Composer Spotlight - Matthijs Vermeulen (1888-1967)

In 1918, a Dutch lawyer by the name of Pieter Troelstra gave a speech in Rotterdam calling for a socialist revolution in the Netherlands. The call was ignored, even by his own Social Democratic Workers' Party, but consequences were nonetheless to be had. The Orange House (the monarchy of the Netherlands) sent the military to every major city and immediately launched a propaganda campaign reinforcing the standing government. Troelstra, a formerly influential politician, gained respect within his party (he received a standing ovation at the next party meeting) but lost credibility in politics at large. In the following weeks, much of the country resounded in an intense patriotism that steadfastly counterbalanced any hint of revolution.

With the transition to the 20th century as well as the eruption of World War I, the Dutch people were not only searching for their political identity but their cultural one as well. Particularly when it came to music, there was virtually no established national tradition. Thus when the Concertgebouw opened in 1888 and a resident orchestra was established there, the question of programming came under great scrutiny. After a decade or two, it became clear that Dutch audiences leaned towards the Germanic school of Brahms, Strauss, and Wagner rather than the French composers Debussy, Ravel, and at the turn of the century the self-proclaimed les six. There were, however, a few holdouts who believed even before the German invasion of Europe in 1914 that Dutch composers and audiences would be better off modeling themselves after the French.

Two critic-composers in particular, Alphons Diepenbrock and Matthijs Vermeulen, were early advocates for French influence on Dutch music. While Diepenbrock was an established voice in the music industry at the turn of the century, he was unfortunately viewed mainly as an amateur when it came to composition. He was also, apparently, rather shy and stubborn, a combination which surely did not help him gain popularity. While his music was not exempt from Germanic influences, it was far less maximalist than the music of Wagner or Strauss. Instead, the more sparse orchestrational techniques of Debussy are prevalent. He was also a great admirer of Austrian composer Gustav Mahler, whose influence can be heard as well. This author would argue there is a strong resemblance to the music of British composer Edward Elgar as well, which would not be antithetical to Diepenbrock's overall preferences.

From left to right: Willem Mengelberg, Gustav Mahler, Alphons Diepenbrock

Matthijs Vermeulen, a generation younger than Diepenbrock, was born coincidentally the same year as the foundation of the Concertgebouw, in 1888. He got his start in music while studying as a teenager for the Priesthood and learning about 16th-century counterpoint. Eventually, he moved to Amsterdam to study composition. To keep afloat, he wrote music reviews for the Catholic daily newspaper De Tijd. Diepenbrock took notice of his writing and got him regular work at Der Amsterdammer. This was the beginning of a close relationship between the two, with Diepenbrock becoming a mentor and close friend to Vermeulen.

Vermeulen's earliest works indicate a captivation with Debussy and Mahler in particular, the latter of which whose influence is prevalent in Vermeulen's first triumphant symphony that in many ways mimics the ideological themes of Mahler's own First Symphony. Debussy's influence is heard especially in some of the earlier chamber works and songs. Vermeulen's Cello Sonata No. 1 copies Debussy's compositional techniques almost 1-to-1, with static harmonies and a crucial avoidance of half-step tones in the melodies except at certain key points of interest.

After meeting each other in Amsterdam, Diepenbrock and Vermeulen bonded over a shared vision for Dutch music, inspired equally by Debussy and Mahler, and a similar ideal for melodic function in music. That is, melody should be the basis for harmony, but not be overly restricted in itself. Where Diepenbrock dabbled in poly-melodicism (the use of distinct and separate melodies layered on top of each other), Vermeulen would make it his primary method of composition. Unfortunately, his progressive ideas on music and strong opinions of what Dutch audiences should be exposed to would doom his music to go virtually unheard until the last decade of his life.

One week after Troelstra's uninspiring but still revolutionary speech in Rotterdam, the premiere performance of a symphony by Cornelius Dopper was given by the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra conducted by the composer. In the audience was the young music journalist and composer, Matthijs Vermeulen, who had at this point been active for years trying to garner the attention of Concertgebouw music director Willem Mengelberg. Vermeulen found the German traditionalist symphony by Dopper objectionable both politically and aesthetically. At the end of the performance, in an attempt to degrade the work, he shouted out, "Long live Sousa!" meaning even the marching band music of Sousa was more artistically valuable than Dopper's symphony.

Unfortunately, what was heard by most attendees was "Long live Troelstra!" and was confused to be not a criticism of the music but an echoing call to revolution. After all, Vermeulen as a journalist had a reputation for being politically active and firmly believing in the relationship between politics and art. (Not just a music critic, Vermeulen had also served as a front-line reporter during the Great War). Because of this mishearing, Vermeulen was promptly banned from setting foot in the Concertgebouw for some time.

