Laurence R. Taylor

Beethoven : Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Major, op. 58

2008-06-22T19:47:00.004-04:00

Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Major, op. 58
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

This concerto comes at the most abundant period of Beethoven's composing career, cheek-by-jowl with the Eroica Symphony, Appassionata Sonata, "Rasumovsky" String Quartets, and Violin Concerto. Like all of these, the work has its surprises. The first surprise is the opening: instead of a lengthy orchestral ritornello, the piano alone quietly sets the music in motion with a motto-like sequence of repeated chords whose rhythm (resembling the famous pattern which opens the 5th symphony) is to dominate the entire movement, Having set forth its claim in a still voice the piano retires to permit the orchestra to indulge in its accustomed ruffles and flourishes, if perhaps a trifle subdued by the tone set by the piano opening. The soloist returns with the introductory melody, soon moving toward regions of color texture and poetry quite new to the piano concerto form. To some extent taking advantage of the newest mechanical developments in the early 19th century piano, the performer's hands often search out the farthest extremes of the keyboard, especially exploring the highest register, deliberately blurring the sounds with the coloristic use of the pedal. The air of mystery, with adventurous use of texture and harmony carrying us far away from the usual bluster of the "virtuoso concerto," soon is swept away, and the introductory "motto" returns, with the repeated chords now thundered out by the piano full throttle. The first movement cadenza is normally one of two written out with great care by Beethoven, and although perhaps presenting an idea of Beethoven's legendary skills as an improviser, have come to seem like an integral part of the work as a whole.

The second movement is brief, simple and devastating. Only the strings of the orchestra are used, the piano kept at a whisper for nearly the entire movement, while the orchestra carries on its part of the dialogue in loud rhythmic statements, peremptory and challenging. Franz Liszt suggested a comparison with Orpheus taming the wild beasts with his music. Whatever the mental image, there is an unmistakable confrontation between the sweet reasonableness of the piano and the obstinate, implacable orchestra. In this interchange the gentleness of the piano prevails, and the orchestra gradually backs down and fades into the background, only then permitting the piano its single crescendo into a fortissimo tilll (in an almost Debussyist blur of color) before sinking back, united with the vanquished strings in an ending of hushed amity.

Tiptoeing out of the grey quiet without a break, the lively finale (a hybrid of rondo and sonata form), sets off in the wrong key of C Major, featuring a galloping rhythm which is to dominate the movement. For the first time in the concerto romping high spirits prevail, and the contrasts of poetic reflections and conflict now achieve joyous resolution. Relaxing into a dreamy secondary theme, the music hearkens back to the high-floating "exploratory" passages of the first movement with a skylarking theme in the highest reaches of the keyboard, the left hand floating up and down in a lower register, anchored by a low drone in the cellos. There is a proper, if bumptious development section which quickly whisks us back to the "skylark' theme (the principal themes are now heard in reverse order). With cheeky persistence the music threatens to ride off to a C Major conclusion, only to wheel around and gallop breathlessly home in the correct key of G.

Beethoven Symphony No. 3 in F-flat Major, op. 55, "Eroica"

2008-06-22T15:51:00.000-04:00

Symphony No. 3 in F-flat Major, op. 55, "Eroica"
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

If the Third Symphony excites attention because of its significance in the world of the early 19th century and its role in the life of the composer, it is of supreme importance purely as a musical work. As with Wagner's Tristan and Stravinsky's Sacre du printemps, the Eroica Symphony marks one of those extraordinary "quantum leaps' which have periodically transformed the whole art of music. With this work Beethoven becomes entirely his own man: the echoes of Haydn and Mozart are behind him.

"In this symphony Beethoven had Buonaparte in mind, but as he was when he was First Consul. Beethoven esteemed him greatly at the time and likened him to the greatest Roman consuls. I as well as several of his more intimate friends saw a copy of the score lying upon his table with the word "Buonaparte" at the extreme top of the title page, and at the extreme bottom "Luigi van Beethoven.' but not another word. Whether and with what the space between was to be filled out. I do not know. I was the first to bring him the intelligence that Buonaparte had proclaimed himself emperor, whereupon he flew into a rage and cried out: "Is he then, too. nothing more than an ordinary human being? Now he too, will trample on all the rights of man and indulge only his ambition. He will exalt himself above all others, become a tyrant!' Beethoven went to the table, took hold of the title page by the top, tore it in two, and threw it on the floor. The first page was rewritten and only then did the symphony receive the title Sinfonia Eroica."

This celebrated account of the ripping up of the title page of the Third Symphony, related by Beethoven's pupil Ferdinand Ries, is probably accurate, and has been enshrined in the minds of all lovers of Beethoven's music. The facts of Beethoven's preoccupation with Napoleon Bonaparte are, however, not so simple. Maynard Solomon, in his landmark studies of Beethoven (1977) traces the astonishing zigzag course of Beethoven's infatuation with Napoleon. (Not too strong a word, infatuation is seen in the reactions of mans other German and Austrian contemporaries of Beethoven, among them Goethe Schiller, Kant, Hegel, Heine... In England there was Wordsworth, Coleridge, the even younger Shelley, and in America the much older Jefferson. All were fascinated by this long-awaited, inevitable outcome of the Enlightenment, the "new man." In Beethoven's ambivalent reactions to Napoleon can be seen the results of the curdling of the dream of the Enlightenment in the gradual "absolute corruption" of "absolute power."

Merely residing in Vienna might have spurred Beethoven's admiration for Napoleon: the Austrian empire was a highly efficient police state. and a most persistent opponent of Bonapartism. Yet a curious ambivalence in Beethoven can be charted as early as 1796-97 in the composition of patriotic, anti-Napoleonic songs. In 1802 (before beginning the Eroica Symphony) Beethoven angrily rejected a suggestion that he compose a sonata in tribute to Napoleon, sneering at the French for the concordat with the Vatican. There may have been a somewhat careerist element in Beethoven's warmer attitude toward Napoleon at the time of the Third Symphony. He had become disillusioned in dealing with the fickle Viennese public, muttering rather loudly that perhaps he might move to Paris. where he thought he might be better appreciated. A symphony dedicated to the head of state could, after all, be a useful step in seeking an entree to Parisian musical favor. But with the fading of Beethoven's quite fanciful notions about Paris came a fading of his Bonapartist sympathies. The news of Napoleon's imperial ambitions was a resounding jolt to these sympathies (as it was to almost all of those idealistic admirers), resulting in the scene described by Ries. Nevertheless, as late as 1809 (with Vienna under siege from the French!), Beethoven became friendly with a member of the emperor's Council of State, who noted the composer's preoccupation with "the greatness of Napoleon. There were other oddities: flirtation with not one but two of the Bonaparte brothers with a possible court appointment in prospect, (Napoleon having installed members of his family at the head of various European puppet-states.) Later in 1809, during the French occupation of Vienna, the composer conducted a performance of the Eroica, and even pondered the idea of dedicating the C Major Mass to Napoleon! (Consistency was never Beethoven's strong suit.) After that the recorded comments regarding Napoleon become uniformly sour, as in the trenchant comment on learning of the emperor's death in 1821: "I have already composed the proper music for that catastrophe"!

The Eroica Symphony received its first public performance on 7 April, 1805 - a newspaper advertisement had listed it as a "Symphony in D# Major"! The very scale of the work is amazing: fully twice the duration of most Haydn symphonies, calling for an expanded orchestra, bringing new character to the traditional four-movement components of the classical symphony.

The first movement hurtles us into this new world with two karate-chop chords, immediately followed by the principal theme in the cellos, for a moment veering off into what might be called "clouded harmony," rushing forward into a full blaze of light with the entire orchestra pouring out the melody. Surprisingly soon we are drawn into the second subject, a five-fold string of elements united around the dominant key, varied in character: 1.) a tune made up of three notes "frisbied" around the winds and violins; 2.) a suave tune moving in contrary motion up and down in the strings; 3.) a galloping, rhythmically agitated element; 4.) a melody in the winds in repeated chords, echoed in the strings; 5.) another rhythmically pointed section, with driving accented patterns which lead to grating, dissonant final chords which round out the exposition.

The development is without precedent in its single-minded forcefulness, perhaps the most thorough and unrelenting in all the Beethoven symphonies, with accented, grinding chords culminating in a climax of violent dissonance. The obsessive fury of this passage is to be seen in Beethoven's manuscript, where the composer painstakingly writes out the direction sforzando throughout the score from top to bottom no fewer than 364 times! This outburst suddenly gives way to a completely "new" episode: a gentle, lyrical passage in c minor, for all the world springing out of the blue. (A close examination of the printed page will reveal that this "new' tune is actually a subtly disguised paraphrase of the opening principal subject!) This vast, sweeping transformation of the principal elements leads us gradually home to Eb major at a moment of high drama: against a buzzing, soft tremolo in the violins a horn timidly' "sticks a toe in the water," so to speak, intoning the main melody in a dissonant whisper, only to be pounced upon by the entire orchestra, setting off with a bang the recapitulation, the opening tune back in the cellos. The big exposition is reborn in a big recapitulation - only to spur the composer to roll ever onward into a very big coda, A little-noticed striding figure (heard early in the movement) returns to propel the music forward in ever-grander gestures, interrupted only by an unexpected reappearance of element 2 of the second subject, the music surging on to conclude with another pair of karate-chop chords, forming symmetry with the opening of the movement.

If the grandeur and sheer scale of the first movement were not enough to put one in awe of this symphony, the slow movement makes an unforgettable impression. Its shape is clear: a funeral march opening (an ABA structure), which recurs two more times, enclosing a pair of contrasting episodes. The ceremonial character of the music is vividly underscored by a muffled "drum-roll" figure in the basses, with the melody alternating between violins (playing in the dark lower register) and the plangent sound of solo oboe.

The first episode (similar to that in another famous funeral march - that of Chopin's B-flat minor piano sonata, probably inspired by Beethoven's example) shifts from minor to major, with sustained, arching melodic lines in the winds against lapping triplets in the strings. After a brief return of the funeral march, a second episode turns the march melody upside down in an extended fugal section which creates an even darker, more grief-stricken mood which is pushed to the extreme in an outburst of militant brass and pounding triplets in the strings. This gradually subsides, the triplets becoming a murmuring background with the return of the march melody over a weary, limping bass-line. The movement concludes in a vivid portrayal of sobbing, halting sorrow. (It is worth noting that this is certainly the precursor of the funeral march movements in the symphonies of Gustav Mahier.)

The scherzo. while not the first in a symphony (Beethoven's Second claims that distinction), is the first big scherzo, in the sense of its psychological impact as well as the sheer noise it makes. The initial noise is a rustling whisper, soon giving way to the hammer-blows which makes this the fore-runner not only of the scherzi from the 5th and 9th symphonies, but those of Schubert, Bruckner and even Shostakovich. In the trio Beethoven adds a third horn to the usual pair found in the classical orchestra, permitting full triads (as he did again in the celebrated "Abscheulicher!" aria in Fidelio. which was hatching about the same time as the Eroica. The echoes of the traditional hunting horns heard in this trio became a link to the "Romantic" horn writing so characteristic of the scherzi in Bruckner's symphonies

The finale of the symphony is the first example in Beethoven of an attempt to shift some of the weight from the first movement to the last, following the example of Mozart's Jupiter Symphony. In this case the finale is an elaborate set of variations on a theme which Beethoven seems to have been unable to get out of his head: a tune already used in a set of orchestral dances, in the Prometheus ballet music, and in a piano work nicknamed (after the fact) "Eroica" Variations.

After a cascading splash of sound in the strings and some majestic chords, the theme is first heard in the pizzicato strings, curiously jaunty and cheeky, with mischievous silences and sudden thumps from the entire orchestra. The first three variations come as a group: Var. I with a tapping, repeated rhythmic figure which will reappear as the famous opening motif in the 5th Svmphony: Var. 2 bringing triplets into play; Var 3 featuring oboe and clarinet with the tune, against a rapid flowing figure in the violins. Then follows the first of two fugal episodes (here in C minor), with the tapping, repeated figure given prominence. The variation procedure resumes with No 4, with a cheerful turn given the solo flute. Var. 5 follows in a tense G minor, with a striding repetition of the opening of the theme, and an insistent dotted rhythm. Shifting to a sunny C major, there follows what starts out as a variation, only to glide back to the home key for a second fugal episode. this time inverting the theme against a rustling counter-melody in the
violins. Driving onward with increasing tension and agitation, the mood is sharply broken by Var. 6. shifting to a slower tempo (andante). with a plaintive wind version of the theme answered by hymn-like strings in full resonance. The scherzando triplets from the latter part of this variation are carried over in the final Var. 7, hammered out in a pre-echo of heavy 1950's rock-n-roll against the theme, now belted out in lower strings, winds and horn. Suddenly the coda steals in, maintaining a then slower tempo, at first quiet and subdued, swelling to a peak of full sonority before falling away again. The "cascading" figure from the start of the movement reappears and hurtles forward in a burst of furious energy, concluding the symphony with hammer-blow chords, the final pair being a clear echo of the opening notes of this Napoleonic epic of a symphony.

Opera Festival of New Jersey Lectures, 1999

2008-04-16T06:00:00.003-04:00

Here are LRT's lectures for the 1999 season of the Opera Festival of New Jersey. They are MP3 files that for the time being are hosted at fileden.com.

Opera Festival of New Jersey Lectures, 2002

2008-04-16T05:18:00.003-04:00

Here are LRT's lectures for the 2002 season of the Opera Festival of New Jersey. They are MP3 files that for the time being are hosted at fileden.com.

Opera Festival of New Jersey Lectures, 2001

2008-04-13T13:52:00.010-04:00

I'm attempting to share mp3 files of LRT's lectures delivered for the Opera Festival of New Jersey. They are hosted right now at fileden.com. Let me know if you have trouble.

These lectures were for the 2001 season.

Laurence R. Taylor Memorial Service

2004-09-28T11:12:00.001-04:00

This is the last piece played at LRT's memorial service in the Princeton Chapel on September 28, 2004. Jerusalem, Elgar, arr.

The Princeton Symphony Orchestra conducted by Mark Laycock.

Memorial Service at the Princeton Chapel

2004-09-28T10:53:00.002-04:00

This is the first piece played at LRT's memorial service in the Princeton Chapel on September 28, 2004. Jerusalem, Elgar arr.

The Princeton Symphony Orchestra conducted by Mark Laycock.

Beethoven Symphony No. 9

2004-07-20T19:00:00.003-04:00

These notes were written not in 2004, but several years earlier, and recycled for concert on 3 X 2004. [comment by LRT. -ed]

Some Thoughts on the Ninth Symphony...

It is possible to claim that in the entire history of Western music no single composition has cast such a long shadow, and more totally absorbed the attention of musicians and music lovers for so many years, as the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. The premiere in Vienna on May 7, 1824, was an eagerly awaited event. A dozen years had passed since the Eighth Symphony. It was a turbulent, often unhappy period for the composer, with remarkable creative bursts interspersed with long spells of little accomplishment. As he approached his fiftieth year, Beethoven, who had compressed the bulk of his output into a remarkably prolific twenty years (1792 1812), was now living in near isolation, writing works whose musical language and expressive meaning seemed increasingly enigmatic and intractable to many of his contemporaries. Enveloped by total deafness, the composer became ever more withdrawn from society. In the view of many observers, it accounted for the increasingly eccentric nature of many of the later compositions.

Beethoven gradually emerged from this protracted period of family problems, poor health, and deep depression to regain his creative energies. In 1817, an invitation from the Philharmonic Society of London to write a pair of symphonies was a hopeful omen for the future. There was to be a series of remarkable works for piano, starting with the colossal "Hammerklavier," Sonata, as well as the equally daunting "Diabelli" Variations, and the beginning of the Missa Solemnis, op. 123. Tackling such monumental projects was a clear sign of renewed energies, but it was with news that a ninth symphony was ready for performance that the outside world became aware of the composer's creative recovery.

For all the technical limitations of the performance (directed by three persons - one of them the deaf composer himself), the premiere was a success, a grand occasion. The more perceptive observers of the day were well aware that this symphony was a portent of powerful changes in the art of music: things would never be the same. Most younger orchestral composers were profoundly stirred by the Ninth and shaken by the challenge it represented. The writing of a symphony was, from then onward, never again a matter to be taken lightly.

For the younger generation of Romantic composers Beethoven was indeed a tough act to follow. Although a passionate advocate of Beethoven in France, Berlioz steered clear of the seductive influence of the Ninth, taking the "Pastoral" Symphony as the jumping off point for his Symphonie Fantastique, although the grandeur of his Requiem and Te Deum show signs of the impact of the Ninth. Composed not long after the death of Beethoven, the symphonies of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and even Liszt show clear evidence of having been written in the uneasy shadow of of the Ninth Symphony. True, these are works of originality and great power, even in those problematic instances when the example of a choral finale is embraced, as Princeton Chamber Symphony listeners will recall in the case of Mendelssohn's "Lobgesang" Symphony. The male chorus conclusion of Liszt's "Faust" Symphony is another example. Liszt's own decision to develop the "symphonic poem" was taken by many Romantic composers as a sign that the best solution to the challenge of Beethoven's example was to move in a quite different direction. In the well known case of Brahms, who rejected Liszt's example, the sheer audacity of following in the footsteps of Beethoven kept the young composer in a state of agonized indecision for years before producing his first symphony. Wagner, after a charming early symphony written in the spirit of Weber, directed his own Beethovenian tendencies into the music drama, insisting (probably correctly) that his stage works embodied the essence of the "symphonic principle" derived from Beethoven. Rather unexpectedly, it was Anton Bruckner who confronted the enormous challenge of the Beethoven Ninth Symphony. Out of nowhere, Bruckner emerged as the "house symphonist" for the Wagner faction, with works positively haunted by the Beethoven Ninth, as can be heard in the hushed string tremolo opening bars, and spacious adagio slow movements found in most of his symphonies. Significantly, although a superb composer of choral music, Bruckner never dreamed of following the example of a choral finale. The final flowering of that symphonic innovation would come in the works of Mahler.

