Waves Of The Danube Piano Sheet Music Pdf

[Juanjo Pollreisz]

Waves of the Danube" (Romanian: Valurile Dunării) is a waltz composed by Iosif Ivanovici in 1880, and is one of the most famous Romanian tunes in the world. The song has many variations throughout the piece, reminiscent of the music of Johann Strauss. Through the Viennese style variations, there is still a distinct Slavic style.In the United States, it is frequently referred to as "The Anniversary Song",[1] a title given by Al Jolson when he and Saul Chaplin released an adaptation of the song in 1946.[2]

"Waves of the Danube" was first published in Bucharest in 1880. It was dedicated to Emma Gebauer, the wife of music publisher Constantin Gebauer. Composer mile Waldteufel made an orchestration of the piece in 1886, which was performed for the first time at the 1889 Paris Exposition, and took the audience by storm.[2] It won the march prize to mark the exhibition out of 116 entries.[1]

Ivanovici's "Danube Waves" was published in the United States in 1896 and republished in 1903 by the Theodore Lohr Company in an arrangement for piano by Simon Adler. The published version was called "Waves of the Danube." The composition is also known as "Danube Waves Waltz."

The melody of "Waves of the Danube" was used in what is regarded as Korea's first popular song, "In Praise of Death" by Yun Sim-deok recorded in 1926. The song was recorded in Osaka, where she met and fell in love with a Korean married man. The two boarded a steamship returning to Korea, but ended their lives by jumping into the sea.[3][4]

"Waves of the Danube" became well known in the United States only half a century later. Al Jolson and Saul Chaplin published it in 1946 under the name of "The Anniversary Song" ("Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed") and as their own composition.[5] The 1946 sheet music of the song credits the composers as Al Jolson and Saul Chaplin with music by Iosif Ivanovici. Jolson and Chaplin wrote the lyrics while Chaplin adapted Ivanovici's music.

An arrangement by Henry Lefkowitch with Yiddish lyrics by Chaim Towber was published in 1947 as "Der Chasene Waltz" ("The Wedding Waltz"). However, the online catalog of the Florida Atlantic University Libraries contains a record that has 1941 as publication date for this song.[17]

In 1931, film director Josef von Sternberg used the melody in his film Dishonored, in which Marlene Dietrich mimed several piano performances of it. The tune was next used, without being credited, in the 1934 American comedy film The Circus Clown.

"Waves of the Danube" is used in and referred to by characters in the 1963 Soviet film Alyonka, directed by Boris Barnet, in which a newly-graduated dentist imagines her new life on the steppe accompanied by Ivanovici's melody.

Waves of the Danube, composed by the renowned Romanian musician Iosif Ivanovici, is a treasured piece of music appreciated worldwide. Created in 1880, the song has been the pride of Romanian culture and has drawn global attention due to its transfixing ingenuity and emotional intensity.

The song was written during the golden age of Romanian music and has much historical significance. It was a period where Romania was trying to establish its own musical sound and identity. In this context, Waves of the Danube represented the journey of the Romanian people and their unity.

Musically, Waves of the Danube is a waltz characterized by its sleek rhythm and engaging melody. The song uses a note sequence that produces an intertwining harmonic structure, giving it an embracing and flowing rhythm, much like the waves of a river. It echoes of love, longing, joy, and sorrow, painting an intimate picture of the Romanian spirit. It's symbolism and evocative nature have led it to be adopted in various forms, from film soundtracks to national anthems.

If you're intrigued by the enchanting melody of Waves of the Danube, our website offers an intermediate version of the sheet music for piano. After your purchase, you can conveniently download the music sheet and experience the magic of this piece right at your fingertips on your piano.

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That summer the pianist came to town. It was a big event, even bigger than when the first Asian American, Dr. Yee, was elected to the state senate of California. For many Chinese immigrants in Northern California, Master Yang was not just a pianist, but a pianist that they grew up with during the Cultural Revolution. There was none better in China at that time, according to my mother.