For an aspiring composer in the Netherlands, this punishment was equivalent to excommunication. Even as a journalist this limited Vermeulen's capacity to accurately represent and comment on musical ongoings in Holland. He continued to write for three publications around the Netherlands for the following year, but in 1919 chose to withdraw from writing to focus on composing.

1917 in particular had been a productive composition year for Vermeulen. Before that he had only written his first symphony in 1914, subtitled Symphonia Carminum. In 1917 he wrote several songs in response to the ongoing World War, one of which, La veille, was rather successful and would go on to have repeated performances around Europe. His music was inspired by French modernism (most obviously indicated by his use of French lyrics, titles, and even playing instructions within his scores), and as previously discussed Dutch music at the time was heavily German-influenced.

In 1921, after two years of hard work, Vermeulen optimistically presented the score of his Symphony No. 2, Prélude à la nouvelle journée to Willem Mengelberg at the Concertgebouw with the following letter:

Dear Mr. Mengleberg,

At the beginning of this year I completed my second symphony. [...] The music is not diluted Wagner, nor is it watered-down Debussy or Mahler, as you so aptly characterized Dutch composition in one of your New York interviews. This music is my own, and it's not very often that a composer can say this. [...] My music has not a single one of the ultra- modernists' drawbacks. It is not short-winded; it is not cerebral; it isn't impotent and it isn't cold or sluggish; it is the opposite of all these things. To state it plainly, with this work I have found the path sought in vain by the Germans, the French, and the English: the logical development of our art along the lines of tradition. It seems to me nearly a matter-of-course that this would sooner or later have had to happen in Holland where the predominant styles are regularly represented. I've not wasted my time as a student of the Concertgebouw Orchestra during these last ten years. Now the question is whether the conductor, who is its personification, is ready and willing to accept this work.

Mengelberg rejected, or rather ignored the young composer, and Vermeulen gave up hope of finding a musical career in the Netherlands. With this and the passing of mentor Alphons Diepenbrock, he moved with his family to France in hopes of a brighter future.

There he continued to compose for several years, receiving encouragement from Nadia Boulanger, to whom Vermeulen dedicated his 1923 String Trio as a thank you for her support; and Koussevitsky, the then-music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra who put great effort although ultimately failed to fundraise money to premiere his Symphony No. 3, Thrène et Péan (1921-1922). By 1926, though, Vermeulen had returned full-time to writing, becoming the Paris correspondent for the Soerabaiasch Handelsblad, a daily newspaper in the Dutch East Indies. In his writings, he often made clear his opinions that politics and culture were intertwined and expressed a discerning eye and strong opinions on a wide range of topics.

He composed occasionally during his tenure with the paper: a violin sonata in 1925, a commissioned project of incidental music for The Flying Dutchman in 1930, an orchestral arrangement of his still popular La veille in 1932, and a second cello sonata in 1938. In 1939, Vermeulen's confidence rose dramatically with the premiere of his 3rd Symphony by the Concertgebouw Orchestra, 17 years after the piece was composed and 21 years since his fateful "Long Live Sousa!" incident that removed him from that beloved hall and orchestra. Finally hearing one of his orchestra works given full effort reinvigorated him. After decades of being told the music was not practical or worthwhile, he was immediately convinced upon actually hearing it that he had been on the right track all along. Here is what he had to say about this event:

When No. 3 was played for the first time, in Amsterdam, good musicians assured me even before the first rehearsal that they did not believe that it would 'sound'. Can you imagine sensations when the conductor raised his baton for the attacca, the first notes, my sensations as the music developed, bar by bar? It 'sounded.' The 'counterpoint' was discernible; the dissonances were 'listenable to.' I might ask: Is it technique, or what is it, that enables one to treat dissonances so that they sound like consonances? For almost twenty years outstanding specialists have kept me under a kind of oppression as regards the feasibility of my music, and during those twenty years or so there has been no one willing to try to resolve the question with a performance, which, after all, I badly needed after so many lamentable accreditations. However firmly one's self-confidence may be anchored, there is nothing more crippling, nothing more suffocating than experiences of this kind.