If the achievements of Newton and Einstein mark key events in the history of ideas, the Ninth Symphony occupies a comparable position in the history of art. Quite early on, the Ninth took on a strikingly ceremonial, even emblematic position. An example would be the dedication of the Bayreuth Festspielhaus in 1872, when Richard Wagner, no shrinking violet when it came to self regard, chose not to perform one of his own works, and instead conducted the Choral Symphony, as though invoking from the immortal Beethoven himself a musical blessing upon the enterprise.

Not only is the Ninth one of a handful of landmark compositions looming over the history of music, in the contemporary age it also has taken on an unparalleled cultural significance. Years ago, Pablo Casals urged that the symphony be heard worldwide as a symbol of peace and brotherhood, the Ode to Joy as a sort of "international anthem." We were reminded of this sentiment when Beethoven's music boomed out over loudspeakers in Tiananmen Square during the Chinese students' protests in 1989. Later that year, with Schiller's word Freude [joy] replaced by Freiheit [freedom], Leonard Bernstein led an international body of singers and players in an emotionally charged performance celebrating the fall of the Berlin Wall. Yet, with the widely held view of the Ninth as symbol of the noblest human aspirations, the symphony, always resilient, has been used for other darker purposes. In 1942, the symphony was the high point of a birthday concert for the Fuehrer conducted by Wilhelm Furtwaengler. And, for some who remember Anthony Burgess's Clockwork Orange, the Ninth can seem positively creepy. When the Bayreuth Festival reopened in 1951, the symphony was played again, perhaps to cleanse the premises of fascist contagion. With fitting irony, the conductor was Wilhelm Furtwaengler! Beethoven, however, seems to rise above even the most twisted claims to his legacy. The Ninth has always occupied an honored place in the repertoire of the Israel Philharmonic, which (then called the Palestine Philharmonic) performed the work when word of the Nazi surrender was received in 1945.

From the very beginning, the symphony was viewed with awe. Until well into the modern age, performances were rare, eagerly awaited events. The rise of modern technology over the last fifty years has (for good or ill) made possible the huge, worldwide popularity of the symphony. The writer of these notes remembers the excitement of hearing the Ninth for the first time at age ten on a car radio, broadcast from Boston - his father obligingly pulled over and parked to avoid losing the radio signal. And those who can remember the majestic sight of the Ninth on a library shelf, a heavy album of ten breakable 78 r. p. m. records, may smile with satisfaction to learn that the very duration of the Ninth Symphony inspired the inventors of the compact disc to accommodate an uninterrupted stretch of approximately seventy minutes of music!

The Ninth can fascinate by its sheer scale alone. For many it is a sort of musical Mount Everest, which can challenge a listener's sense of adventure "because it is there." The spirit of the choral finale remains an overwhelming experience, with its appeal to a nonspecific but powerful religious impulse that sweeps past divisions of religion, race, and politics. This enduring appeal makes the Ode to Joy a target for every sort of use and misuse. The melody turns up everywhere: in church hymnals, in television commercials, at the Olympic Games, sampled by Michael Jackson. Somehow the music survives the overkill. The symphony is so popular in Japan that 162 performances were reported to have taken place in December of 1991 alone! And whatever the aftermath of Tiananmen Square, Chinese audiences are deeply moved by the work, as was reported by the Princeton Chamber Symphony's own Toby Goodyear and Gerald Neary, who joined the Yale Alumni Chorus this past summer for performances of the symphony in Beijing, Xian, and Shanghai.

Thus, the Ninth Symphony seems to take on a wider significance than could ever have been imagined in earlier times. And although the century now concluding may seem to be a period of unequaled horror, those unwilling to abandon Beethoven's idealistic vision of a world in which "all men shall be brothers" may be heartened by the symphony's increasing appeal in an ever shrinking world community. Clearly this work has never lost its power to provoke and challenge.

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, op. 125

Between 1800 and 1812, Ludwig van Beethoven composed his first eight symphonies, reaching a peak of popularity with a remarkable harvest of works in what is sometimes called his "heroic" period. After the first performance of the Eighth Symphony in 1814, a ninth symphony was eagerly anticipated. Troubles, however, awaited the composer the most immediate being his increasing deafness, which brought to a close his career as a pianist after a performance of the "Archduke" Trio in May of 1814. At that point, Beethoven began to be overwhelmed by a host of personal problems, including family disputes, deteriorating health, and what today would be called depression. Creative work was increasingly set aside, and Beethoven began to retreat from the world.

Sketchbooks kept by Beethoven bear evidence that he had considered composing another symphony soon after the premiere of the Eighth Symphony. (One of these, the Scheide Sketchbook, now housed in Princeton University's Firestone Library, contains a few bars of what would become the famous theme of the Ninth Symphony scherzo.) Another sketchbook entry refers to a "Symphony," with descriptive comments that seem to look ahead to the plan for the opening movement of the Ninth. But there are other fascinating early seeds that would eventually bear fruit. Above all was Beethoven's desire to compose a setting of Schiller's Ode to Joy, which can be traced back as early as 1792 - thirty-two years before the Ninth Symphony was completed! Forty other settings of the Schiller poem appeared before Beethoven's version, including one by Franz Schubert. Beethoven himself made notations for a setting in 1798, and again in 1811.

In 1817, using Beethoven's pupil Ferdinand Ries as an intermediary, the Philharmonic Society of London put out feelers for a possible commission of a pair of symphonies they hoped would be performed a year later, with Beethoven invited to London to take part, in the manner of Haydn's appearances there a generation earlier. Beethoven originally agreed to the commission, only to set it aside on grounds of health problems. The state of his health, however, did not stand in the way of composing the "Hammerklavier" Sonata! In his initial thoughts regarding a pair of symphonies, Beethoven considered one work employing the antique "church modes," and another that would incorporate voices in a setting of a German text. These ideas remained hazy at best during the period in which the late piano works were finished, and a long cherished hope to compose a Missa Solemnis was fulfilled. By the time Beethoven worked out the final terms for a commission from the Philharmonic Society (April, 1822), the plan for a pair of symphonies had given way to a projected single work. The curious notion of using the church modes was put off, only to reappear in the celebrated "Hymn of Thanksgiving" movement in the op. 132 string quartet. A symphony with voices was still uncertain, and for a time Beethoven toyed with the idea of a purely instrumental finale. He even sketched out a theme that, oddly enough, also turns up in the finale of the same string quartet. Beethoven still entertained hopes for a symphony "with voices" but was uncertain about whether a setting of a German text would be appropriate for a commission from England. These doubts were soon set aside, and the long anticipated setting of the Schiller text would become a reality.

The orchestra used in the Ninth Symphony is Beethoven's largest: winds, trumpets, and timpani in pairs, piccolo, four horns, three trombones, and percussion. An unusually large orchestra was assembled for the first performance, in the spacious Kaerntnerthor Theater. Fifty eight strings are known to have taken part, with ninety singers in the chorus. Adding the other players, the orchestra probably numbered between 75 85 members. Eager as ever to lay out a groaning board of musical nourishment, Beethoven also programmed three movements from the Missa Solemnis, and the "Consecration of the House" Overture!

First impressions count, it is said, and among many other gifts, Ludwig van Beethoven had a unique touch when it came to starting a composition. That said, truly nothing in all of Beethoven can match the originality and sheer mystery of the opening bars of the Ninth Symphony: an enigmatic humming open fifth in the strings (plus horns) hovers on A around apparently shapeless thematic fragments. The movement seems to come to life, in sudden swell into fortissimo, unleashing the first subject in a full, fierce unison proclamation - those "shapeless" thematic fragments begging to find form. After a moment of powerful rhetorical gestures, the music swoops back to the hushed opening. This time, it hovers on D (the home key) and the great unison theme is now heard in B flat, followed by further rhythmic hammering back and forth between winds and strings. B flat becomes the tonality of the second subject, ushered in through a gentle transitional phrase in the winds. (B flat takes on great significance in the over all plan of the symphony, often as a lyrical contrast to the sterner character of the home key of D minor.) The second subject lays out three important elements in quick succession: 1) a solemn melody in fourths heard in the winds against a pattering background in the strings; 2) a figure moving in contrary motion, swooping through the strings and gaining in urgency; 3) a tight rhythmic figure (in dotted notes) barked out by the entire orchestra. The music gains density and darkness and the rhythmic element takes the lead to round out the exposition with more unison hammering.

There is no repeat. The musical argument moves forward with single-minded intensity into a development of great concentration and intricacy. Plunging into the first subject, Beethoven directs his attention to a tiny motive of eight notes that heretofore has been overlooked. This motive emerges with great clarity in an elaborate fugal section in C minor, first in the cellos, then the violins, against a chain of chattering, syncopated sixteenth notes. This "chattering" takes on a more dramatic character before subsiding into a moment of quiet still punctuated by the restless sixteenth note background figure first heard in the exposition. Moving onward, the music suddenly finds itself swept into a recapitulation of amazing violence. The first subject material fights to be heard while the timpani thunders away without let up for some forty bars. This stunning outburst gradually gives way to the relative calm of the second subject, which is laid out very much as before, only this time moving uneasily between the major and minor forms of the home key. Such an amazing flood of ideas and emotional power unleashed in the main body of the movement demand a grand summation, which led Beethoven to compose a vast coda, virtually a second development. The first subject and the mysterious textures of the symphony's introductory bars are recalled and joined by a tense, striding march figure in the lower instruments. While the darkness is relieved for a moment in a haunting "pastoral" touch in a solo horn, which quietly intones the eight note figure, the strings turn away from this and trudge forward in a grim unison. Soon, an insistent chromatic ostinato figure in the strings reaches pitch of controlled, cold passion. Tremolando patterns swing in great arcs against unyielding rhythmic patterns in winds and brass. With a last reiteration of the opening statement, the movement not so much concludes as slams shut.

The scherzo occupies the second position in Beethoven's structural plan, as if providing comic relief after the dark drama that precedes it - albeit on a colossal scale, this being the third longest symphonic movement ever composed by Beethoven, clocking in at about thirteen to fifteen minutes! In contrast with the complex first movement, the scherzo is a straightforward musical structure. It abandons the traditional ABA structure, however, in favor of a more subtly balanced sonata form while still retaining a contrasting trio section. The opening of this scherzo is another of those moments of great originality in Beethoven: a hammered out, three note rhythmic motive, swung about the orchestra, with the solo timpani giving a startling fortissimo entry. Surpassing even the unfettered energies of the Seventh Symphony, this scherzo movement goes even further in making rhythmic expression the primary focus of his work. It is interesting to consider this movement as the locus classicus for a rich harvest of rhythmic scherzo movements, extending from Schubert and Bruckner to Mahler and Shostakovich.

The opening primary statement is immediately extended in fugal fashion. It soon lands in the bracing fresh air of C major for a secondary theme. This rough hewn, folk-like tune skirls in the winds against a background of the omnipresent, three note rhythmic motive tirelessly thrashed out by the strings. The development section manages to slide into keys as remote as E minor and C minor before eventually piling back into the home key for an uproarious recapitulation, in which the timpanist declares war on the entire orchestra. After that splendid display of high spirits, the trio comes as an episode of relative calm. The beat changes from three to four and settles down in the key of D major. A main hurdy gurdy tune is heard against a trotting, energetic pattern in the bass with immediate contrast provided by a gliding, stepwise tune in the strings. The trotting bass line moves into the violins, while the folk tune is heard over and over in the horn. This time, an unmistakable bagpipe drone is added. All of this is effected with the harmonic support of little more than a pair of chords. When the drone effect envelopes the entire orchestra with a sustained D, the trotting figure is passed on to the upper winds. This idyllic scene is dispelled with a bang, and it is off and running in a reprise of the scherzo. We again run head on into that great drone of D remembered from the trio, and conclude with an impatient dive out of sight.

Like the opening of a flower, the adagio reveals itself with simplicity and tenderness. Following a structural approach adapted from Haydn, the movement takes the form of "double" variations, with two distinct themes varied in alternation. The tonality is B flat major, with a smoothly sustained primary theme in the violins that is rounded out by subtle "echo" figures played by the winds at the end of phrases. Without pause, the strings unfold a secondary theme, a murmuring, meditative melody in D major. Once again, the B flat/D polarity characteristic of the entire symphony makes an appearance. The tempo becomes slightly quicker, yet the harmony is nothing more than a languorous swinging back and forth between tonic and dominant. The texture is enriched by doublings in the winds. The music gains in intensity, then sinks back into B flat with the primary theme now subtly embellished in the violins, accompanied by horns and pizzicato lower strings. A quickening tempo brings the secondary theme into a new key for its variation (G major). This time, the winds are given greater attention and decorated by a nodding rhythmic figure in the strings. An episode in E flat follows. It is new sounding but actually is based upon the first two bars of the primary theme. Here, it is wholly given over to the winds, with the strings confined to whispering pizzicato patterns. The harmony moves into ever more remote areas before reaching the unlikely key of C flat major! The fourth horn is given a rare chance to be heard as a soloist. Returning to B flat, the primary subject returns for a final variation. Again, the violins carry the melody with a flowering, elaborate embellishment heard against a sumptuous, harmonic tapestry in the winds. The secondary theme is not heard again. Instead, another tonal shift leads forward a coda in E flat, where, for the first time, music of a sterner cast is heard. It relaxes into the warm richness of an organ-like D flat major. Returning to the home key, the closing bars are rounded out in the spirit of the movement's serene opening bars.

If each movement of the Ninth Symphony opens with great originality, the stunning dissonance that wrenches the listener from the reverie of the slow movement in the opening of the finale never loses its shocking impact. Richard Wagner called this a Schreckensfanfare, or fanfare of terror. The cellos and basses step forward from this welter of confusion and agitation to take the lead in reviewing a succession of thematic elements from the earlier movements in an instrumental recitative. It is almost as if the listener were being reminded of the earlier stages of this long journey while preparing for the transfiguring moment when the human voice enters into the symphonic arena. After these kaleidoscopic contrasts of texture, harmony, and mood, the wordless recitative gives way to the first hint of the "Joy" theme in the winds. With a final comment from the cellos and basses, the introduction snaps to a close.

In discussing the main body of the finale, it is important to point out that a great variety of approaches can be taken in analyzing this movement. Among them is an intriguing suggestion by Charles Rosen and others that the movement is actually a self contained symphony in four movements! While tempted by Rosen's analysis, the following discussion follows a fairly traditional approach, one that may offer a moderate and fairly uncomplicated view of the structure of the final movement.

The main body of the finale can be heard as a free set of variations, interspersed with three episodes, two of them fugal in texture. The theme (the famous Ode to Joy melody) is first heard in a smoothly sustained form played by the cellos and basses. Three orchestral variations follow, which expand in scale and power. Variation 1: melody in violas and cellos, with a counter melody in the bassoon. Variation 2: a fully harmonized setting for the full string section, the bassoon adding color. Variation 3: a statement for full orchestra, this time extending the final four notes into a "codetta," which is often used to round out successive variations.