I had never seen my mother so excited. That day, she got up very early and vacuumed and dusted the whole four-bedroom house. She even washed all the plates in the dishwasher. The last time we had used the dishwasher was after a fundraising party for Dr. Yee to which Mother invited community leaders, her colleagues, and friends. My mother preferred to clean the plates by hand to save electricity and water. She was a middle manager for the state government and was paid little compared with her friends in Silicon Valley, but she was always generous with me.

She still remembered how Master Yang looked that day. A strand of his jet-black hair fell over his broad forehead and beads of perspiration glistened on his face as he kept playing. His army uniform was soaking wet and his lips moved in sync with his puffy, short fingers, which glided along the keyboard as if they were little girls dancing on the ice.

Too bad that the Crest Theater was only half filled, since my mother and her friends had promoted Master Yang like crazy. I sat in a VIP seat and watched my mother host the event on stage. She had changed into a golden qibao that showed off her womanly curves. Her long, black hair had been pulled into a ponytail and fell to her bare shoulder. The old man on my left breathed deeply as he studied Mother with a pair of binoculars.

The audience applauded. Mother announced that the first piece Master Yang would play would be a piece by Tchaikovsky, and, smiling at the pianist, she retreated backstage; the click of her high heels resonated in the silence.

Master Yang bowed slightly to my mother and then to the audience. He returned to the piano and sat there, with his eyes closed, his lips moving as if he were praying. We all waited quietly. His hands slowly rose in the air, but they dropped. After a moment, he raised his hands again, and they spread open like two small fans. Then abruptly he pounded on the keys as if he was hammering nails. The powerful piano screamed the rage of an old Chinese river. The concert hall shook. I hugged myself, afraid that an earthquake might have been triggered.

A river is just a flowing body of water, and my science teacher once said that the Yellow River is drying up and is heavily polluted by industry and coal mines along its route. Now these people were crying and serenading a distant river that they had helped destroy! My mother, a Marxist-turned-atheist, never believed the crap about Moses and the parting of the Red Sea stuff, but now she and her friends believed that the Yellow River was the soul of the Chinese nation?

At the direction of an old lady from a Chinese newspaper, we all stood on the stage and had a silly group picture taken. Afterward, my mother drove Master Yang and I back to our house. The old man sat in the front and I sat in the back of our Camry. Mother complimented Master Yang, who thanked Mother for hosting the event. They barely talked along the way.

But tonight, Mother was glowing under the bright chandelier, which we seldom used. She took out two more bowls of ice cream and sat on the couch in the family room. I snuggled next to her, eating quietly. Master Yang had changed into a polo shirt and came downstairs to join us.

I nodded. Mother had made this up. I was never really interested in music. Playing the piano seemed to be a very girly thing to do in my school. I followed along because it was part of my obligation as a grateful son.

Master Yang and Mother hovered over me. I could feel their warm breath on my neck. The old man asked me several questions: who my teacher was, how many hours I practiced every week, and what I thought of the pieces I had played.

My mother then reminded me to brush my teeth before going to bed. I dragged my feet upstairs. Normally, Mother would come to my bedroom and chat with me about my school before I slept and I expected this everyday, but today, for the first time in my life, she showed more interest in someone other than me.

At one point he asked me to teach him English, but his tongue was as hard as a steel rod refusing to roll. Any beautiful word coming out of his mouth became totally different, as if he were cooking a Peking duck with Parmesan cheese and salsa. Father always sighed that if only he had been born ten years later, like my mother, things would be different.

Mother met him when he was a history professor in China, and she was a graduate student. She was instantly drawn to the man with the goatee and long ponytail. My father was a popular poet and had published a collection of poetry. Mother still kept the love poems Father had written for her in her scrapbook. She said that father wrote beautifully in Chinese, a language that was only useful in Chinatown here. When we first moved to Sacramento, Father taught in a weekend Chinese school, but that was a volunteer job.

To pass time, he picked up his pen again, and became more and more engaged in his writing. He constantly forgot to prepare meals for us. Mother would return home, exhausted from her work and social activities to find an empty rice cooker . . . and the bickering would resume.

Now, this piano master in our living room was drinking wine and telling my mother about his life. He had been widowed three years ago, and lived alone, and traveled a lot. He said he was slowing down his busy life and was looking for a nice, warm place to settle down.

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