The piece performed, Symphony No. 3, Thrène et Péan, is a prime example of his fundamental style of composition. While he was not necessarily preoccupied with labels, his music falls under the earlier discussed method of poly-melodicism. Yet it also contains dense counterpoint (intentionally instilled between the contrasting melodic materials), fascinating instrumentation (No. 3 being one of the more lightly orchestrated symphonic works including only two saxophones and two timpani players), and tightly structured music (the 5th symphony is the only one that surpasses 30 minutes in length). Indeed, despite attempts to compare him to Charles Ives in America, Edgard Varèse in France, or even Stravinsky during his le printemps phase, this music differs from anything being written at the time or since. As the conductor Otto Ketting put it when describing Vermeulen's orchestral works:

These are almost all pieces which run counter to everything the average orchestral player or conductor regards as the qualities of an ideal score - transparency, clarity of instrumentation, good idiomatic writing for the various instruments, contrasting dynamics, ease of understanding, harmonic tension and relaxation, lively rhythms. In a word, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart or, if need be, Igor Stravinsky.

Vermeulen's music almost berates the listener, mimicking a world in which three or more parallel thoughts are nagging and prying for one's attention. In his own words, "The melody is a frame of mind expressed in tones." Yet there is a purposeful interaction between lines that is often lacking in the music of Charles Ives. Structurally there are clear blocks of various textures, almost like you would hear in the post-modern minimalist works of John Adams, but rather than repeated figures, the blocks are made up of winding, ambiguous melodies. Beyond these pillars of texture, the density of the material makes it difficult to comprehend where individual lines are more or less important, even when a close analysis of the scores shows such developments taking place (see Ton Braas' summary of the 7 symphonies).

Vermeulen's biographer Ton Braas theorized that, for Vermeulen, melody can represent the individual:

Seen in the light of Vermeulen’s [writings], a multi-voiced, poly-melodic composition takes on the meaning of an aural representation of society. By combining several individual melodies, he reveals the wish he cherishes for society, namely that of every individual being able to freely express and develop himself, without infringing upon other people’s freedom to develop their abilities.

As stated earlier, Vermeulen had a distaste for labels. In his own words:

[I have] no systematic opinions on tonality however. There have been hundreds of systems since man started to make music on the five continents. They have little or no meaning apart from the fact that theories indicate a certain amount of intellectual capacity. In itself, they are neither good nor bad. They become good or bad depending on the results a composer obtains with them. The most remarkable results have been obtained with different systems in the course of the centuries. In itself, it is neither creditable nor of any importance when somebody composes in a certain key. It is just as absurd to consider atonality as polytonality, or the twelve-lone technique as a quality which adds to the intrinsic value of a composition.

This again goes strictly against the codified teachings of Igor Stravinsky. Vermeulen believed in and argued for music that had a soul above all else; a meaning beyond the notes. As Braas puts it:

In an age that hailed Stravinsky's dictum, that music was incapable of expressing anything extra-musical, Vermeulen was painfully aware of the clash between his aesthetic and ethical vision, and the prevailing spirit of his surroundings. He was never attracted to a rigid system of composition like dodecophany or other serial techniques, preferring instead to hold his own fluid course.

Every one of Vermeulen's seven symphonies has a designated subtitle that points to some greater "ethical vision" as Braas poignantly put it, and the music found therein develops the stated theses. No. 4, Les Victoires is an optimistic march to war. It is his most tonal symphony other than the 1st and has many galvanizing and visually striking elements, like large brass choir heralds and thundering timpani. Symphony No. 6, Les minutes heureuses, or "The happy minutes," utilizes a technique of ever-changing thematic material, at once commenting on the delicacy of life and the existence of a mythical force forever driving man and beast forward (Vermeulen was a devout Catholic). In 1959 he even discussed the philosophy behind the music more outwardly:

The elevation of man. Arousing the poetic temperament of the muses, the rapture, the creative dispossition possessed by virtually every person, albeit latently. A higher awareness and the glorification of the earth, world and man. The transformation of the staid provincial to the universal and cosmological man. Negative impulses cannot be allowed; only positive feelings are of use.

Symphony No. 3, Thrène et Péan, the eventual premiere of which served as a launching point for the later part of Vermeulen's career, is equally steeped in philosophical ruminations. Thrène is a mourning dirge and Péan serves as a joyous hymn, although in reality the sound of the Péan has more determination and drive behind it than joy. Both aspects represented within the symphony are intended to be directed toward a subject of deep love and affection, portraying a long brush stroke of human experience. Equally, it represents societal experience as a whole, always developing, through tragedy and joy - an apt analogy for Vermeulen's own life.