Just when the listener might expect a fourth variation on a yet grander scale, there is a savage wrenching back to the dissonance of the introduction. This time, the baritone soloist enters singing words actually written by Beethoven, "O friends, not these tones…" The baritone goes on to sing the fourth variation, initially joined by the basses of the chorus, then the full chorus (without the sopranos). The vocal quartet is heard for the first time in the fifth variation, the second strain of which is repeated by full chorus. In the sixth variation, the theme is treated to a florid, somewhat strenuous ornamentation in the solo quartet before being taken up (ornamentation and all) by the chorus. This time, the codetta rounding out the variation pushes forward to a joyous high A in the sopranos at the words "the cherub stands before God." Here, Beethoven breaks the long stretch of D major with a bold shift to the key of B flat, which yet again acts as a tonal foil to the home key of D. This seventh variation is marked by the sharpest contrasts in the symphony: a change of tonality, meter, tempo, orchestral color, and emotional tone. Switching to a jaunty 6/8 meter, the sound of Turkish music carries us into a lively martial atmosphere, inspired by the sprightly tone of Schiller's text, sung by the solo tenor with men's voices. The bright colors with the piccolo's penetrating timbre are matched by the oompah bass of the contrabassoon and the jingling "Turkish" effects in the percussion. They introduce touches of musical exotics popular in Austrian music since the 18th century, and perhaps best known from Mozart's Seraglio. This unbuttoned expanse of musical exuberance moves effortlessly into the first fugal interlude, in which the Ode to Joy tune is converted into rapid eighth notes circling around a syncopated theme derived from the march melody. The chorus is silent while the orchestra strides restlessly through a wide range of tonalities in an excited buzz of counterpoint. A gigantic repeated unison F sharp sweeps through the orchestra for a moment before the solid footing of D major is regained in the eighth variation. The chorus repeats the opening stanza of Schiller's poem and rejoins the proceedings in an exultant outpouring of emotion that is supported by the orchestra with unflagging rhythmic energy carried over from the fugue. A shuddering halt is reached and a pause. In another bold contrast, the second episode, an andante maestoso in G major, is heard first in the mens' voices doubled by the trombones. This setting of the words Seid umschlungen, Millionen (Be embraced, oh ye millions!) is the spiritual heart of the work, as fervent in its passion and eloquence as the march variation was sportive and buoyant. Joined by the upper voices (and the rest of the orchestra), the image of the "firmament of stars" is depicted by the sweeping of strings and winds into their higher registers. Hovering on a starry, dazzling, dissonant chord, and in no hurry to break away, this hushed moment is swept aside by the third episode: a double fugue in D major, combines a version of the original ode tune (set to words from the first stanza) with the Seid umschlungen theme (retaining its own text). In this episode the sopranos of the chorus are asked to sustain a high A for ten punishing bars. When asked about this, Beethoven was said to have made one of his withering comments to the effect that, "when I was overcome by the spirit of God, I didn't have your wretched vocal chords in mind!"

At this point, as Donald Francis Tovey has written, "all themes vanish: there is an awestruck hush at the thought of falling prostrate; from which the thought of the loving Father beyond the stars brings calm…." After a pause, the coda springs into view, with a new, rather childlike tune for the solo voices, a kind of free round that is soon taken up by the chorus. After a repetition of this passage, the solo voices suddenly veer into B major. The tempo drops to a poco adagio. Two notes sung by the baritone soloist (low A and B) take us back to the home key. A jubilation centers upon those two pitches and leads to the final prestissimo, in which key phrases from Schiller's poem sail through the chorus. With a last great maestoso declamation of the words Tochter aus Elysium, the orchestra sprints through the final bars in an uninhibited delirium of sheer joy.

Against all advice, Beethoven insisted on taking part in the collective direction of the premiere of the Ninth Symphony. In the rehearsals, it became obvious that his deafness (and intense emotional involvement) made following him nearly impossible, yet nobody dared to persuade Beethoven to leave the direction to others. So, joined in a loving conspiracy, the performers, while pretending to follow the composer, relied upon signals from key leaders of the performance. At the end, the composer, dripping with perspiration and standing rooted to the spot, was gently taken by the arm by one of the soloists and turned around to see an ovation he could not hear.

Beethoven: Symphony No. 7 in A Major, Op. 92

2004-02-19T19:09:00.000-05:00

Symphony No. 7 in A Major, Op. 92

Ludwig van Beethoven
(1770-1827)

After the Fifth, perhaps the most popular of Beethoven’s nine symphonies is No. 7. It often threatens to be overplayed: one remembers an agonised letter to the editor of a university newspaper (after the umpteenth visiting orchestra trotted out the A Major Symphony): “Dear Sir: Beethoven’s Seventh is a masterpiece---but it is not fifty percent of all the music ever composed!

Actually this big, brawling symphony seems quite inexhaustible, overflowing with incredible rhythmic vitality, always revealing new secrets, delights and quirks.

The first quirk to be noted is the introduction to the first movement. Fully four and one-half minutes long, it is quite as long as some entire first movements composed by Beethoven! After the portentous tone of this introduction the joke is on us when we discover that the main business of the first movement is apparently little more than a bright, twittering, somewhat trivial tune built on an obsessive “dactylic” rhythm (tum-ta-tum, tum-ta-tum…) So pervasive is this rhythm that we are apt to lose sight of the underlying sonataform, the listener hearing the movement as a nearly monothematic structure, spinning the springy, jig-like rhythmic pattern into ever-expanding waves of sound. And how remarkably untrivial it all becomes!

From the beginning the second movement was enormously popular, being encored at the first performance---most unusual for a slow movement. “Slow” it isn’t quite, the irrepressible rhythmic bounce of the entire symphony evident here in this very individual movement, with an obsessive rhythm once again informing the music, And again Beethoven chooses to work with curiously “unpromising” raw material”: a sort of “Johnny One-Note” tune which, following the opening “attention-getting” chord in the winds, is heard in a series of repetitions, increasing in volume, building to an impressive fullness of orchestral tone. A lyrical episode (A Major) follows, with flowing triplets, before returning to A Minor for a further twist to the main tune, culminating in a fugue and a blaring fortissimo statement of the tune. Then a shorter version of the lyrical episode becomes a coda, rounded out by a hushed final appearance of the main theme, slipping downwards from upper winds to low pizzicato strings, concluding with the same chord which opened the movement.

In his middle period works Beethoven favoured scherzo movements with two trios, and this symphony’s third movement follows that plan: scherzo – trio – scherzo –trio (repeated) – scherzo. Here the traditional contrasts between the main parts could not be plainer: a bustling, breathless F Major scherzo followed by a trance-like trio in D Major, with long sustained pedal-points, low murmuring horn patterns, and a faintly peasant, folk-like atmosphere.

The finale is unusually animated, even for Beethoven. Donald Francis Tovey refers to it as “a triumph of Bacchic fury.” As with the first three movements, a positively prancing rhythmic energy snorts through every bar of this overwhelming movement. A sonataform structure, with many short, repeated sections, the two major elements comprise a whirling first subject (over a thudding, pile-driving bass) and a nimble, skittish second subject, flitting hither and thither with endless teasing. This is all sent storming on its way with Beethoven’s usual thorough development of musical ideas. After the return of the main elements, the coda is of particularly galvanising energy. The whirling opening melodic motive is frisbee-ed about the upper strings while the cellos and basses relentlessly grind away on the dominant (low E) so obsessively that the final triumphant appearance of the main tune (complete with horns in full-throated whoop) cannot distract them from their “drilling operations.” Eventually the entire orchestra joins the romp and the movement rockets home with wild exultation.

Richard Wagner has been chided for runaway rhapsodic notions about this symphony, but any person of feeling cannot but sympathise with these comments:’

“All impetuosity, all longing and raging of the heart here become the blissful exuberance

of joy, which with Bacchantic omnipotence carries us with it through all the realms of

nature, all the streams and seas of life, exulting wherever we are led by the audacious

rhythms of this human dance of the spheres. This symphony is the very apotheosis of

the dance, it is the dance in its highest being.”

Haydn: Concerto in D Major for Cello and Orchestra, Hob. VII;2b

2004-02-19T19:07:00.000-05:00

Concerto in D Major for Cello and Orchestra, Hob. VII;2b

Franz Josef Haydn
(1732-1809)

Before the mid-1780s Josef Haydn produced a sizeable number of operas and concerti for a variety of solo instruments. But with Mozart’s move to Vienna in 1781, and the appearance of his remarkable stage works and concerti, Haydn increasingly confined his creative activity to a chamber music, symphonies, and keyboard works, as if to avoid competing with his younger colleague. (A letter written by Haydn in response to a request for a new opera in the 1780s would seem to point to that possibility.) In the case of Haydn’s four best-known concerti, only the brilliant Trumpet Concerto is a late work---significantly, composed five years after Mozart’s death. Of a pair of cello concerti, the earlier C Major Cello Concerto (written around 1762) only came to light in the 1960’s, while the D major Concerto (written in 1783) has long been favoured by cellists. In 1784 there appeared the D Major Piano Concerto, which remains on the margin of the concert repertoire, although often more favoured by student performers than seasoned professionals.

Oddly, while many works attributed to Haydn have been found to be spurious, the D Major Concerto, now conclusively declared to be the work of Haydn, was for a long time thought to be the work of a cellist friend of Haydn, Anton Kraft. While there are a handful of cello concertos written before those of Haydn (notably by Carl Philipp Emannuel Bach and Boccherini), this ingratiating work stands as perhaps the earliest work of outstanding quality to earn a secure place in the rather limited repertoire of works for cello and orchestra.

Written about the time when Haydn was emerging from a period of heavy involvement in operatic composition, the D Major Concerto (unlike the fiery and dramatic earlier C Major work) is a relaxed, often reflective composition, one emphasizing the lyrical character of the solo cello---an instrument which, until Haydn, had been largely ignored as solo instrument..

This expansive lyrical mood is especially noteworthy in the opening allegro moderato, at fourteen minutes’ duration one of Haydn’s most extended first movements. This leisurely unfolding of thematic elements is shaped within the traditional sonataform pattern, but with little of the ceremonial flourishes common to concertos of the period. Indeed, the two principle themes are both marked by a gentle cantabile character, presenting the composer with the challenge of creating an extended musical structure with little of the drama and element of surprise so notable in his symphonies. But any risk of melodic blandness is avoided through Haydn’s usual harmonic originality, seen in the central development section, where the music becomes solidly anchored in B Minor, as if establishing a tonality to counter the genial warms of the home key of D Major. The development, as well as some of the transitional passages linking the main thematic elements, provides the soloist with unexpected opportunities for brilliant passage-work in the upper register of the instrument, although never at the expense of the over-all tone of gentle lyricism which colours the entire work.

The remaining movements of the concerto are as compressed as the first is spacious. The A Major adagio movement is a tender aria for cello, bringing out the special coloration of the instrument’s “mezzo-soprano” register. With the orchestra briefly shifting into A Minor, a darkening of tone leads the cello to a meditative moment in the unexpected stillness of C Major, soon returning to the warmth of A Major to conclude the movement.

The allegro finale is a vivacious rondo with a carefree tune rather reminiscent of the English folksong, “Here we go gathering nuts in May.” Virtuoso display of brilliant exuberance comes to the fore for the first time in the concerto, the central D Minor episode encouraging a hearty outburst of temperament on the part of the soloist . But the work’s mood of good humour and lyrical expressivity remains uppermost, as the work comes to a spirited conclusion.

Rossini: Overture to Tancredi

2004-02-19T19:05:00.000-05:00

Overture to Tancredi

Gioacchino Rossini
(1792-1868)

In a single year (1813) Gioacchino Rossini catapulted to international fame with a pair of operas of sharply contrasting character: the uproarious opera buffa, L’Italiana in Algeri, and Tancredi, an impressive opera seria based upon a drama by Voltaire. Barely twenty-one years old, the composer had already composed nearly a dozen operas, and another dozen would appear within the next four years!

Although nowadays better known for his comic operas, such as the Barber of Seville and Cenerentola, Rossini won great success in the early years of the 19^th century with a number of powerful works which belong to the tradition of opera seria. Although already on the wane, this form of opera, with its rather rigid theatrical conventions (and continued use of castrato singers) survived into the 1830s, effectively killed off by the vivid dramatic works of Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi.

Despite the lofty tone of Voltaire’s play (reflected in Rossini’s music), with its story of family rivalries and passionate conflict akin to Romeo and Juliet, Rossini’s buoyant musical personality prompts him to serve up an overture which mirrors the serious tenor of the opera only in its solemn slow introduction, with a majestic opening statement, and subsequent hushed pizzicato passage on “tiptoe,” soon giving way to a exuberant allegro, set out in a condensed sonataform. A skipping first theme soon swells into robust ruffles and flourishes, leading to a teasing second theme, decked out in tumbling triplets. Here we encounter a trademark Rossinian crescendo, led off with a ghostly whisper in “ponticello” strings---the violins playing very quietly with the bows close to the bridge of the instruments, producing an eerily “distant” sound. There is no “development,” and a mere crumb of a first theme: after twelve bars Rossini bounces onweard to the second theme, triplets, ponticello, and a coda which picks up speed and scrambles home.

Saint-Saens: Sonata No. 1 in D Minor, Op. 75

2002-10-05T20:37:00.000-04:00

Sonata No. 1 in D Minor, Op. 75

Camille Saint-Saens (1835-1921)

Allegro agitato – Adagio

Allegro moderato – Allegro molto

One of the most remarkable child prodigies in the history of music---performing Beethoven piano sonatas in public at the age of 5, and composing symphonies in his early teens, Camille Saint-Saens has the ironic fate of being best-known for a composition written for the amusement of friends and never published in his lifetime: the “Carnival of the Animals”! But recently there has been a resurgence of interest in Saint-Saens, and his many concertos, chamber works and orchestral compositions are regaining their position in the concert repertory.

Written in 1885, the D Minor Violin Sonata is one of the supreme tests for a violinist, combining powerful emotional expression with technical requirements which push an artist to the breaking point. The sonata is laid out in two section, each with two movements linked by a transition. The opening Allegro agitato moves restlessly between moods of melancholy and nostalgia, giving way to songlike lyrical tenderness in the Adagio which follows. A sharp change of character is heard in the graceful, skipping rhythms of the Allegro moderato which introduces a breezy zestfulness after the introspection of the opening section of the sonata. A hymn-like passage with rich chords in the piano leads to the finale, which goes off like a rocket, the violin hurtling forward in a “perpetual motion,” leading the piano on a merry chase. Themes are recalled from earlier in the work, with a moment of quiet forming contrast along the way. But the furious headlong momentum returns, concluding the sonata in a truly awesome display of roller-coaster fireworks, the violin and piano flying onward in a “triple” unison to bring the work to a sensational conclusion.

For a concert by Darwyn Apple

Szymanowski : Romance for Violin and Piano, Op. 23

2002-10-05T20:36:00.000-04:00

Romance for Violin and Piano, Op. 23

Karol Szymanowski (1882-1937)

Karol Szymanowski, the most important Polish composer to appear in the century following the death of Chopin, wrote a wide range of symphonies, concertos, chamber music, songs and operas, including two of the finest violin concertos of the 20^th century. There are a number of smaller compositions for violin and piano, mostly lyrical pieces such as this Romance, which dates from 1910. Characteristic of Szymanowski’s music written before World War I, it is a dreamy, expansive flow of effortless melody, the violin floating and soaring over richly-textured harmonies, twice building to a passionate climax, then drifting away to close in rapt stillness.

For a concert by Darwyn Apple

Ravel : Tzigane (Rapsodie de Concert)

2002-10-05T20:35:00.000-04:00

Tzigane (Rapsodie de Concert)

Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)

Maurice Ravel, himself a pianist, composed a number of works for violin and piano, as well as chamber music spotlighting the violin. But only once did he write for violin and orchestra, in this “concert rhapsody,” dating from 1924, and first performed in London by the Hungarian violinist, Yelly d’Aranyi, (who happened to be the grand-niece of Brahms’ violinist colleague, Josef Joachim.) Another version for violin and piano was prepared by the composer at the same time. The title, ”Tzigane” (“Gypsy”), is characteristic of Ravel, who was fascinated by exotic places and cultures, writing compositions based on Hebrew, Greek, African and Asian themes, and even a movement in his 1927 Violin Sonata entitled “Blues.” Of course, no “exotic” culture is more associated with the violin than that of the Gypsies. Although Ravel had frequently heard Gypsy violinists, all of the musical material in “Tzigane,” while influenced by authentic Gypsy music, is original.

The violin dominates the composition, as in the opening, where the violin is heard without accompaniment in an extended cadenza of dizzying technical virtuosity. The basic musical elements are laid out, by turns playful, songful, passionate and dramatic. Eventually the piano enters with a billowing background, leading in the primary theme, which is highly dancelike in character. The soloist is increasingly urged to employ every imaginable “trick” of the violinist’s trade, with trills, pizzicato (plucked) effects, flute-like harmonics, soon moving into a stomping, rhythmically charged section of ever greater energy and brilliance. The music plunges ever onward to end with dazzling, unbridled bravado.

for a concert by Darwyn Apple

Mendelssohn : Violin Concerto in E Minor

2002-10-05T20:33:00.000-04:00

Violin Concerto in E Minor

Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847)

Finale: Allegro molto vivace

Felix Mendelssohn, in his day known world-wide as perhaps the most celebrated composer of them all, composed this work not long before his early death, creating perhaps the best-loved of all violin concertos. A test of any professional performer, the concerto is typical of Mendelssohn’s style, with a wonderful balance between brilliant display, rhythmic energy and melting melodic lyricism. The Finale is particularly a challenge for the violinist, who from the first note tears off on a musical steeplechase which never flags, racing on to an exciting finish.

for a concert by Darwyn Apple

Still :Suite for Violin and Piano

2002-10-05T20:30:00.003-04:00

Suite for Violin and Piano (1943)

William Grant Still (1895-1978)

Mother and Child

Gamin

It is well known that even in the earliest days of colonial America slaves transported to these shores from Africa exhibited a remarkable richness of musical activity. At the time most white people paid little attention of the unique African music-making which survived under slavery, much of which would manage to survive well into modern times. But in the plantation world music of a different kind was often supplied by slaves who quickly adapted to the instruments and tunes of their masters, providing entertainment in an environment which seems scarcely believable today. (It it ironic to note that public advertisements in the 18^th century frequently referred to musical talent among African slaves as a “selling point” in the ghastly commerce of slavery!)

