Klangwölfe (1978)
(for violin/violoncello and piano)

When I first heard the miserable, furtive, pitifully veiled violin sound, I was spontaneously ready to write for this unknown artifact. Fortunately, the violinist whom I accompanied in César Franck's sonata in 1949 did not understand my suggestion to play the entire concerto with the so-called “Tonwolf” damper. Today I am glad that he rejected it, as it gave me the opportunity to write a composition that makes the problem of the violin/piano combination even more problematic. The accusation that the violin blends intrusively and inadequately with the piano has been raised by many. It is similar with the classical disapproval of Schumann's art of instrumentation. Such criticism is alien to me. If the musical substance and density of the piece of music in question are captivating, the tonal realization is often of secondary importance.

The Tonwolf was developed as an extreme case of a damper so that violinists can practice undisturbed by an environment that is not disturbed by them. The timbre is severely impaired, resulting in a thin, nasal tone with few overtones. The normal loudness of the instrument is also excessively reduced. In order to better adapt the piano to this unusual sound, una corda is predominantly played here. The support of the grand piano remains closed: Both instruments should – in the hall – sound approximately equally loud. The violin and piano, whose fullness of sound is emphatically curtailed, are placed at the service of a radical tenderness, which is expressed either in piano or pianissimo. With a few exceptions, no dynamic indications other than these two are used. With Klangwölfe I was probably unconsciously trying to write my first nocturne.

The form of the piece is based on an idea that can often be found in aesthetic and music-historical reflections on the great music of the past:

“It-is-so-because-it-couldn't-have-been-any-other-way.” I have remained suspicious of this view of the infallibility of masterpieces. As a composer, you learn that sometimes it has to be like this because you can't think of anything better; but later – when the composition can no longer be changed – better ideas cannot be ruled out. Why shouldn't it be the same with those works that we regard as final models?
But instead of poking around in the past, I preferred to test the validity of this observation on myself. At the beginning of the piece, the violinist and pianist play music that could probably be changed very little. Both sound sources, respectful of each other, form an inseparable unit. In each new section, however, the part of the violin or piano changes, while the other half of the duo is quoted verbatim. The result is a study of the formation and illusion of musical emotion. Everything that touches us acoustically perhaps depends more on the intensity and sensitivity of the communication and our willingness to perceive this than on the apparent immutability of the contexts.

M.K.
(Translation by Edition Peters)