After the premiere of No. 3, Vermeulen immediately set forth writing his Symphony No. 4, and after that No. 5, the latter of which was his only symphony in several movements and also his longest at around 45 minutes. Both were written very much in response to World War II, and both are overall optimistic in tone. While other composers (i.e. Shostakovich, Britten, Messiaen, etc.) wrote music in response to the war that was either exclusively bleak, tinted with sarcasm, or had little to do with any kind of future let alone a hopeful one, Vermeulen manages to create tragic landscapes filled with honest faith in a brighter tomorrow.

Yet just a few months later, tragedy struck the composer. In the fall of 1944, his son died fighting for the French Liberation Army, and his wife also passed away during an operation, most likely due to malnutrition from the war. Following this loss, he found comfort in one of his oldest friends and the daughter of his old mentor Alphons Diepenbrock, Thea Diepenbrock. The two married in 1946, and Vermeulen went back to music criticism and political commentary for the next decade. There were some performances of his works in the meantime: both his 4th and 5th symphonies found premiers in 1949, and his 2nd symphony won a prize at the Queen Elizabeth Competition in 1953, providing some much-deserved international recognition for a work written 33 years prior.

Matthijs Vermuelen (left) with his son, Josquin (right)

In 1956, Matthijs and Thea moved to Laren, Holland, where Vermeulen would finally return to composition for the rest of his life, completing two more symphonies, a string quartet, and several songs. His music began to receive more recognition during these later years, but at this point, any chance of his music leaving a lasting influence on Dutch culture was more or less lost. Once more in the words of Ton Braas:

Vermeulen’s compositions share a unique combination of overwhelming energy, power, lyricism, and tenderness. The vitality of his works is the result of the aim he had in mind: to compose as an ode to the beauty of the earth and in astonishment about life, creating music which appeals to the spirituality of man, bestowing feelings of happiness on him and making him acquainted with the source of life, the Creative Spirit. These lofty ambitions, put into words in the book titled Princiepen der Europese muziek [Principles of European music] and numerous articles, were at right angles to the mainstream movements. Consequently, Vermeulen did not have followers or disciples.

Indeed, it was not until the 2000s that optimism and beauty became a valuable or even trending subject within contemporary classical music, with composers like Christopher Theofinidas and Caroline Shaw making headway in such ideas, and their sound worlds are drastically more tonal than what Vermeulen was trying to create. In the 1910s and 1920s, Vermeulen had a very similar goal to Arnold Schoenberg when the latter invented the 12-tone method of composition: to find the next logical step in the progression of classical music. To both Vermeulen and Schoenberg, Strauss and especially Wagner had exercised the limits of tonality, for better or worse. Both sought a path forward, but where Schoenberg looked to theory and methodology for answers, Vermeulen looked to politics and philosophy. This was at once his greatest failure and greatest triumph: the music went against the "-isms" that would follow in the 20th century (i.e. serialism, spectralism, minimalism, etc.) and thus had difficulty finding a wider audience, yet at once you can draw comparisons to the music of so many popular 20th century composers. There are hints of Mahler, Shostakovich, Britten (his use of cannon especially), Ravel, Stravinsky (the 2nd symphony is sometimes called the Rite of Holland), and even Berg. Perhaps this is where the most consistent comparison originated from, that is to American composer Charles Ives, who similarly failed to fit into most popular categorizations of his era.

That is where this author would say the similarities end, though. Vermeulen forged his own path relentlessly, and the arc of his career is remarkably cogent. His music stands more relevant today than ever, mixing modernity with societal reflection in a manner that would be envied by most contemporary composers. It considers sound worlds from Debussy to Mahler to Varèse to Shostakovich, whilst reflecting on the works of Diepenbrock (Vermeulen referred to him as his maître spiritual) and also in many ways predicating the post-modernism movement of more recent years. Vermeulen persisted in his ways to the end, meanwhile continuing to experiment with remarkably innovative orchestrations and structures. At the end of his life, he believed in his music as strongly as he had believed in Catholicism, the unrighteousness of the First World War, the ugly necessity of the Second, and in the destiny of mankind to relentlessly move forward. A microcosm of these beliefs can be found in the lyrics of La veille, by far his most popular work during his lifetime. The words by François Porsche reflect the tragedy of World War I.

"On your knees, on your knees! here is the terrible moment When the grains mixed together, thrown together in the sieve.

Will fly towards their destiny. Let us make prayer another weapon, Let us pray as we fight, with eyes without tears,

Here is the edge of the morning.

Farewell, father, husband, son, brother, friend, all of us.

You did not sleep like the eleven apostles

Around the abandoned Master.

Farewell, here you are all walking with your heads upright, Filing to die through a narrow gap,

Farewell, the time has come."

-P