The emergence in the late 19^th century of genuine Black American music---first of all, the Spirituals, and later popular forms which develop into Ragtime, the Blues, Jazz---is now fairly widely recognized. Yet to this day the growth of distinct and finely-crafted Black concert music often remains cloaked in obscurity, and demands proper recognition.

William Grant Still, in his lifetime often called the “Dean of Black American Composers,” was one of the primary figures in the emergence of first-rate professional Black classical musicians in the first half of the 20^th century. A Californian by birth, Still studied in Ohio, worked for a while in Memphis with W. C. Handy (composer of the “Saint Louis Blues”), later with Eubie Blake in New York (notably in the pioneering Black Broadway musical, “Shuffle Along” in 1921), going on to serious study with several of the most eminent classical composers of the ‘20s and ‘30s. Still sprang to wide notice with his Afro-American Symphony (1930), which was widely performed by some of the most important American orchestras, and conductors such as Leopold Stokowski and Howard Hanson.

The Suite for Violin and Piano, comprising three movements, shows Still’s lifetime fascination with the graphic arts, each section being linked to the work of Black American artists. “Mother and Child,” an outpouring of deeply felt lyricism was inspired by a lithograph of that title by Sargent Johnson (1887-1967), a noted sculptor based in California. In sharp contrast, “Gamin” (“Street urchin”) is filled with quirky humor, with bluesy acrobatics in the violin heard against a strutting “boogie-woogie” piano accompaniment. This was inspired by one of the best-known works by the Black American sculptor, Augusta Savage, a warm-hearted representation of a Black youngster, wearing—even sixty years ago!---his cap with the brim turned around.

for a concert by Darwyn Apple

Bach : Sonata No. 1 in G Minor for Solo Violin, BWV 1001

2002-10-05T20:28:00.000-04:00

Sonata No. 1 in G Minor for Solo Violin, BWV 1001

Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)

Adagio - Fugue

Though best-known as the greatest keyboard player of his day, Johann Sebastian Bach’s first instrument was the violin, for which he composed a remarkable range of concertos, sonatas and chamber music. While his career centered upon activities as an organist and church musician, in his early thirties Bach held a position as director of music at a small princely court which focused entirely upon the production of instrumental music. It was then that most of his violin music was written, most famously the set of six Sonatas and Partitas for Unaccompanied Violin, perhaps the most challenging music ever composed for the instrument, and a sort of “bible” for all aspiring violinists. Today Mr. Apple performs the first two (of four) movements from the First Sonata. The Adagio establishes a mood of dignified calm and majesty, with sweeping chords interspersed with flowing melodic lines, creating music of surprisingly full sonority from what might be thought to be the limited resources of a single, lone string instrument. The fugue, in which the opening figure (catching the listener’s attention with four repeated notes) is heard by itself, then several times in succession, each time enriched by other melodic lines interwoven to form a fascinating musical tapestry. While fugues are sometimes thought of as rather “intellectual” in character, Bach’s amazing range of colors and harmonies invests the music with great expressive power, irresistible momentum and drama.

for a concert by Darwyn Apple

Brahms Scherzo in C Minor for Violin and Piano (“Sonatensatz”)

2002-10-05T20:21:00.001-04:00

Scherzo in C Minor for Violin and Piano (“Sonatensatz”)

Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)

As a young man Johannes Brahms met the celebrated Hungarian violinist, Josef Joachim, who would become a lifelong friend, and inspiration for all of his violin compositions. The German subtitle “Sonatensatz” refers to the curious fact that this scherzo movement was originally part of a composite violin sonata written for Joachim, with three different composers contributing movements to form a complete work. The scherzo was composed in 1853 when Brahms was barely 20 years old, but was only published in 1906, soon finding a place in the concert repertory.

From the very beginning the music leaps into action, seizing the listener’s attention with pounding rhythms, sweeping lyrical phrases and an air of dramatic expectancy. The music becomes more subdued for a gentler contrasting episode at midpoint, returning to the rhythmic energy of the opening, rounding out the work with a majestic conclusion.

for a concert by Darwyn Apple

Stravinsky: Suite from the Firebird

2002-08-05T18:53:00.001-04:00

Suite from the "Firebird" (1919)

Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971)

Many of the very greatest composers have revealed their genius at an early age; Igor Stravinsky was not among that number. Growing up surrounded by music and learning, the son of a celebrated singer at the Maryiinsky Opera in Saint Petersburg, Stravinsky received a thorough musical training as a boy, but only began to show a serious interest in composition around the age of twenty. Friendship with the youngest son of Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov led to a meeting with the composer, who became an unofficial tutor and advisor, even something of a father figure to the young man. In his early twenties Stravinsky composed a series of bland and well-crafted works which showed little sign of his eventual gifts, among them a piano sonata and a Symphony in E-flat, which reflected the influence of Tchaikovsky and Borodin. But in his mid-twenties he began to undergo a remarkable transformation. Not long before Rimsky's death in 1908 Stravinsky showed him sketches for a projected opera, The Nightingale," and the “Scherzo Fantastique,” perhaps the most important of the early compositions. Soon after, in early 1909, the Scherzo was heard at its premiere by the man who would become the key figure in the Stravinsky's career, Sergei Diaghilev. In that same year Diaghilev launched the first of what would become his annual "Russian seasons" in Paris, presenting classical ballet productions, as well as an ambitious repertoire of Russian operas, all of which were utterly unknown in the West. The operas dazzled the Parisian audiences with their colorful Oriental exoticism---but lost money. While the initial ballet evenings astonished the public with the superior gifts of Russian dancers, in style and subject-matter they remained close to the familiar styles of French classical ballet. Diaghilev realized that he needed to develop a repertory of distinctively RUSSlAN ballet, bringing together virtuoso dance and the sort of vivid textures and rhythms of Russian music which made such a powerful impression in the opera performances. (From a distance of 90 years it is difficult to comprehend that such a style of ballet hardly existed at the time. Apart from Tchaikovsky, whose musical idiom was fairly familiar to western audiences, hardly any first-rate Russian composers wrote for the ballet before Stravinsky. In a blunt and scathing letter Rimsky-Korsakov himself laid out good reasons why he would NEVER be caught dead writing a ballet, among them: "it is a degenerate art...the best thing ballet has to offer dances, are boring...there is no need for good music in ballet...ballet music is usually performed in a sloppy, perfunctory way..." ! (Sadly, Rimsky died too soon to see his own imprecations swept aside by the work of his protégé. Determined to produce a distinctive RUSSIAN ballet for his 1910 season in Paris, Diaghilev proposed a new ballet based on Russian folk tales, the FIREBIRD, which would be a feast for eye and ear, a spectacle unlike any other ever seen in Paris. The music was originally to have been composed by Diaghilev's staff conductor, Nikolai Tcherepnin, who quickly withdrew from the project. Then, after a period of squabbling, no fewer than three other composers were offered the commission---all refused. One of the familiar myths about the originas of the “Firebird” has it that Anatol Liadov, a respected composer of the older generation, was offered the commission, but as usual worked in a lackadaisical manner. The truth is that only when four or five composers shunned the commission was Stravinsky selected for the job, proceeding to compose the 45-minute score in little more than four months, in time for the hugely successful premiere in Paris on 24^thJune, 1910. As was said of Lord Byron, Stravinsky "awoke to find himself famous." A year PETRUSHKA appeared, and in 1912 LE SACRE DU PRINTEMPS was composed, although not performed until 1913. Thus, turning away from Tchaikovsky's classicism (much as Stravinsky himself revered that musical idiom), genuine "Russian" ballet came into being with The FIREBIRD drawing upon unique Russian musical traditions, and in the process establishing the international supremacy of Russian dance. With Paris (and the world at large) conquered by the dancers of Diaghilev's BALLETS RUSSES, the world of ballet underwent a seismic transformation not again witnessed until the remarkable achievement of George Balanchine in bringing the traditions of ballet to New York a quarter century later.

Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No. 3

2002-08-05T18:50:00.000-04:00

Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor, Op. 30

Sergei Rachmaninov
(1873-1943)

Only in recent times could a serious writer on matters musical be bold (or reckless) enough to speak with

commendation of the work of Sergei Rachmaninov. (Anyone with access to the Fourth Edition of Grove's Dictionary will find the sort of disdainful critique of the composer quite characteristic of musical criticism until late in the 20^thcentury.) Why this has been so is difficult to explain. Perhaps the sheer popularity of Rachmaninov's works has caused the Arbiters of Good Taste to conclude that this alone must be a cause for condemnation. (Such persons forget the wonderful story about Brahms enscribing a photo of himself and Johann Strauss, of all people, in which he sketched out the opening bars of the "Blue Danube" with the inscription, “unfortunately NOT by Johannes

Brahms" - !) Another "problem" with Rachmaninov is perhaps his lifelong loyalty to a musical style and personal idiom shaped in the late 19^th century. (The solution, of course, might have been for Rachmaninov to have died before the age of forty!" But if no less a figure than Gustav Mahler could find much to admire in the work of his Russian colleague, perhaps foolish notions of “taste" should be reserved for food critics and the Style Section of the Sunday papers.)

Rachmaninov was born on an estate near Novgorod into a well-to-do family which moved to Saint Petersburg where the boy, his musical gifts manifest at an early age, began studies at the conservatory. Not yet in his teens, Rachmaninov was sent by his cousin, Alexander Siloti (himselfa distinguished pianist and conductor) to study at the Moscow Conservatory. There Rachmaninov received strict piano instruction, as well as the whole range of music theory and counterpoint, coming to know most of the prominent musicians of the "Moscow school," among them Arensky, Anton Rubinstein, Taneyev, and above all, his idol, Tchaikovsky. Already a prolific composer while still in his teens, Rachmaninov sketched the first version of his First Piano Concerto as early as 1890, followed in the same year by his first major orchestral work, the symphonic poem, "Prince Rostislav." In 1892 the TRIO ELEGIAQUE

and one-act opera, ALEKO were composed, while his most famous single work, the all-but-notorious "Prelude

in C-sharp minor," was published before the age of twenty----soon becoming the bane of his life as a concert pianist. ALEKO was performed, winning enthusiastic praise from Tchaikovsky, and the composer seemed moving ahead without a cloud on the horizon. But everything changed in 1897 with the disastrous performance of his First Symphony in D Minor, which had the misfortune to be conducted by the remarkably incompetent (and possibly intoxicated) Alexander Glazunov. The symphony and its composer were roasted by the critics, plunging Rachmaninov into a profound depression, which resulted in a period of three years without any composition whatever. (The symphony was not published, and the manuscript eventually disappeared. Happily in 1945 the original orchestra! parts were discovered, the score re-constructed, and on 17 October, 1945 the symphony had a triumphant second performance, and is now recognized as one of the composer's most original works.)

Rachmaninov's recovery from depression through the efforts of a doctor in Dresden, leading to the

resounding success of the Second Concerto is well known. There followed a succession of major compositions, notably the splendid Second Symphony in 1906. But rivalling Rachmaninov's acclaim as a composer was his accomplishments as a concert artist, which rapidly won him fame as one of the finest performers of the day. It was in preparation for his debut as both pianist and composer in the United States that the Third Piano Concerto was composed in 1909. The concerto received its world premiere at Carnegie Hail on 28 November, 1909, with the New York Symphony conducted by Walter Damrosch. A rather more auspicious performance at Carnegie followed on 16 January, 1910, with the New York Philharmonic under Gustav Mahler, who had been so deeply impressed by the concerto that (in that era before unions) he insisted upon extending the dress rehearsal by ninety minutes to do justice to the complexity of the work. Rachmaninov marvelled at Mahler’s attention to detail, and precise integration of the piano and orchestral elements, which resulted in a performance which he remembered as the finest of his career. Thirty years later Rachmaninov completed his cycle of the concertos on disc when he was soloist in a recording made in XXXX 1940 with his favorite orchestra, the Philadelphia Orchestra under Eugene Ormandy.

Sergei Rachmaninov's first two piano concertos were freely modelled upon the celebrated B-fiat minor Concerto of his beloved Tchaikovsky, opening with full-throated lyrical melodies, the piano part closely interwoven with elaborate and richly-colored orchestral writing. The Third Concerto, an altogether more intricate and large-scale musical structure, opens with a simplicity and directness not heard since the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. Against an accompaniment figure whose rhythmic elements, hardly noticed at first, will increasingly take on importance throughout the concerto, the soloist unfolds an plaintive melody of almost folk-like character, naive in its rhythmic character, diatonic in its musical language. While the musical argument will soon take on a complexity and sheer weight which is unique to this concerto, the truest expression in the work is always found in those moments when the composer returns to the simplicity of this opening. With a quickening of tempo the main theme is taken over by the violas and horns against a delicate tracery of passage-work in the piano. The tempo quickens yet again, the virtuoso piano writing begins to push aside the lyrical flow of the main theme, building in exitement and richness of detail. Settling down into a slower tempo (MODERATO), the Second Subject draws together a number of contrasting elements, at first giving voice to a powerful lyrical outburst by the strings, then moving into a SCHERZANDO passage, with staccato writing in the strings in dialogue with the piano, soon is transformed into a smoothly flowing episode in the piano alone (in B-Flat), then joined by the orchestra, increasing in fullness of texture and harmony. The exposition is then rounded out, still in B-fiat, in classical fashion returning to the music which opened the movement, at first back in the home key of D Minor, the principal theme recalled for a moment in its original uncomplicated form. Suddenly becoming agitated, a new figure (staccato thirds in winds and piano) is introduced, pressing on into increasingly urgent triplet passagework in the piano, soon breaking into a wild passage in which the staccato thirds are now dense chords in the piano over the primary rhythmic element from the very beginning of the movement. These too are hammered out in triplet figures as the music rushes into a frenzied climax, the piano in a shower of sixteenth-notes in the upper register over a heavily sustained bassline moving in half-notes. Withdrawing into a quiet mood as quickly as it had raced into dramatic wildness, the sustained bassline continues, the piano circling about in restless eighth-note canonic writing, the two hands widely spaced on the keyboard. The thirds reappear, the atmosphere becoming ever more sustained and subdued as the cadenza is launched.

CADENZA

In a quite original touch, Rachmaninov introduces brief passages for solo wind instruments into the latter portion of the cadenza, sharing the moment with solo flute, oboe, clarinet, finally horn.

Returning to D Minor, Rachmaninov, having already mademuch use of the secondary theme, rounds out the movement without a formal recapitulation, finishing with a final statement of the first subject in its original lyrical form, which serves as a coda to the movement.

While the term “intermezzo” is often applied to a rather light-weight, usually lyrical movement, often taking the place of a more a more animated SCHERZO, in this case the INTERMEZZO

acts as a deeply introspective interlude linking the massive outer movements. Even for a composer as given to expressions of melancholy feeling, the lengthy orchestra introduction to this movement is unusually sombre and inward-turning. The piano enters with a mood-breaking splash of color and virtuosity, then settling into the warm key of D-flat for the principal theme of the movement. This soon moves into darker harmonic colors with a remarkably extended passage which hovers over a long sustained pedal F. (It is sometimes suggested that the main part of the movement is a freely composed theme and variations.) Breaking away into shifting harmonic territory, the tempo quickening and emotional tone heightened and impassioned, the main theme becomes ever more insistent, finally returning to the key where it had begun, D-flat. Unexpectedly (taking his cue from the slow movement of the Tchaikovsky first Concerto), Rachmaninov lifts the music into the more transparent tonality of

F-sharp minor. Stepping into a rapid 3/8 metre, the effect is of a will-o-the-wisp SCHERZANDO episode which, all to soon, gives way to the earlier atmosphere of sorrow and aching emotional expression to end the movement. Sidestepping a conventional conclusion, the piano instead moves assertively forward in a brilliant cadenza-like passage to launch the finale without a pause.

Where the first movement is predominantly lyrical and the INTERMEZZO elegiac, the finale is most notable for its rhythmic vitality and irresistible momentum. Bounding off, brimming with energy, the principal theme is an uncomplicated, chordal statement in the piano set against a galloping background in the winds (with faint hints of rhythms heard in more relaxed surroundings at the beginning of the concerto.) A sturdy “transitional theme" follows, the piano writing suggesting the rather "military" style found in such popular Rachmaninov pieces as the Prelude in G Minor. This tumbles onward to lead in the secondary theme (in C Major), another thickly chordal passage bristling with syncopation which unexpectedly yields to a sustained melody in G Major unfolded in triplets in the piano, combined with syncopated figures in the strings. The end of the exposition is signalled in traditional fashion with a solid cadential thump, a faster tempo (ALLEGRO MOLTO), and after few ruffles and flourishes in the orchestra, a move into the key of E-flat, where the composer is content to settle in for an extended stay. This development section, marked SCHERZANDO, is laid out as a fourfold variation upon material derived from the secondary theme of the first movement, the piano displaying a full spectrum of decorative filligree and playful virtuosity. Rachmaninov, never blinking, dares to remain in E-flat for a no fewer than 92 bars (!), for a moment gliding off into E Major for a moment of gentle reflection before sliding back to E-flat, where this lovely (and harmonically static) central episode closes with an oddly understated hymn-like cadence in---E-flat. The recapitulation, opening in C Minor, follows fairly closely the earlier sequence of elements, if anything with even great momentum and excitement. Of particular note is the lyrical expansion of the syncopated secondary element, now with even more urgent expressive power, the sweeping melodic line in the piano now riding over softly pattering repeated eighth-notes in the strings. This spills over into the CODA, marked VIVACE, which opens with music actually derived from the first movement cadenza, the piano in its lowest register, joined by timpani and lower strings, creating an atmosphere of menace and irresistible momentum. The music gallops forward, with a brief pause for a short cadenza before reaching the emotional peak of the work: a grand, sweeping melody derived from the secondary theme now forming a majestic apotheosis. A brief, exultant final sprint brings the concerto to a triumphant close.

