The Planets, op. 32, by Gustav Holst
Genre: 20th-Century Classical
Composed: 1914-1916
Premiere: September 29, 1918
Recording: Chicago Symphony Orchestra, 1990, conducted by James Levine
I’ve been meaning to write about classical music for several years. Although I had a great amount of exposure to it in my childhood, most of the names which produced the music I enjoyed continue to elude me because I’ve neglected that wonderful era of music history for so long, though I’m pretty sure most of the composers were Russian. Having said that, I’ve heard just enough to be annoyed when people say that classical music is boring, and something that can only be enjoyed by old people tittering over a gramophone, sipping tea, and making abhorrently polite small talk. If you’ve had enough exposure to such music and/or have working ears, then you probably already know that this is complete horseshit, because there’s a lot of classical music out there that’s far more eventful and moving than such a reductive misconception gives credit for.
Yes, the motivation behind this review is petty, but there’s great classical music out there that I think is worth writing about, and I figured the first of this sort might as well be about a composition that could potentially win over newcomers. To that end, I deemed the best choice to be to write about something conceptual, and something so active that it actually demands attention, and Holst’s
Planets suite seemed like the most ideal option. I also strongly considered
The Rite of Spring, but scaring the shit out of new listeners probably isn’t the best idea, though that being said, the first movement will most likely do exactly that.
Gustav Holst was an English composer whose music I’ve not heard beyond
The Planets, but I gather that a lot of his other compositions were informed by contemporary English and Indian folk traditions. In other words, I don’t expect it to sound anything like
The Planets, and certainly nowhere near as cinematic.
The Planets immediately became his most famous piece, so famous in fact that after some time Holst got sick of its success and got deeply annoyed that nothing else he composed was ever talked about. It’s not surprising given the ambition and scale of the suite, it’s damn impressive in how it approaches its subject matter, that being the known planets as represented in astrology, with the attributes of the gods they’re named for: Mars, Venus, Mercury, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune in that order. If you’re wondering why Earth and Pluto are excluded, it’s because for most astrologers, Earth is only a reference point; it doesn’t fit into the astrological schema Holst was working with, because as far as it’s concerned Earth is just the place we live on. Pluto wasn’t discovered until 1930, and by the time it was Holst was tired of it, so someone else filled in that gap.
First movement “Mars, the Bringer of War” more than lives up to its title, and masterfully builds tension with a relentless pizzicato and timpani ostinato in 5/4, a rhythm so irregular in its syncopation that it took me several tries in tapping out the rhythm with my hand to correctly ascertain the time signature. The movement gradually builds with a euphonium motif backed by the bassoons, and other instruments slowly joining until the entire orchestra swells and engulfs you with the sheer weight of its largesse. Words cannot express how overwhelming this moment is, it’s something that’s best experienced for yourself. The timpani is particularly powerful in its volume, supplemented by variations on a chromatic horn passage sounding off from various corners of the concert hall, it really sounds like something fit for a battlefield, and it’s something that’d probably make unprepared soldiers cack themselves. It’s something which I think I can safely assume was even more effective in 1918, when World War I was still being fought. The orchestra settles down for a moment, but it still doesn’t let up because the lone contrabassoon resumes that previous horn motif which simultaneously wavers and ascends until eventually the full orchestra returns in full force and louder than ever. Basically, imagine Mars mounting an army and launching an assault on us heathens, sodding off for a spot of tea, then coming back armed with goddamn nukes, and that’s this movement.
“Venus, the Bringer of Peace” is of course the complete opposite, tranquil and spacious where “Mars” was threatening, loud, and maliciously claustrophobic. Where “Mars” was mostly in the lower registers of its instrumentation, which accentuated certain horns and percussion, “Venus” utilizes flutes especially to great effect, and the celeste complements the slower, more subdued pacing quite well. “Mercury, the Winged Messenger” is easily the shortest of the seven movements, and probably the most complex too. The flutes certainly receive a workout, though the way the rest of the orchestra is involved shouldn’t be overlooked either. The movement has a restless energy to it that never settles on one key, it’s like an idea passing between each musician, something so incomplete that it it wildly varies between tonalities. It also does an excellent job setting you up for the next movement, which is something else I hope to impress upon you all: the sequencing of these movements, for the most part, is fecking genius.
“Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity” is probably the most famous movement that isn’t “Mars”, and for good reason; it’s the most structured movement since “Mars” thus far, and it is arguably the most versatile movement in the suite. It begins with exuberant 2/4 syncopation, then moves onto a triple time crescendo that appears to be trying to match the titular gas giant’s girth, culminating in impressive interplay between the first and second timpani, which must be a bitch to tune because of the sheer amount of notes that have to be played. The next motif will probably sound familiar already, especially if you’re British, because it’s the basis of the patriotic hymn “I Vow to Thee, My Country”, though to be honest I find it much more powerful without words. It’s much harder to explain than it is to just discern from listening, but this theme feels very… English, it feels the most informed by Holst’s love of folk music. Might be because it’s in triple time, which almost makes it sound ideal for dancing in a ballroom to. The remainder of the piece serves to bring every motif into perspective. There was little to no transition between them, but it’s impressive how connected they feel while being strikingly different in tone and rhythm. Now, they’re all being played again, but now it feels like a well-earned last hurrah before moving onto the next movement.
“Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age” feels significantly colder, and the forthcoming music will only get more alien as it gets farther from earth to explore much less charted territory. It’s a much needed moment of introspection, given that “Jupiter” was a lot to take in, but the two note melody of sustained quarter notes that opens the movement bring to mind a grandfather clock, and as it goes on the music sounds more and more like a dirge. The sheer length of each note makes this piece sound downright funereal, like a reminder of regrets and lost opportunities taken to the grave. “Uranus, the Magician” is considerably livelier, and at least in my opinion the most animated movement of the suite. The prominence of the bassoon and contrabassoon in parts brings to mind
Paul Dukas’
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, and they both certainly have a strong air of comic blundering in an otherwise serious scene. This feels especially true of “Uranus” because of its jaunty yet erratic rhythm; the steady horns that carry the melody are accompanied by galloping timpani, and the xylophone seems to be doing its own thing. Though its placement is admittedly somewhat odd, given that it’s sandwiched between two of the most dour movements The Planets has to offer, it’s still a great demonstration of Holst’s range as a composer, and it’s easily the most fun movement, at least in my opinion.
“Neptune, the Mystic” is the final movement, and the most mysterious on account of being the farthest from Earth. It’s also the most indirect due to being mostly pianissimo, with some wonderful interplay between harp and celeste, and the feeling of distance is only further strengthened by a female choir of two soprano and one alto sections. The effect created was revolutionary for its time; fadeouts are a far more common occurrence now, but “Neptune” was the first piece of music, at least the first one I’m aware of, to fade out the way it does. During its premiere, the choir was placed in a separate room, and at the last bar, the door was slowly and silently shut. I don’t know if future performances did the same, but that’s certainly the way Holst intended it to be performed. A soprano I’ve met online assures me that it’s a demanding piece, and given that over half the notes to be sung are above the staff, and the lengths Holst went to for that ethereal effect, I readily believe her. It’s worth it though, because it effectively closes the suite on the uncertainty of the largely unexplored universe beyond our solar system.
Though it overshadows the rest of
Holst’s career, The Planets is among the best that 20th-century classical music has to offer. It has something for every mood, and it has such a variety of emotions and approaches that there’s never a dull moment. Listen to this shit; get a good speaker or a pair of noise-cancelling headphones if you can afford one, and give it your complete undivided attention if you can, because it’s a hell of a journey, and the breadth of the orchestration will reward further listening.
Favourite movements: "Mars", "Jupiter", "Saturn", "Neptune", "Venus"
Least favourite: "Uranus", if I had to choose one
