Holst (1874-1934) - Suite: The Planets

“As a rule I only study things which suggest music to me ... recently the character of each planet suggested lots to me, and I have been studying astrology ...” Writing to a friend in 1913, Holst confirmed the insiration for his Suite for Large Orchestra, a reminder, if any were needed, that these “Planets” are not the celestial objects*. 

Born in Cheltenham of Swedish stock, Holst's “studying” began with piano. In 1893, he entered the RCM to study composition under Stanford. He also learned trombone, practising in a seaside band before joining the Carl Rosa Opera and Scottish Orchestras (1898-1903). He switched to teaching, at a Dulwich school (1903-20), St. Paul's (1905-34), and Morley College (1907-24): I wonder, when did he compose? 

In 1907, following an Algerian cycling holiday, he wrote Beni Mora, forerunner of the sound-world of The Planets, itself completed in 1916. With war raging, a performance seemed unlikely until, in September1918, an excited Holst buttonholed Adrian Boult: “I've been ordered to Salonika in a fortnight, and Balfour Gardiner has given me a wonderful parting present ... Queen's Hall, full of the Queen's Hall Orchestra, for the whole morning of Sunday week. We're going to do The Planets, and you're going to conduct!” 

The night before that performance, Boult recalled: “Geoffrey Toye pointed to the combination in Neptune of the E minor chord with G# and D# in the bass and said to him, 'I'm sorry, Gustav, I think that is going to sound frightful.'” Holst concurred, but felt it unavoidable. Nowadays, it seems incredible that Boult would perform extracts, convinced that a public being fed “a totally new language” could reasonably swallow only 30 minutes. Even in 1950, a BBC Director fretted over a proposed complete performance, considering it “...  not particularly attractive to the public in its entirety.” 

Holst voiced his own ideas about performance. He wrote to Boult from Salonika: “Mars. You made it wonderfully clear - now could you make more row? And work up more sense of climax? Perhaps hurry certain bits? Anyhow it must sound more unpleasant and far more terrifying. Saturn. Make the climax as big and overwhelming as possible. The soft ending will play itself as long as there is no suggestion of crescendo. The organ must be softer. Jupiter. As long as he gets the wonderful joyousness you gave him, he'll do.” In 1974, Boult informed Trevor Harvey (the record reviewer): “I well remember [Holst] saying that he wanted the stupidity of war to stand out ... I heard those records and was appalled - I strongly feel that [Holst], like V.W., had a pretty wide view of the correct tempo for anything. They often said, 'Do it your own way.' BUT there is evidence that [Elgar] and others were rattled by the four-minute [78 r.p.m. side length] slavery, and let themselves be hurried ... I say definitely that rushing Mars à la Malcolm is not putting its stupidity first.” 

Regarding performances of extracts, Boult suggested: “I am quite sure that 90% if not 95% of people only listen to one moment after another and never think of music as a whole at all.” So, what of The Planets “as a whole”? A true suite, with neither symphonic architecture nor binding mottos, its integrity depends on consistency of inspiration and orchestration, to which Holst adds maximum contrast between successive movements: violent (Mars) to serene (Venus), static (Venus) to swift (Mercury), and similarly ethereal to opulent, vibrant to bleak, pallid to exhilarating, and tuneful to tuneless. 

Moreover, movements can be paired by characteristics: Mars with Venus (obviously), Mercury with Jupiter (athlete/couch potato), Uranus with Neptune (extrovert/introvert). Saturn, poor old soul, stands alone. These are not definitive! Following Holst's titles, we could equally pair Mars/Venus and Jupiter/Saturn (contrasted “Bringers”), with Mercury a scherzando interlude and an apposite “Magician”/”Mystic” coupling as finale. Actually, this latter has formal justification: five ternary-form (ABA...) movements precede two in binary-form (AB), underlining a turning from the familiar to the imponderable. Considering Boult's words, though, it matters not whether you are right, but only that you think! 

Today's audiences know and love The Planets, yet it's always new for somebody. So this synopsis, while short is hopefully sweet: 

1. Mars, the Bringer of War hammers a fearsome, relentlessly jagged 5/4 rhythm. Long, baleful phrases contrast glittering martial fanfares, epitomising the “horror” and the “glory”. In the middle, an apparently poleaxed War rises again, amplified, the Appretice's enchanted broom with an X-certificate. Just like real war, the movement knows not how, or when, to stop. 

2. Venus, the Bringer of Peace inhabits a tranquil garden engendered by the glowing, rounded contours of two alternating subjects. The first ascends on horn, reflected by descending woodwind chords becoming an undulating procession. Sinuous 'cellos preface the second,  appearing on intimate solo violin. Decibels are limited to blissful wellings, the scene finally fading in a tinkling of fountains. 

3. Mercury, the Winged Messenger whirls around the orchestra in scurrying figures. The central section is an amazing succession of eleven repetitions of a counter-subject, kaleidoscopically scored: this Mercury doesn't just flit on scented zephyrs, he stirs storm-clouds in his wake. Finally these themes intertwine, before he “pops off”. 

4. Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity: Coruscating textures yield luxuriant themes of cholesterol-packed bonhomie. The movement's heart harbours a grandiloquent tune, intended to portray Jupiter taking his ease (apparently, Holst was not thrilled to see this hijacked for a patriotic hymn), and recalled briefly during the resplendent coda. 

5. Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age: Venus' vibrant undulations degenerate to pale plodding. When a “tune” does surface, it is a dirge urging the creaking aged towards the gates of Hades. Following the awful climax, this depressing image is transformed to movingly portray old age's other side: autumnal serenity. 

6. Uranus, the Magician blazes a four-note phrase, ancestor of the motto of Vaughan Williams' Fourth Symphony. The tune develops from lolloping bassoons to a brilliant climax, thence to a march-like tune which is whipped up even more brilliantly. The four-note motif, active throughout, echoes alone in the “spell-binding” coda. 

7. Neptune, the Mystic is virtually devoid of melody and rhythm. A bare phrase, like a refrigerated mutation of Uranus' motif, is merely a frame supporting ethereal harmony and coldly glistening colours. In this sterilised atmosphere you imagine voices. Then, in the emerging second part, you realise that there are voices. But, what voices! A chilling, remote siren-song dissipating the orchestral texture until only that eternal chorus remains, beckoning as it recedes into the infinite unknown. 

* For this reason alone, and regardless of any musical considerations, I would suggest that Colin Matthews’ appendage of a “Pluto” movement is ill-considered, or even downright spurious. Before we know where we are, somebody else will be jumping onto the bandwagon with an “Asteroids” movement, on the grounds that they are the remnants of a (former) planet. I don’t mind composers writing pieces based on astronomical bodies, but would they please keep their sticky mitts off Holst’s work?
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