Bartok: Dance Suite

2002-08-05T18:46:00.000-04:00

Dance Suite (1923)

Bela Bartok
(1881-1945)

Apart from Gustav Mahler, most of the major 20^thcentury composers who continued to contribute to the tradition of the full-scale symphony came from countries outside Central Europe: the Scandinavians, the English, the Americans and the Soviets. Most of the other major 20^thcentury composers---Debussy, Ravel, Schoenberg, Berg, Webern Varese---turned away from that tradition. Bela Bartok was such a composer. Indeed, Bartok's catalogue of large orchestral compositions is surprisingly short, barely twenty major works, including two ballet scores, and nine works (rhapsodies and concertos) for piano, violin and viola and orchestra. At the time of the premiere of the Dance Suite in 1923 only a single orchestral work of the composer's maturity had yet been performed, the Four Pieces for Orchestra of 1912, first heard only a year earlier. The Dance Suite was something of a break-through for Bartok, following a performance in Prague in 1925 which caught the public imagination Bartok. Within a year the composition had received sixty performances, Bartok's international reputation began to prosper, and the compositions by which he is best known began to appear.

The Dance Suite is a vivid reminder of Bartok's profound relationship with the folk culture of not only his native land, but of Eastern Europe and the Middle East as well. Unique among composers, he was a serious student of folk music, a veritable "Ethno-musicologist," to use a word which did not exist in the early years of the 20 century when he and his friend Zoltan Kodaly went on field expeditions to collect ofolksongs, making use of the primitive cylinder recording apparatus which had just been developed. (Interestingly, in the first decade of the 20^thcentury, Ralph Vaughan Williams and Percy Grainger in England, and Cecil Sharp in the American Appalachian region, were also engaged the study of folk music---in the nick of time, as it happened, for the development of radio and recorded music would soon snuff out the surviving folk culture in those regions.)

Bartok"s "native land" was Hungary, of course. But a quite different Hungary from the independent nation which came into existence with the dissolution of the "Austro-Hungarian Empire" in 1918. Until that date Hungarian culture remained cloaked in obscurity. Among many composers and music-lovers (especially in Vienna), there was a sentimental fondness for "Hungarian" music, as is famously known from Brahms' Hungarian Dances, and many of the

popular late 19^thcentury Viennese operettas. And, of course, the whole world celebrated Franz Liszt as the essence of Hungarian music, most of all for his brilliant Hungarian Rhapsodies. But Liszt spent little time in his native land after his teens, and as an older man struggled to speak the language. Like Brahms, and many other musicians of the day, Liszt believed that the music of the Hungarian gypsies was indeed the authentic Hungarian music---he even took time to write a wonderfully misinformed book! It was only 20 years after the death of Liszt that Bartok and Kodaly were able to establish that genuine Hungarian music was quite another matter from the music heard in restaurants in Vienna and Budapest, for the most part played and created by Gypsies, who belonged to a distinct tradition of their own. Bartok's scholarly approach to the subject (in contrast to the enthusiasms of Liszt and Brahms) not only clarified the true nature of Hungarian folk music, but also began to reveal the enormous range and vitality of the music of Rumania, Bulgaria and other hitherto unknown regions of the sprawling Austro-Hungarian empire as well.

When Bartok fled Hungary at the beginning of World War II to take refuge in the United State, unlike Arnold Schoenberg and Paul Hindemith, he refused to accept offers from universities to earn a secure living as a teacher of composition--he insisted that it could not be taught! However he quite willingly took a position at Columbia University studying and organizing a large collection of folksong materials, forty years after his expeditions into rural Hungary returning to his early activity as an "ethno-musicologist."

Ritornello

Although strongly devoted to the goal of Hungarian political and cultural independence, Bartok's involvement with folk music was remarkably open-minded and internationalist, as is exemplified in his Dance Suite. For all its folk music influences, this work was actually composed for a uniquely 'urban" occasion: the celebration in 1923 of the 50^th anniversary of the union of three sister cities on the banks of the Danube---Buda, Obuda and Pest---to form the capital city of"Budapest." That Bartok was commissioned to compose a work by the conservative authorites of Budapest was rather curious, considering the composer's own left-wing leanings in the early years of independence. The early 1920s were a period of great political unrest, the newly independent nation having flirted briefly with Communism in 1919, then swinging into extreme right-wing political unrest, inflation and falling living standards. At the time Bartok himself was attacked by some nationalists as "unpatriotic" due to his work with the Rumanian and Slovak folk music, as well as his own political views. The suite was first heard on 19 November, 1923, on a concert conducted by Ernst yon Dohnanyi, which also included commissioned works by Dohnanyi himself, and the sensation of the evening, Zoltan Kodaly's brilliant "Psalmus Hungaricus."

The Dance Suite consists of six dance movements (mostly in quick tempo), several of which are linked by a RITORNELLO, a gentle, lyrical passage which Bartok, rather pleased with himself, described as "such a faithful imitation of a certain kind of Hungarian folk melody that its derivation might puzzle even the most knowledgeable of musical folklorists." That said, Bartok went on to point out that no actual folk material was employed in the composition.

The opening movement, marked MODERATO is described by Bartok as having links with Arab music. The initial melodic pattern in the bassoon is the sort of "compressed" figure common to much of Bartok's music, circling around a tightly-knit sequence of close intervals (half steps, seconds and thirds), heard against a heavily-accented, irregular rhythmic background (another typical Bartokian mannerism.) The strings play in choppy down-bow strokes joined by the percussive interjections in the piano. The bassoon figure is passed on to English horn, clarinet and oboe, often played in seconds (anticipating the famous "Game of the Couples" movement from the Concerto for Orchestra written 20 years later). Swooping GLISSANDO figures appear in the strings, the orchestral texture thickens,

chugging forward in heavy accents. (There is even a charming moment when the bassoon melody is heard in the tuba.) Then the RITORNELLO steals in, comfortably set in G Minor (Aeolian mode), a sweetly nostalgic moment forming a link to the next movement.

The Second Movement, ALLEGRO MOLTO, said to be derived from the Hungarian tradition, stomps into view in B-flat minor, loud, heavily weighted with the brass, obsessively centering upon the interval of the minor third. The rhythms become ever more irregular, displaying a wildness reminiscent of similar passages in the composer’s "Miraculous Mandarin." The RITORNELLO reappears, a bit less sweet this time, now set in E-flat.

In the Third Movement "Hungarian, Rumanian and even Hungarian influences alternate," according to the composer. Marked ALLEGRO VIVACE, this is effectively the work's "Scherzo," set in a strongly pentatonic key of B, making much use of the so-called “Hungarian interval”: the perfect fourth. Laid out in a Rondo-like scheme (ABACA), the opening "bagpipe" tune introduced by the bassooon moves around the orchestra, rising in intensity, followed by the “B” section in which a drone-like tune is punched out in the strings. The second appearance of the "A" tune creates a "music-box" effect in a magical passage with the piano (played by two performers, four-hands) circling around in a four-part canon, laid out against a background of harp and harmonics in the strings. The "C" section is another heavy-footed passage in the strings over a drone figure, soon joined by shrill, skirling high winds, bringing back the A theme for a brilliant finish.

At this point there is no RITORNELLO; the slow Fourth Movement (MOLTO TRANQUILLO) emerging PIANISSIMO from a moment of silence. Characterized by Bartok as "entirely Oriental (Arab) in character," this is an example of the hushed, haunted slow music which is so memorable in the composer's later works. Opening with richly-textured sonorities in the strings alternating with chant-like melodic figures in the winds, here the fluid, unaccented rhythmic flow of the music creates an atmosphere of mysterious stillness. Malcolm Gillies has described this as "a music that just IS rather than one that progresses. It exists in time rather than moves through time."

Introduced by the briefest of the RITORNELLO passages, the short Fifth Movement (COMMODO) is described by Bartok as having "a primitive peasant character." Little more than an introduction to the final movement, here a pulsating repeated-note figure is heard in the violas, then reiterated with added sonorities of the ("Hungarian") perfect fourths, rising in tension to a couple outbursts in the winds and brass, then striding without a break into the finale.

The Sixth Movement, ALLEGRO, extends the repeated-note figure from the previous section, with another "pile-up" of fourths rising from the cellos and basses into the upper strings and winds. This finale is sometimes described as a "medley," with quotations from the earlier movements passing in review and in various combinations, reaching a grand climax, only to settle back into a last recollection of the RITORNELLO. The coda begins with a simply peasant-like tune in solo strings, soon builds to another towering sonority, with the "bagpipe" tune of the third movement returning to bring the proceedings to a resounding conclusion.

Rota: Divertimento Concertante

2001-11-22T21:06:00.001-05:00

Divertimento Concertante for Double Bass and Orchestra

Nino Rota
(1911-1979)

Nino Rota is a familiar name to anyone with an interest in music for the cinema, with a remarkable succession of scores for the films of Visconti (The Leopard), Zefferelli (Taming of the Shrew, Romeo and Juliet), every single one of Fellini’s films---even the first of Francis Ford Coppola’s Godfather movies! But, as in the case of Erich Wolfgang Korngold and Bernard Herrmann, there is also a rich range of concert works by Nino Rota. Indeed, the roster of Rota’s compositions reveals an amazing output of compositions of every description: symphonies, chamber works, choral works, eleven operas, ballets and oratorios! Born into a musical family, Nino Rota was a child prodigy, with an oratorio performed when he was eleven years old! He attended the Milan Conservatory and Accademia Santa Cecilia (Rome), studied with Pizzeti and Casella, and even spent a couple years at the Curtis Institute in the early 1930s, where he was a fellow student of Samuel Barber and Gian-Carlo Menotti. Until the 1950s Rota pursued a successful academic career, then devoting himself to composition, and, increasingly, his film collaborations, which won him an international reputation.

The DIVERTIMENTO CONCERTANTE appeared in 1969, and is notable for its charm and sprightly Neo-Classic character, qualities which are so memorable in his film music, especially the scores for the Fellini films.

Scored for an orchestra of winds, horns and trumpets in pairs, timpani and string, the Divertimento is a delectable feast for a virtuoso bassist. The spotlight is usually upon the soloist, but the orchestra is treated with elegance and wit as well. The Allegro opens with grand RITORNELLO, full of Rossinian gestures, with sweeping melodic figures over bustling tremolo, and a lilting secondary melody first heard in the clarinets over a PIZZICATO background. The mood is cheerful and festive in an Italianate manner quite suggestive of the music Rota would supply for scenes taking place in crowded streets and markets in many a Fellini film. The solo instrument is treated with great flexibility and dexterity, moving from the characteristic husky bass of the lower strings to an expressive mezzo-soprano CANTABILE in the upper register. Especially gratifying is the delicacy of the solo line, often in fluid chains of triplets and figuration requiring the utmost agility on the part of the performer, as is particularly the case in a finely-wrought cadenza.

The MARCIA is a bright and jaunty movement, with the solo bass heard against the vivid and sharply-etched colours of the winds and brass. The crisp orchestral textures and nimble passagework in the solo bass are rather suggestive of Prokofiev, although the mischievous swagger of the music is unmistakably Italian in its breezy good humour.

The ARIA allows the double bass to reveal its full expressive powers in a sustained, spacious CANTILENA, heard over a measured PIZZICATO accompaniment. The soloist provides a lute-like PIZZICATO background when the melody is take up by the winds, which is then extended and enriched. After the melody is heard in a full orchestral tutti, it is heard in a nostalgic final statement in the bass, fading away with the haunting sound of harmonics.

The FINALE is a restless and athletic piece, full of busy sixteenth-note passagework, dotted rhythms and figuration darting around the winds of the orchestra. There is a brief contrasting episode, with a smooth lyrical theme in the strings first heard again arpeggiated triplets in the solo bass. The irrepressible energy of the opening returns to swing the music forward in a gallop, pausing for a sustained and expressive cadenza, then buzzing to a close.

Sarasate: Zigeunerweisen

2001-11-22T21:05:00.002-05:00

Zigeunerweisen, Op. 20

Pablo de Sarasate
(1844-1909)

Born in Pamplona, the son of a military bandmaster, Sarasate was one of the most renowned Spanish musicians of his day, widely regarded as one of the finest violinists of the late 19^th century. As a boy he was the protégé of Queen Isabella of Spain, going on to study at the Paris Conservatory at the age of twelve, where he won prizes in violin, solfege and harmony. He embarked upon a career as a violin virtuoso, touring the Americas as early as 1867-71, with a return tour in 1889-90. From 1874 onward he was a regular visitor to London, where he took audiences by storm. Remembered today chiefly for his brilliant, crowd-pleasing virtuoso compositions, he was held in high esteem by the finest musicians of the day, including Brahms, Dvorak and Joachim. For someone likely to be dismissed as a “typically flashy fiddle-player,” it is striking to learn that Sarasate took great pleasure in performing chamber music. Some of the leading composers of his time composed major works for him, including Saint-Saens (Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso and 3^rd Violin Concerto), Lalo (Symphonie Espagnole), Wieniawski (2^nd Violin Concerto), and Bruch (Scottish Fantasy).

To persons of earnest high-mindedness Sarasate is likely to be scorned as the purveyor of encore kitsch. Fortunately today’s musical world is beginning to accept the notion that the musical equivalent of a chocolate dessert sometimes is just the thing to round out a concert menu. Of Sarasate’s many party pieces Zigeunerweisen (1878) and the Carmen Fantasy (1883) are best known to today’s listeners, with Zigeunerweisen (“Gypsy Tunes”) a perennial favourite over the generations. First published in Leipzig (which accounts for the German title by which it has always been known), the work has often been adapted for viola and cello---it is certainly fitting that the double bass should be given its turn in today’s performance, in an edition prepared by Joel Quarrington, who transposes the work to G Minor. It is interesting to note that Mr. Quarrington departs from common practice (in which the bass is tuned in fourths), tuning his instrument in FIFTHS, an octave below the tuning used by cellists.

Zigeunerweisen is quite simple in structure. After an declamatory opening in the orchestra, the soloist takes command, only rarely giving way to the orchestra thereafter! The first of two sections is given over to to characteristic yearning, heart-tugging melodic figures which were familiar ingredients in 19^th century “Gypsy” music. Sarasate is especially successful in capturing the rapturous emotional power which can still be heard in performances of genuine Gypsy music to this day. Set in a velvety G Minor, the music is full of soulful sighs and hesitations, the soloist displaying the full panoply of technical wizardry, with PIZZICATO effects, harmonics, arpeggiated figures, and every sort of melodic blandishment. The orchestra, always humble in its accompanying role, is allowed to set out a secondary theme of even more melting and expressive character---only to have the soloist snatch it away, naturally. Quite suddenly the music leaps into G Major, with a brisk and prancing rhythmic energy. An exhilarating new melody is unfolded, full of acrobatic tricks for the soloist, shifting into E Minor to hurtle onward to a zestful conclusion.

Stravinsky: Pulcinella Suite

2001-11-22T20:54:00.002-05:00

Pulcinella Suite

Igor Stravinsky
(1882-1971)

Without a doubt the supreme influence upon Igor Stravinsky was his twenty year association with Sergei Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, a period extending from the Firebird Ballet (1909-10) to Apollo (1928). Diaghilev had a unique gift for discovering discovering remarkable creative figures, and fostering stimulating collaborative relationships among composers, choreographers and graphic artists which would have an impact in the world of music and dance through much of the 20^th century. Following the sensational 1913 premiere of Sacre du Printemps which revealed the 30 year-old Stravinsky as the most significant figure of of his generation there was excited speculation regarding what would be the next stage in these exciting developments. But there was not to be a 1914 season. With the outbreak of World War I the theatres of Paris were closed, and Stravinsky retreated to Switzerland with his family. Cut off from the lavish resources of the Ballets Russes, and working within wartime restrictions, Stravinsky composed a number of small-scale works, notably the Histoire du Soldat (which was performed by the Princeton Chamber Symphony in the 1990 season). With the end of the war Stravinsky returned to Paris, a city which overnight became a place of exile for Russian artists cut off from their homeland by the Bolshevik Revolution. While Paris had been home for the Stravinsky and the Diaghilev company for a number of years, their spiritual roots were in a Russia which few of them would ever see again. (Only in 1962 would Stravinsky was to return his motherland, now the Soviet Union.)

