of his earlier piano music, is its newly evolved keyboard language. Albéniz seems to have realised that a piano technique derived basically from Liszt and material drawn from Spanish folk-music were essentially incompatible. Certainly after La Vega, which illustrates the problem most vividly, he wrote no more piano music until, eight years later, he started on Iberia. Completed only a year before his death, it was his masterpiece and his last major work.
Albéniz’s new keyboard language was a translation into piano terms of the authentic texture of Andalusian folk music, not just its characteristic rhythms and its modal harmonies but its actual sound, the plucked articulation of the guitar, the impassioned singing voice, the percussive effects of castanets, hand claps and heel taps. He had been working towards it for years, of course - and both Debussy and Ravel had anticipated it to some extent - but it wasn’t until he came to write Iberia that it was so well developed as to sustain a work of such length without regular recourse to conventional piano writing. The romantic piano is still there but, for the most part, merged into the new style, to fill it out and elaborate it but not to contradict it.
There is no better example of Iberia style than El Albaicín, the first piece in Book 3. Named after the old gypsy quarter in Granada, it is one of the most poetic of all Albéniz’s evocations of Andalusia. It reminded Debussy “of those Spanish evenings filled with the perfume of carnations and the alcoholic fumes of aguardiente.” A sultry nocturnal scene in B flat minor, it is based on two themes, each representing a basic element of flamenco music - a dance rhythm heard as though on a distant guitar that gets nearer and more animated and, after a short pause, an expressive cante jondo melody introduced in octaves in the Dorian mode. The two are developed in alternation and, though not without Lisztian bravura at one point, ever more passionately. At least as moving as the central climax, however, is the epilogue that reintroduces the cante jondo in a serene B flat major and sustains the tranquillity until a suddenly violent but still B flat major ending.
El polo is a peculiarly ambiguous piece, an unhappy guitarist’s brooding improvisation on an obsessive polo rhythm, the lively dance implications of which are negated by the tortured modulations it goes through and the bitter harmonies it collides with. There are two vocal entries, both of them passionate three-note exclamations followed by an ominous silence. The radiance apparently achieved just before the end is brusquely dismissed by the closing bars.
The last piece in Book 3 is reputedly the most difficult in the whole work and is certainly the only one (apart from the introductory Evocación) which finds its inspiration outside Andalusia. Although it is named after a district of Madrid traditionally associated with the Maundy Thursday feet-washing ceremony, Lavapiés is an impression not of a church event but of a rowdy popular celebration. Beginning as decorous habanera, it is confronted by riot of conflicting harmonies and then, on an emphatic cadence, just stops. This, it turns out, is to make way for a vigorously strummed rhythmic figure preceding the entry of a new tune - a sentimental song which becomes the much varied, much abused and much teased subject of the rest of the piece.
From Gerald Larner’s files: “Iberia - Book 3/w633”