In 1919 Diaghilev approached Stravinsky with a proposal for a new work for Paris which initially struck the composer as “quite mad”: to prepare an orchestral arrangement of a miscellany of pieces by Giambattista Pergolesi (1710-1736) for a ballet in an 18^th century COMMEDIA DELL’ARTE setting. (There had been several recent successful ballets of a similar nature, such as Respighi’s BOUTIQUE FANTASQUE (on music of Rossini), and Tommasini’s GOOD-HUMOURED LADIES (on music of Scarlatti.) Diaghilev offered the inviting prospect of working with Picasso (scenery and costumes) and Massine (choreography), as well as the promise of some ready cash---Stravinsky, as usual, was in debt. Oddly, what might be described as “high-class hackwork” became a labour of love, and in hindsight can be viewed as a turning point in Stravinsky’s career, marking the first step in the development of his “Neo-Classic” style. Stravinsky laid out a work in 18 short movements for a chamber orchestra of 33 players, in a striking contrast to the colossal orchestra required for SACRE DU PRINTEMPS. It calls for winds (without clarinets), brass, timpani, three solo singers, and a body of strings strings divided into CONCERTINO and RIPIENO in the manner of the 18^th century CONCERTO GROSSO.

Pergolesi’s melodies and bass-lines are retained, as well as the basic 18^th century harmonic language and rhythmic figures. But similar to Picasso’s use of the work of earlier painters (such as Velasquez) as a springboard for fresh and original artistic experiments, Stravinsky relishes the opportunity to rummage through the stock ingredients of 18^th century Italian music, almost as if encountering them for the first time. The listener is teased by phrase patterns in which beats are unexpectedly cut out, others added; unremarkable melodies take on a piquant tang with touches of dissonance; basic tonic and dominant chords bump into each other with amusing results, while new lines of counterpoint are threaded through the musical texture. Stravinsky seems to strip music down to its nuts and bolts, putting everything again according to his own pleasure---not for nothing did he once describe himself in a passport application as an “inventor of music”! The warmth and affection with which this is accomplished makes PULCINELLA perhaps Stravinsky’s most loveable composition. As White put it, “Stravinsky speaks of his relationship to Pergolesi and his music in terms suitable to a love affair. This was no rape, but a seduction, carefully planned, successfully carried out, and vastly enjoyed---at least by Stravinsky!”

The1920 premiere was a huge success, delighting (and baffling) an audience which had come prepared for another musical onslaught in the manner of SACRE DU PRINTEMPS by this unexpected shift in the composer’s style. They could not know (and even Stravinsky himself might not have understood at the time) that the composer, now estranged from his native country, was beginning to forge a unique relationship to the Western European musical tradition from which Russian musicians had been largely excluded. As Stravinsky said, “PULCINELLA was my discovery of the past, the epiphany through which the whole of my late work became possible. It was a backward look, of course---the first of many love affairs in that direction---but it was a look in the mirror, too.” Thus began the “Neo-Classic” period in Stravinsky’s career, spanning thirty years, extending into the music composed during his first ten years as a resident in California, as was exemplified by the DANSES CONCERTANTES, heard in the December Princeton Chamber Symphony concert.)

A concert suite drawn from the complete PULCINELLA ballet was first performed by Pierre Monteux and the Boston Symphony on 22 December, 1922. The movements are as follows:

1. SINFONIA (Overture) – a solid, forthright introductory piece in G Major, somewhat pompous and theatrical in manner.

2. SERENATA – originally written for voice, solo oboe and solo violin now do the singing
over a rustling string accompaniment, with murmuring flute. Wistful and tender in mood,
the essence of the Italian operatic idiom.

3. SCHERZINO. Three movements in one: a brilliantly-coloured C Major section, frisky and cheerful in mood, giving way to a scurrying section in A Major, with
breathless passage work in the strings, and a concluding section in F Major, somewhat pastoral in tone, shyly skipping away in the closing bars.

4. TARANTELLA. This most Italianate of the movements is coloured by the sound of open strings and strumming PIZZICATO figures, with cross-rhythms and breathless forward momentum.

5. TOCCATA. A brief, fanfare-like movement bringing the brass to the fore, with humourous bangs on unexpected beats and an atmosphere of amiable pomposity.

6. GAVOTTA (with 2 variations). This movement provides an interlude of quiet coolness, with the instrumentation limited to winds and brass (mostly horns). The first variation is scored for an octet of winds and brass, the second featuring a dialogue between flute and horn against the rustic clucking of bassoons.

7. VIVO. One of the great examples of musical buffoonery, this uproarious movement features an unlikely duet between solo trombone and solo string bass, with rhythmic teasing and a a touch of mock pathos.

8. MINUETTO. An oddly march-like, mysterious little movement, most “unminuetlike” in character. The trombone once again has a moment of CANTABILE, the music gradually pressing forward in increasing sonority to move directly into the FINALE.

9. FINALE. The principal melodic phrase is as hackneyed a string of nine notes as can be imagined, which sports and gambols onward with exhilarating rhythmic twists and ostinato patterns. Unlikely echoes of the “Danse Sacrale” from SACRE DU PRINTEMPS sneak in along the way, the solo trumpet wheeling forward to a cadential slam-dunk.

Leighton :Dance Suite No. 2, Op. 59

2001-02-02T21:03:00.000-05:00

Dance Suite No. 2, Op. 59

Kenneth Leighton (1929-1988)

Kenneth Leighton’s early musical training took place as a choirboy at Wakefield Cathedral, followed by studies at Oxford University. He attracted early notice from a number of important composers, including Vaughan Williams, Britten and Gerald Finzi. Composer of symphonies, concertos and chamber music, Leighton is perhaps best-known for his choral works. A prolific composer, his style, with its clarity, lyrical expressiveness and classic form, places him among the more conservative British composers of his time, although elements of the 12-tone technique were to have an influence upon his work as well.

One of a set of three Dance Suites commissioned in the early 1970s to be played by school orchestras, the Second Suite is a vivid example of Leighton’s style, in which technical mastery goes along with a flair for exhibiting an appealing “popular” tone.

The suite opens with a brightly-colored “Intrada,” a march-like introductory movement steps forth with energy and a confident swagger. A secondary, more lyrical theme follows, with the opening material returning to conclude the movement with brilliant flourishes.

The Ragtime Jig is quite removed from the edgy stride of Scott Joplin’s classical ragtime style, here rather stressing the “jig” element, giving a decidedly English cast to the music. Beginning quietly, the music builds to a climax, and then fades away softly in a low flute solo.

The closing “Introduction and March,” is the most imposing part of the suite, opening with

a broad, sustained melody in the strings, soon joined by the winds, moving ahead with a majestic stride and rising to a powerful fullness of sonority. Quite abruptly the music shifts to a springy, almost hectic quick march tempo, with a principal theme filled with rhythmic touches which gives the music a distinct contemporary flavour. A more sustained contrasting melody appears which, upon the return of the opening material soars overhead in the winds, the two thematic elements combined to bring the work to an exultant conclusion.

GPYO concert

Wieniawski :Concerto for Violin No. 2 in D Minor: First Movement, Allegro Moderato

2001-02-02T21:00:00.001-05:00

Concerto for Violin No. 2 in D Minor: First Movement, Allegro Moderato

Henryk Wieniawski (1835-1880)

The Polish violinist Henryk Wieniawski was born into a family of musicians, and showing a great musical talent at an early age, entered the Paris Conservatoire, studying the violin, and soon gaining notice as one of the most brilliant performers of his generation. Much of his career was spent as a travelling virtuoso throughout Europe, as well as spending two years giving concerts in North America. For twelve years Wieniawski taught at the conservatory in Saint Petersburg (in that period Poland was a province of the Russian Empire), where he had a close association with the great pianist, Anton Rubinstein, and became a close friend of Tchaikovsky. Always in frail health, the composer became dangerously ill in 1880, and was taken to live in the palational home of Madame von Meck, Tchaikovksy’s patroness, where he died a few months later. Tchaikovsky wrote of his death, “in him we shall lose an incomparable violinist and gifted composer…the D Minor Concerto shows a true creative gift.”

Composer of many concert works for violin, the Second Concerto is his outstanding creation, a work of fire, lyrical power and great color.

The concerto opens with an introduction featuring a gentle theme in the violins, shared with the winds, and setting the stage for the entry of the solo violin, who is first heard taking up the initial melodic element, now adding some virtuoso touches. A richly lyrical secondary theme follows, which leads to an episode of increasingly brilliant technical display, all the resources of the violin given full rein.

Copland : “Hoe Down” from RODEO

2001-02-02T20:58:00.001-05:00

“Hoe Down” from RODEO

Aaron Copland (1900-1990)

By the 1940s Aaron Copland had already become known as America’s best-known composer, and with the celebration last year of his centenary his position as his country’s best-loved composer is more secure than ever. Although active as a composer for films, with a couple of operas to his credit, the most natural medium for Copland’s dramatic instincts (very much like Stravinsky) was in the field of the dance. Indeed, it was with the appearance in 1938 of BILLY THE KID that Copland began to win a wide popular following. With the composition of RODEO (1942) and APPALACHIAN SPRING (1944) Copland’s reputation was firmly established as the composer who distilled the very essence of the American spirit into his music.

Following the sensational appearance of BILLY THE KID, Copland was invited to join in a second dance project by Agnes DeMille, who herself was about to win a great career success with her choreography for OKLAHAMA in 1943. Another ballet about cowboys at first had little attraction for Copland, but the ever-persuasive DeMille won out, and at the premiere of RODEO at the old Metropolitan Opera House Copland shared in one of the great triumphs of American dance. Four episodes from the ballet were published as a concert suite shortly afterward. The brilliant concluding Hoe Down is a glorious evocation of the time-honored American barndance, complete with fancy fiddling and stomping rhythms. There is a contrasting element midway, with a perky, prancing little ditty heard in the winds, then taken up by the strings. But in the end the fast and furious energy of the main tune carries the day, bringing the dance to an exhilarating finish.

GPYO concert

Berlioz :Hungarian March from The Damnation of Faust

2001-02-02T20:56:00.001-05:00

Hungarian March from The Damnation of Faust

Hector Berlioz (1803-1869)

For more than a century after its appearance in the 1820s Goethe’s FAUST was to be a powerful preoccupation of a remarkable stream of composers, including Schumann, Liszt, Gounod, Wagner, Busoni, and many others. One of the earliest of these was Hector Berlioz, who as early as 1828 composed a set of “Eight Scenes from Goethe’s Faust” – which he promptly sent off to Weimar, seeking the approval of the great German poet. (Goethe gave the manuscript to a musical advisor, who dismissed it as incoherent rubbish!) In 1845 Berlioz returned to his Faust project, which now developed into a massive work for voices, chorus and orchestra, labeled a “Dramatic Legend” – a work not for the stage, but for the concert hall, with the usual visual and dramatic elements intended to take place in the minds of the listeners through the medium of the music.

Although in the main faithful to Goethe’s work, there is one startling liberty on the part of the composer: in order to inset into the action a stirring march composed after a visit to Hungary, Berlioz arbitrarily shifted the locale of the opening of the drama to that country. The march, sometimes known by its tradition Hungarian title, “Rákóczy March,” is one of several popular orchestral excerpts from the DAMNATION OF FAUST, notable for its brilliant coloration and dashing energy. The march begins softly, which caused Berlioz some nervousness when he conducted it in Budapest, lest the audience might take offense at such an understated opening. His fears were groundless; the swelling power and swagger of this infectious piece swept the Hungarians into a storm of applause, and the march has been one of the composer’s most popular compositions ever since.

GPYO concert

Humperdinck : Evening Prayer from Hansel and Gretel

2001-02-02T20:53:00.000-05:00

Evening Prayer from Hansel and Gretel

Engelbert Humperdinck (1854-1921)

Engelbert Humperdinck today is remembered for a single composition, his opera HANSEL AND GRETEL. Introduced in 1893 under the baton of none other than Richard Strauss, HANSEL AND GRETEL was perhaps the most sensationally successful first opera in history, going on to join Handel’s MESSIAH and Tchaikovsky’s NUTCRACKER BALLET as a mandatory musical fare in the Christmas season. Growing out of a quite modest family entertainment, with a libretto by the composer’s sister, the work soon was expanded into a full-scale opera. Ironically, this unpretentious fairy-tale piece might well be described as the only successful opera to carry on the legacy of of Richard Wagner, with whom Humperdinck worked as a young man.

The Evening Prayer is a tiny little duet sung by Hansel and Gretel, who have become lost in the woods, and now prepare to sleep, singing the familiar words, “Now I lay me down to sleep….” No more gentle and tender music has ever been written.

GPYO concert

Mozart :Overture to The Magic Flute

2001-02-02T20:48:00.001-05:00

Overture to The Magic Flute

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

In the last year of his life, contrary to popular myth, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was beginning to see a turnabout in his professional fortunes. True, he had been in ill health, burdened by debt and a falling-off of his popularity with fickle Viennese audiences. But by the spring of 1791 he was busy at work on two operatic projects at the same time: The Magic Flute, a German-language SINGSPIEL (an opera with spoken dialogue), and LA CLEMENZA DI TITO, a rather old-fashioned “serious” opera in Italian. While TITO was intended for a gala performance in Prague as part of the celebrations of the coronation of a new emperor, DIE ZAUBERFLOTE (“Magic Flute”) was written for more modest circumstances: performances in a small theatre in the suburbs of Viennese, before middle-class “family audiences.” While the Italian opera turned out to be a disappointment, the singspiel was an instant, long-running popular success---perhaps a sign of what might have been had Mozart lived.

Commissioned by a roustabout theatre-manager, one Emmanuel Schikaneder, who himself wrote the libretto (and even created the popular role of Papageno, the Bird-Catcher in the first performances), “The Magic Flute” was a confusing scramble of pseudo-Egyptian mythology (complete with references to Osiris and Isis), a boy-meets-girl story, plus a fascinating admixture of Masonic symbolism as well. (After years of prohibition by the Church, under the tolerant Emperor Joseph II the masons were permitted to exist, many of the most prominent artist and intellectuals of Vienna becoming members, including both Haydn and Mozart.)

The Magic Flute is Mozart’s most majestic overture: opening with a slow introduction featuring heavy, portentous chords (suggesting the Masonic element), leading to a full-scale ALLEGRO, filled with bustling fugal writing. Midway the music pauses, and three massive intonations in the brass and winds are heard, yet again a Masonic symbol. The whirling energy resumes, and the overture concludes in triumph.

GPYO concert

Roussel Sinfonietta for Strings, Op. 52

2001-01-27T18:53:00.000-05:00

Sinfonietta for Strings, Op. 52

Albert Roussel (1869-1937)

Albert Roussel is a unique figure among 20^th century French composers. Born into a wealthy family, and despite showing early musical promise, Roussel decided upon a naval career, and spent five years as a commissioned officer in the French navy. However his musical interests asserted themselves, and at the age of 25 Roussel resigned his commission to devote himself to concentrated study. Settling in Paris, he came under the influence of the formidable Vincent D’Indy, under whom he studied at the Schola Cantorum---a course of study lasting a decade! He went on to become a professor at the Schola (where he numbered among his pupils Erik Satie, as well as a composer who later would become a powerful force in advanced 20^th century contemporary music, Edgard Varese.) His career as a composer grew steadily, moving from a early “impressionist” phase to a mature style of great individuality. A lone individual among his generation, he initially drew inspiration from the late 19^th century French tradition, the work of Debussy, and even from the romantic Russian masters. But it would be the work of Stravinsky and Prokofiev (who made their home in Paris after the First World War) which would have a lasting influence upon Roussel, resulting in music of an interesting toughness, sinewy texture, rhythmic bouyancy and bright primary colours.

The Sinfonietta for Strings, composed in 1934, is a splendid example of Roussel’s later style.

The work opens with a crisp, sharply articulated melody heard against a tramping rhythmic background, soon fading down to a more lyrical contrasting theme. The primary theme returns to round out the movement. The music is tonal, shot through with glints of dissonant harmonies, and generally preserving a resolute, unsentimental character.

The slow central movement opens with massive, sweeping chords, creating an atmosphere of grave intensity. The music seems to suggest a tapestry of string sonority, rich and introspective. Quite unexpectedly the third movement swings into action, for the first time laid out in a major tonality (D Major). The musical texture remains dense, lively, if a trifle muscular, springing forward and maintaining a restless momentum, coming to a blunt conclusion.

NCO Concert

Faure Nocturne from Shylock

2001-01-27T18:52:00.000-05:00

Nocturne from Shylock

Gabriel Faure (1845-1924)

Although he would eventually create a true operatic landmark in his Penelope (1913), for many years Gabriel Faure never went beyond composing occasional sets of incidental pieces for theatrical productions, one of which would become his best-known orchestral composition, the Suite from Pelleas Et Melisande--- the very play which would be the basis for Debussy’s landmark opera of 1902, as well as orchestral works by Schoenberg and Sibelius.

An example of Faure’s incidental music is the set of pieces composed for an 1889 production of a play loosely based on Shakespeare’s Merchant Of Venice, Shylock.. One tiny movement, the jewel-like Nocturne is the best known of these pieces. Here, in a work for string orchestra, we hear Faure, the great melodist and composer of haunting songs (the glory of the French tradition of “melodies”), the violins soaring over a sustained, subtly-shifting harmonic background. This is indeed a genuine “song without words.”

NCO concert

Massenet Meditation from Thais

2001-01-27T18:51:00.000-05:00

Meditation from Thais

Jules Massenet (1842-1912)

In his day Jules Massenet was the Andrew Lloyd-Webber of his day: an enormously prolific, popular, commercially canny purveyor of operatic sweet-meats gobbled up by an adoring public all over the world. Never before or since had French opera achieved such an international following. Most of his operas (rather like those of his contemporaries Puccini and Richard Strauss) focused upon fascinating female protagonists, with more than a hint of a deliciously alluring erotic element designed to titillate and fascinate audiences.

Among the more “scandalous” Massent confections was Thais, first performed in 1894. This tale of a “courtesan, ” whose life becomes entangled with that of an austere “holy man, ” who progressively yields to her attractions---while at the same time SHE becomes drawn to his spiritual purity, stirred up a storm of comment, protest and sheer fascination on the part of the public and critics of the time. The title role was designed for a young Californian soprano, Sibyl Sanderson, who had a lovely voice, was quite beautiful, and known to be one of a long chain of Massenet mistresses. On the opera’s opening night Ms. Sanderson’s costume accidentally (?) came undone, revealing a fetching bosom, which more than stole the show, and added all the more to the uproar. To this day Thais has never quite lived down its torrid reputation.

All that stands in stark contrast (musically speaking) with the famous “Meditation, ” which forms an entr’acte at the opera’s midpoint. Justly famed as a work of intense emotion of a strangely ambiguous spiritual character---it is as often played at funerals as at weddings----the Meditation is heard as an extended violin melody hovering above a hushed string orchestra background. Vintage Massenet, the textures are lush, the melodic element smooth and creamy, and (mirroring the opera’s plot) nicely balanced between the sensual and the spiritual.

NCO concert

Saint-Saens “The Elephant, ” from Carnival Of The Animals

2001-01-27T18:49:00.000-05:00

“The Elephant, ” from Carnival Of The Animals

Camille Saint-Saens (1835-1921)

The “Carnival of the Animals” was composed by Camille Saint-Saens as a private joke, quickly written in 1886, and never published in his lifetime. Ironically it would become the composer’s most-popular work, even outstripping the concertos and symphonies in the affections of the musical public.

Apart from the obvious pleasure of hearing musical portraits of the animal kingdom, a great deal of the fun of the “Carnival” lies in some of the in-jokes and sly musical subtleties which are woven throughout the work. A particularly droll example can be heard in the musical portrait of the Elephant. In the lumbering slow-waltz of the opening tune we can, of course, envision the bulk and gait of this huge beast. But then, to impart an unexpected touch of elegance (even to a pachyderm!) Saint-Saens slips in an extended quotation from Berlioz’ “Dance of the Sylphs” from the Damnation Of Faust. What makes this especially funny is remembering that a.) the Berlioz original rolls along at a quick tempo; b.) far from being heard in the low register of the orchestra, The Berlioz melody is heard in high, ethereal violins. But even if the listener has no inkling of the musical quotation, the likeness the animal being portrayed is faithful, affectionate, and amusing.

NCO concert

Ravel Pavane pour une Infante defúnte

2001-01-27T18:48:00.000-05:00

Pavane pour une Infante defúnte

Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)

Some composers begin their careers with a Great Popular Success – usually a rather modest composition which becomes so-well loved (and overplayed) that their creators rue the day that they ever composed these pieces, despite the always-welcome royalties! Among a number of notorious examples would certainly be Rachmaninov’s “Prelude in C-sharp Minor, Liszt’s Liebestraum, and Chopin’s “Minute Waltz.” Such is the case with Maurice Ravel’s “Pavane for a Dead Princess” (often mis-translated as “infant, ” “Infante” actually refers to an “Infanta, ” the Spanish title for a royal princess.) Such a title is characteristic of the young composer’s romantic imagination in creating this exquisite musical miniature, which, however often it is picked out by “pretty young things with spidery fingers, ” never loses its appeal. The Pavane was one of the earliest of Ravel’s works to come to public notice, written in 1899 for solo piano and dedicated to the Princess Edmond de Polignac---an American woman (heir to the Singer Sewing Machine fortune) who became a central figure in early 20^th century Parisian musical life. (In 1910 Ravel prepared an orchestral setting of the work.) With its eerie calm and nostalgic, somewhat “archaic” tone, the Pavane represents a turning away from the gauzy shimmer of late-19^th century “impressionism, ” and even in this early work seems to look ahead to the neo-classic trend which music would follow by the 1920s.

NCO Concert

Satie March, “Le Piccadilly”

2001-01-27T18:47:00.000-05:00

March, “Le Piccadilly”

Erik Satie (1866-1925)

Erik Satie is often thought of as one of the great eccentric figures in French music, known for miniature compositions with titles such as “Things seen from left to right (without glasses), ” “The Dreamy Fish, ” “Flaccid Preludes, ” and an especially evocative work for piano in Four movements, “Three Pieces in the shape of a Pear.” Satie, who had stumbled through his teens with fitful attempts at gaining a conventional musical education, would go on to become compose of note (and notoriety), a close friend of Debussy, who in his later years numbered among his friends Pablo Picasso and Jean Cocteau. He would have a deep influence upon younger composers such as Ravel, Poulenc, and such Americans as Virgil Thomson and John Cage. For many years he lived an impoverished life in the Bohemian world of Montmarte, although at one point he inherited a legacy from his family with which he purchased a set of 12 identical grey velvet suits. His musical personality ranged from a Christian mysticism which was expressed in his “Mass for the Poor, ” to “Socrate, ” an austere and poignant setting of the account of the death of the Greek philosopher. There was also an uproarious sense of humour and somewhat surrealistic sensibility, as can be heard in his ballet, “Parade” (performed in 1917 with designs by Picasso), in which a typewriter makes an appearance as an orchestral instrument.

His jaunty musical spirit is nicely expressed in the tiny “Piccadilly” March composed in 1903. The title reflects Satie’s characteristic delight in things English---an eccentric artist perhaps inspired by a notion of the British as a nation of eccentrics. However, the music itself is actually an echo of American Ragtime, which became the rage in Europe early in the 20^th century. Indeed, the March actually began life as a song, “La Transatlantique” (“The Transatlantic Girl”), with a text by Satie himself, in a hilarious scramble of French and English, full of references to Baltimore, Chicago, Mississippi, Ohio – and dollars! That version was abandoned, and the march first appeared as a piano piece (later orchestrated), which follows the traditional march and trio pattern, full of the typical prancing rhythms and syncopation of Ragtime. Scott Joplin would have loved it.

NCO concert

Dvorak : Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Op. 95, “From the New World”

2000-10-29T20:45:00.002-05:00

Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Op. 95, “From the New World” (1893) Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904)

Fairly soon after the establishment of the republic, important European musical figures began to find their way to the United States. Some were inspired by the prospects of a land where the streets were supposedly paved with gold, some intending to make new careers in America, some very celebrated persons invited as honoured guests. By the mid-19^th century there was an increasing stream of European performers, including such stars as the legendary Swedish singer, Jennie Lind, whose tour was sponsored by P. T. Barnum, of all people. Later great Russian piano virtuoso, Anton Rubinstein came over to dazzle American audiences. In 1891 Tchaikovsky showed up to conduct on the concert inaugurating Andrew Carnegie’s splendid concert hall. Early in the 20^th century saw visits from Richard Strauss, and, of course, the arrival of Gustav Mahler to become the conductor of the New York Philharmonic. But such exciting figures failed to leave the lasting influence upon American musical life which followed the time spent in America by Antonin Dvorak. Mrs. Jeannette Thurber, a wealthy figure in New York society and champion of American artists, was determined to use her social position (and her husband’s money) to establish a first-rate institution in New York City for the training of musicians. Things had come a long way in the 19^th century, with the New York Philharmonic founded in 1842, the Metropolitan Opera in 1883, while Harvard led the way in academic music study with the first music professorship in 1875. In New England impressive symphonic works were being composed by composers such as John Knowles Paine, George W. Chadwick, and soon even a remarkable woman composer, Amy Beach. But a truly professional institution for the training of musicians, comparable to the conservatories in Paris and Leipzig was sorely lacking. Mrs. Thurber got busy, and the National Conservatory of Music became a reality. Realising that she needed a V. I. P. to attract respectful attention to her enterprise, she considered a number of noted musicians (every one of them a European), and decided to offer the directorship of her conservatory to Antonin Dvorak, then at the height of his powers and celebrity. While Dvorak was already teaching in Prague, and busy with commissions, money was short, he had six children to feed---and Mrs. Thurber proposed a three-year contract, with a salary of $15,000, which was comparable to that of the president of the United States! It did not take long for Dvorak to agree to the terms, which included some modest teaching and administrative tasks, with long summer vacations, and a splendid opportunity to participate in the cultural life of America’s premiere city. (It also allowed time for some sight-seeing, with Niagara Falls high on the list.)

One would have imagined that a Big Name like Dvorak would be content to fulfill his duties without undue exertion, collect his salary, and sail home quite pleased with himself. But Dvorak was a unique personality in every way. Son of a butcher, he never forgot his humble origins, and clearly felt an affinity for a very confident, expanding America, then at the height of the flood of immigrants pouring through Ellis Island---many of them from backgrounds similar to his own. As well, Dvorak felt deeply about the matter of nationhood, for his own country (then referred to as “Bohemia”) was merely a province of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and would not gain independence until 1918. In many of his most popular compositions Dvorak expressed strong nationalist sentiments, drawing upon the folk music and traditional culture of his people to create a vivid, individual musical style. Not surprisingly, Dvorak had a keen understanding of the desire of his young students to find their own distinctive American musical identities. And, surprisingly, among the students were a number of African-Americans, recruited and funded by Mrs. Thurber, who held passionate beliefs about racial equality and opportunity. In an America just emerging from the Reconstruction period following the Civil War, this was a remarkable situation. While it might be expected that these young Black students would gain a sound training in the European Classical traditions, what was especially noteworthy was Dvorak’s desire to learn everything about their own culture and traditions---something extremely uncommon among most Americans in the late 19^th century. Dvorak spotlighted the talents of these students, writing articles and giving interviews in which he stressed the rich potential for American music in drawing upon the artistic riches to be found among ethnic minorities, most of all Black and Native Americans. These ideas were given particular emphasis in a famous article published in Harpers Monthly Magazine (February, 1895), which was virtually a blueprint for America’s musical future, one in which African-Americans might make very significant contributions. Although Dvorak died too soon to hear Ragtime, the music of Scott Joplin, or the early stages of Jazz, he left his mark on American music through his students, who went on to become prominent teachers and composers in their own right. His Black students would soon be the first professors of music at the historically Black colleges, while others would become teachers of such musicians as Aaron Copland and George Gershwin.

As a composer Dvorak left his mark in a series of works which were destined to be his finest and most popular, especially the F Major String Quartet (“American”) composed in Iowa during a summer vacation spent in a community founded by Czech immigrants---and above all his Ninth Symphony.

The symphony’s subtitle has always been misunderstood. Dvorak himself stressed that it was not an “American” symphony, rather one composed IN America, looking across the Atlantic toward home. He also stated that he believed that only through spending time in America could he have written such a work. While there remains some controversy regarding the ethnic influences which can be heard in the symphony, it is generally conceded that African-American and Native Americal musical elements are to be heard, especially in the middle two movements.

The symphony opens with a stern and darkly-textured slow introduction, leading to a restless and dramatic ALLEGRO MOLTO, with an assertive first subject, with heavy rhythmic stresses balanced by dance-like dotted rhythms, which will be given much attention in the course of the movement. A transitional melody (in G Minor), of a lilting Czech character leads to a winsome second subject of a rather Schubertian lyrical cast. Only when this is swells into a full orchestral statement do we realise that it leads off with the same “heavy rhythm” heard in the primary subject. The development focuses upon this secondary theme, pressing onward to a grand climax, and a recapitulation which veers into unexpected tonalities before returning to the home key in a “climax of tragic fury” (as Donald Francis Tovey puts it), before bringing the movement to a close.

The slow movement (marked LARGO) is ushered in by a solemn succession of richly-coloured chords, drawing the music into the rather uncommon tonality of D-flat major. There follows the entry of the English Horn (an instrument rarely encountered in the symphonic tradition), intoning the extraordinary principal melody which, as Tovey says, “has become a glory of Western art.” Although believed by many to have been borrowed from a Negro spiritual, and even fitted with words by a Dvorak pupil and sung under the title “Goin’ Home,” Dvorak’s sketches reveal that this wonderful melody was indeed his own. Nevertheless, the inflections of the melody, and its pentatonic (“five-tone”) makeup, so characteristic of spirituals, can lead to reasonable speculation that this music was indeed strongly influenced by the African-American music which Dvorak absorbed directly from his students. The opening statement, with hushed muted strings contrasted with the brooding loneliness of the English horn, is followed by an episode of restless agitation, and in turn by a brief, ghostly SCHERZANDO passage which unexpectedly swells into a menacing outburst for full orchestra. The quiet which follows creates an even more poignant setting for the English Horn melody, the movement fading away on a PIANISSIMO chord in four string basses.

If the slow movement suggests an African-American element, the bright colours and pounding rhythms of the SCHERZO inevitably bring to mind some echoes of the music of Native Americans. The main theme, first heard in the oboe, is built around a rhythmic figure which permeates the movement, with swirling string figures adding excitement, and the piling up of the insistent rhythm paradoxically bringing to mind the unbridled energy of two quite distinct folk cultures: the American Indian dancing– and the FURIANT, a Czech dance notable for its driving rhythms, which can be heard in the SCHERZO movements of several Dvorak’s earlier symphonies. Moving from E Minor to the sunny warmth of E Major, a contrasting theme provides a moment of relaxation before returning to the relentless activity of the opening section. The Trio section shifts to an amiable, folk-like C Major tune, reminiscent of the music of Smetana, and of Dvorak’s own popular “Slavonic” Dances. The SCHERZO then is reprised, with a coda which becomes ever quieter, only to end with a bang.

The finale, marked ALLEGRO CON FUOCO, returns to the home key of E Minor, and for all the elements of excitement and orchestra brilliance, remains true to the spirit of the symphony’s opening movement in its commanding energy and forcefulness. The first theme is declaimed by the horns, taken up by the full orchestra, surging onward in a whirl of triplets, arriving at a second subject of reflective and lyrical character, first heard in the clarinet. But soon this gentle mood pushes on into a subsidiary melody, out of which emerges a pattern of three-descending notes (often described as akin to “Three Blind Mice” !)

That pattern proceeds to permeate the development section, which drives forward to suddenly bring back the primary theme of the FIRST movement, blared out in a thundering climax. The basic elements return as before, although taking on different coloration and emphasis. Suddenly, as Tovey describes it, the coda bursts forth in a mood of “tragic catastrophe, almost grotesque in its violence,” with the solemn chords which had introduced the slow movement now striding forward in a furious climax. This subsides, and the symphony seems about to end in a whisper, when the movement’s main theme is once again declaimed by the horns, bringing the work to a dramatic and uncompromising conclusion.

GPYO concert

Grieg: Piano Concerto in A Minor, Op. 16

2000-10-29T20:39:00.001-05:00

Piano Concerto in A Minor, Op. 16 (1868) Edvard Grieg (1843-1907)

Norway’s best-known composer, Edvard Grieg grew up in a Scandinavian world quite unlike that of today, in which Norway and Sweden still formed a single nation, and Grieg himself raised in a family setting heavily influenced by Danish traditions. It was only in his twenties that he became deeply involved with the folk music of his own country, with profound consequences for the development of his musical personality. While music played an important role in his background, Grief was a relative late-comer, enrolling at the Leipzig Conservatory at age fifteen. While he found the conservative atmosphere of that institution stifling, the training under teachers who had been members of the Mendelssohn/Schumann faction in German musical life was to have a lasting influence upon Grieg. Indeed, that influence lingered on in his many songs and piano pieces. Grieg has been disparaged as a miniaturist, although in 1864 he actually composed a Symphony in C Minor, destined to be his largest composition. But on hearing the First Symphony of his compatriot, Johan Svendsen, the insecure Grieg suppressed his symphony, which was only heard for the first time in 1980. Although indeed a master of small, lyrical musical forms, Grieg showed a confident handling of larger structures, as can be heard in such compositions as the E Minor Piano Sonata, the G Minor String Quartet, and, most of all, the A Minor Piano Concerto.

The concerto is an example of a fine work which has survived its popularity. In a nice touch of irony, detractors have enjoyed unflattering comparisons with another A Minor Concerto by a “miniaturist” composer, Robert Schumann. For all that, it has been admired by composers as fastidious as Benjamin Britten, and performed by the likes of Michelangeli and Dinu Lipatti.

The work was set on its way through the encouragement of Franz Liszt, whose open-hearted of young composers should earn him the eternal gratitude of all musicians. Grieg met Liszt in Rome, where the master sat down and delivered a masterful performance of the concerto at sight from the manuscript full score---complete with running commentary of observations and praise! Grieg left a delicious account of Liszt’s reaction to a highly original harmonic turn at the end of the work:

“Towards the end of the finale…where the first note of the first triplet of the theme---G sharp---is changed to G natural in the orchestra, while the piano in a tremendous scale passage traverses the entire keyboard, Liszt suddenly stopped, rose to his full height, left the piano, and with mighty theatrical steps and raised arms strode through the great monastery hall, literally roaring out the theme. When he got to the above-mentioned G, he gestured imperiously with his arm and cried, ‘G, G, not G-sharp!! Wonderful!! That is the genuine article!!’ He then went back to the piano, repeated the whole phrase and concluded the work.”

The A Minor Concerto was the product of a young man of 25, recently married, now a father, and in the

full flood of inspired composition. While indebted to the Schumann concerto in its ardour and lyrical invention, as well as richly endowed with Lisztian pyrotechnics, the work is the first full expression of Grieg’s originality. The Norwegian element is most pronounced in the finale, with its opening tune which recalls the typical Hardanger fiddle music, and the Norwegian dance, the HALLING. (At the end of the movement the same music returns in triple metre, converted to the character of another dance, the SPRINGAR.) In broad outline the work is quite traditional: a sonataform opening movement, tripartite slow movement, and lively sonata-rondo finale. Most memorable are the lyrical moments: the plaintive flute melody in the finale (which returns in grandiose form at the end, the moment which so delighted Liszt), and the slow movement, sometimes described as a nocturne…”not a Mediterranean nocturne, but the gentle shimmering light of a Scandinavian midsummer night.”

GPYO concert

Rossini: Sonata No. 5 in E Flat Major for Strings

2000-10-24T21:29:00.000-04:00

Sonata No. 5 in E Flat Major for Strings (1804)

Gioachino Rossini (1792-1868)

Gioachino Rossini was born in Pesaro, a small city on the Adriatic coat of Italy, on 29^th February, 1792. Son of musical parents, at the age of 14 he became a student at the famed Accademia Filarmonico in Bologna. Already he had shown remarkable precocity in composition, having composed six sonatas for strings at the age of 12, and had gained valuable first-hand experience in the world of the opera house. Always precocious, Rossini’s first work for the stage dates from 1810 (when, technically he was only three years of age - !) He gained wide notice with his opera, L’Inganno felice (1812), and was off and running with a quite astonishing string of 35 stage works, both serious and comic, with at least one new work every single year (but one) until his last opera, William Tell was performed in 1829. Then, at the advanced age of 37 (counting the years, not the birthdays!), Rossini abruptly withdrew from the world of opera, and, indeed, wrote only a handful of compositions for public performance during the final 39 years of his life. (There were, however, many small works for piano and voice which were written for private use, and only published after the composer’s death.) Wealthy, celebrated, and quite comfy in his splendid residence in Paris, Rossini gave his attention to elegant soirees, dinner parties, conversation and luxurious laziness on a grand scale. He received an endless stream of eminent visitors until the day he died (including a quite amusing afternoon entertaining a rather nervous young Richard Wagner), and enjoyed life to the fullest.

The six sonatas for strings of 1804 were composed for a curious string quartet ensemble comprising two violins, cello and string bass – no part for the viola. They are peprhaps more effectively heard, as in today’s concert, played by a larger string ensemble. (Another oddity is the use of the word “sonata,” where a more appropriate choice of title might have been the term “sinfonia.”) The Fifth Sonata in E Flat, is quite characteristic of the set, exhibiting extremes of suave lyricism and crowd-pleasing flights of orchestral virtuosity in which the mettle of the players is put to a severe test.

The opening allegro vivace is laid out as a relaxed sonataform, with a quiet, songful opening theme of sustained lyricism, followed by a rhythmically pointed secondary theme over a springy figure in the bass. Soon triplets bound into view, followed by waves of sixteenth-note figuration in the violins, rounding out the exposition with mischievous energy. The development is brief, recalling the primary theme, then, after a pause, recapitulating the opening material much as before. This time chief difference is that the violins are catapulted into their upper reaches, and pushed to their technical limits before bringing the movement to an emphatic conclusion.

The brief andantino is a quiet intelude, with gently arching melodic lines (rather operatic in character) over a pulsing grazioso background. Midway the music moves into unexpectedly chromatic territory, with sharp accents and dark harmonic textures, soon relaxing into a quiet ending.

The finale (allegretto) is certainly the most distinctly “Rossinian” part of the work, with its bouncing dotted rhythms and strolling gait, which is bound to recall many an animated episode in one or another of the composer’s popular opera overtures. A second theme is, if anything, even more brilliant and challenging for the players than any of the similar pyrotechnical moments of the first movement – in fact, the free-wheeling violin writing almost suggests the Rossini of the exciting concert works for clarinet and orchestra. There is no development, the music quickly swinging back to the initial material, nimbly romping onward to an exhilarating finish.

For an NCO concert

Gade: Novelletter for String Orchestra in F Major, Op. 53 (1874)

2000-10-24T21:27:00.000-04:00

Novelletter for String Orchestra in F Major, Op. 53 (1874)

Niels Wilhelm Gade
(1817-1890)

Until quite recently the name of Niels Gade would be most familiar to those whose early piano lessons included learning of some of the little pieces comprising Robert Schumann’s “Album for the Young” – one of which uses the musical letters G – A – D – E (spelled out in the title) to form its thematic material. Long little known outside his native Denmark, recently Gade’s work has begun to be be heard in a series of fine recordings of his symphonies and orchestra pieces, some of which have frequently been heard on FM stations in this country.

As a young man Gade became a close friend of Schumann and Mendelssohn, the latter launching the young Danish composer on his way with performances of his works by the Gewandhaus Orchestra in 1843. He was soon appointed assistant conductor of the Leipzig orchestra, and became a teacher at the Leipzig Conservatory, which had recently been established by Mendelssohn. Following Mendelssohn’s death in 1847 Gade was appointed chief conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra. But he held the position only for a year, deciding to return home when war broke out between Prussia and Denmark in 1848. Settling in Copenhagen, Gade became the focus of a remarkable development of the musical culture in his native country, composing a wide range of stage works, orchestral music (eight symphonies), choral works, chamber music, songs and piano music. He was the most prominent composer to emerge in Denmark before the appearance of Carl Nielsen in the early 20^th century.

Gade composed two works for string orchestra bearing the Schumannesque title Novelletter

(“Novellettes”) in the form suites of contrasting movements exhibiting a lyrical grace and elegant detail which inevitably brings to mind the works of his beloved colleagues, Mendelssohn and Schumann.

Opening with a short, dreamy introduction, the first movement is animated allegro, with a lively, syncopated scherzando principal theme, followed by a secondary theme of sweet lyricism which seems to look ahead to the music of Gade’s fellow Scandinavian composer, Grieg. There is some easy-going development, followed by a recapitulation of the opening elements. The Scherzo is an atmospheric, “things that go bump in the night” movement in D minor, featuring springy tiptoe melodic figures on tiptoe, contrasted by bustling string writing of great brilliance and imagination. The intermezzo-like andantino con moto is a brief interlude of gentle songfulness, rather in the manner of one of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words.” The finale (allegro vivace) is a toccata-like movement, with spirited virtuosic fugal string writing reminiscent not only of Mendelssohn’s characteristic dashing finales (as in the famous Octet), but even the famous fugal finale to Beethoven’s String Quartet, Op. 59, No. 3. Like those two famous examples of whirlwind string music, Gade whips his players onward to an exciting conclusion.

For an NCO concert

Hovhaness: Psalm and Fugue for String Orchestra, Op. 40a (1941)

2000-10-24T21:25:00.000-04:00

Psalm and Fugue for String Orchestra, Op. 40a (1941)

Alan Hovhaness (1911-2000)

Alan Hovhaness, who died this past summer at the age of 89, was one of a number of interesting
American musical mavericks, whose style owed much to the influence of music from other cultures, as well as being a composer who strove to achieve a directness of expression and accessibility to today’s audiences. Born in Somerville, Massachustts, of Scottish and Armenian ancestry, Hovhaness was trained at the New England Conservatory. There he studied with Frederick Converse, one of that generation of pioneering late-19^th century New England composers who helped to bring about the “coming of age” of American concert music. But, not at all interested in following his teacher in looking to the German symphonic tradition for inspiration, Hovhaness showed an early interest in Eastern music, particularly Indian music, as well as studying the techniques of Renaissance music. Following a summer spent studying at Tanglewood in 1943, where his work met with severe criticism from Aaron Copland and Lukas Foss, Hovhaness gave serious consideration to the direction in which his work had been moving, which led to the suppression (and destruction) of much of his earlier output. At the relatively late age of 32 he began to give more attention to the music of his Armenian forebears, as well as seeking to establish a clarity of harmonic style, and primary focus on the melodic element in his work, which gave his compositions their distinctive simplicity of expression.

By the 1950s Hovhaness’ compositions began to reach a wider public, especially through the great success enjoyed by his Second Symphony (“Mysterious Mountain”), which was marked by a meditative and mystical character which would be associated with the composer to the end of his career. He was perhaps unique among American composers for the “open-hearted spirituality” of his work, as Allan Kozinn pointed out in his obituary of Hovhaness in the New York Times. Hovhaness was an incredibly prolific composer, composing more than seventy symphonies, and a huge range of music for the stage,orchestra, chamber music, chorus and piano. One of his most popular works was an orchestral tone-poem, “And God Created Great Whales” (1970), which included a part for taped whale song.

The Psalm and Fugue, (composed in 1941, although only published in 1958), is one of those early compositions which survived Hovhaness’ ruthless winnowing out of his catalogue of works. In its melodic and harmonic simplicity it shows the influence of his preoccupation with Renaissance music. The Psalm is a plaintive, chant-like introductory movement, utterly diatonic (as if meant to be played on the "white keys"”of the piano). There are five short segments, the first for conventional string orchestra (the basses playing pizzicato), quite and reflective, followed by a section in which the violas play a rhythmically embellished theme above sustained lower strings. A variant of the opening forms the central third episode, the strings divided (except violas and basses), creating a richer sonority which swells to crest in a full fortissimo. The fourth segment is an echo of the second, the violas again carrying the melodic line---now for the first time with touches of chromaticism, moving away from the “white key” character of the earlier sections. A short, full-throated fifth segment, again written for divided strings, concludes the movement with the massive sonority.

The fugue sets forth with a “subject” (principal thematic element) heard in the second violins – a sort of “five-finger” melody akin to that which opened the composition. In quick succession the subject is heard in entries by the first violins, cellos and violas. (Curiously, the basses are silent until the very last phrase in the movement---which might suggest that this fugue might well have begun life as a composition for string quartet, in this version expanded to be performed by the multiple strings of the orchestra.) The consistently quiet tone of the opening section (or “exposition”) soon rises in intensity as all the instruments move into their upper registers. The music becomes chromatic in texture, moving into tonalities quite removed from the modal G Major which has dominated the composition from the beginning, with striking touches of dissonance. An increasing rhythmic momentum creates a mood of excitement, with chains of rapid notes in the lower strings. Marked “noble and majestic,” the opening music of the Psalm movement returns (with the basses rejoining the orchestra), to stride on to a powerful conclusion.

For an Newtown Chamber Orchestra concert

Strauss: Metamorphosen

2000-10-24T21:22:00.001-04:00

Metamorphosen for String Orchestra (1945) Richard Strauss
(1864-1949)

In a long professional life which stretched for the world of Wagner and Brahms to the modern age of Stravinsky and Schoenberg, Richard Strauss lived through a dizzying succession of emperors, kings and prime ministers. The teen-ager who began his career during the fairy-tale age of Ludwig II of Bavaria, won world-wide fame during the jingoistic reign of Kaiser Wilhelm II and the turbulent “Weimar Republic” in the 1920s---and as a Grand Old Man briefly occupied an honoured position as a cultural figurehead in Nazi Germany. His confident view that all politicians (whether emperors or Reich Chancellors) were fundamentally the same---corrupt, stupid and contemptible---was shattered when the authorities intercepted his letters, bringing his private views to the attention of Joseph Goebbels and Hitler himself. Later, Strauss was called in for a tongue-lashing by Dr. Goebbels himself, who warned that despite his fame as Germany’s most celebrated musician, he too could be disposed of, if necessary. Strauss was in his late seventies, and not even asked to take a seat for this confrontation. Shaking with fright and ashen-faced the old man retreated to his home in the Bavarian Alps, where he lived out the war years in terror of the possible threat to him and his family---Strauss’ daughter-in-law was Jewish. No harm came. As the war wound down Richard Strauss was forced to confront the complete transformation and destruction of the world he had known. War devastation was one thing, the perversion and damage to the great traditions of German culture were another. Strauss may never have fully grasped the degradation into which his nation had been plunged, and to which he had contributed, however naively. To this day there are many who cannot forgive the fact that he remained in Germany, and seemed to “play along” with the regime. The truth is that he was an elderly man, brought up in an earlier age, and, like many Germans, unwilling to face reality until it was too late.

Not long after his final opera, Capriccio was performed, not long before his 80^th birthday, Strauss learned of the terrible destruction of Dresden (where most of his operas had received their premieres), then the bombing of Munich and Vienna---in which the great opera houses of both cities were destroyed. Heartbroken, Strauss tinkered with a plan for a septet for strings, which at first bore the title “Mourning for Munich.” When Paul Sacher, the conductor of a chamber orchestral in Basel, Switzerland, commissioned a new work from Strauss, the septet became a Metamorphosen [Metamorphoses], “Study for 23 Solo Strings,” which was composed March-April, 1945 at the composer’s home in Garmisch, in the Bavarian Alps, during the terrible final weeks of the war. Sacher, an outstanding champion and patron of the work of many important 20^th century composers (including Stravinsky, Bartok, Britten and many others), conducted the premiere of Metamorphosen on 25^th January, 1946.

The title is commonly taken to refer to the continual process of development in is such a striking aspect of the work’s musical structure. In fact, the “metamorphosis” heakens back to two poetic works written by Goethe in his old age---to quiet his deep anxiety in the final stages of the war, Strauss had re-read the complete writings of Goethe, seeking to find consolation in the greatest of all German poets.

For today’s performance Russell Hoffmann has chosen to use a septet version of Metamorphosen, in which the elements of the 23-instrument version are preserved, re-distributed between seven instrumental voices, permiting performance by a smaller string orchestra. This version was reconstituted by Rudolf Leopold from the original sketches which were re-discovered in Switzerland in 1990.

Metamorphosen is laid out as a continually unfolding, seamless contrapuntal tapestry. The textures shift smoothly from lower to higher instrumental colours, from transparent simplicity to some of the richest string sonorities ever conceived, in a style which is best described as “late Romanticism,” despite the date of composition—some might prefer the term “post-Romantic.” There are four distinct major thematic elements introduced straightaway: 1.) a solemn “preludial” opening with dark, arresting harmonies in the lower strings (initially in E Minor, although the home key soon is established as C Minor); 2.) perhaps the most important melodic element: four repeated notes linked with to a descending dotted pattern, introduced by the violas, destined to take on profound meaning as the composition progresses.

3.) a warmer, gently swelling lyrical theme led in by the violins, soon taking on a more anxious tone.

4.) a new theme, also ushered in with four repeated notes, first in the cellos, then taken up by the violins.

p. 2

Throughout the ongoing flow of musical ideas the “preludial” first theme recurs, the other themes endlessly extended and interwoven. The work had opens in E Minor, which immediately shifted into C Minor, which becomes the central tonality. Now, with a change to G Major, a new, more relaxed 5^th theme is added, notable for its more supple, embellished character. The music rises in intensity, then sinks back to return to the darker character of the first section, with the four-note figure becoming more prominent. Then a refreshing change as the music glides into the warm key of E Major. But once again it becomes more agitated, restlessly pressing onward, reaching the anxious key of C-sharp minor, and an extended form of the third theme. Soon we find ourselves back in the home key of C Minor, with the four-note figure taking on even a more urgent role, the tempo quickening, the atmosphere becoming ever more emotionally heated. The fourth theme comes to the fore, joined by the “warmer” third theme in turn, while the music takes on an ever more insistent momentum, rising to a dramatic climax. This crests in a reappearance of the “new” 5^th theme, now in C Major. This forges ahead ato a huge climax, with almost frantic repetitions of the four-note figure. This crashes down to a return of the preludial theme, fortissimo, now in C Minor. Calming down, the second theme, with the figure of four notes linked to the descending dotted pattern now claims our attention. The third theme re-appears, and after another dramatic pause, the preludial music swings around to the four note figure, now piled up in canonic entries, hammering one on top of another, pushing the music ahead in grinding, dissonant single-mindedness. The dotted descending theme now is heard by itself (without the 4 repeated notes), and all of the thematic elements are combined in a mood of almost desperate sorrow and resignation. The preludial theme leads in the final moments of the work, the melodic strands winding downward to find a ultimate anchor in C Minor. The four-note figure is heard a last time, while the cellos and basses intone the dotted-rhythm theme in its final transfiguration: a direct quotation of the Funeral March theme from Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony. Under those final bars the heartbroken composer wrote the words IN MEMORIAM!

With Metamorphosen Strauss may well have composed a requiem for a great civilisation, and for an unbroken music tradition extending from Beethoven (and the world of Napoleon) to his own last works (and the world of Hitler.) For many listeners, this work may also be heard as a great composer’s grieving expression of his own moral failure, and search for spiritual resolution.

For a Newtown Chamber Orchestra Concert 24 X 2000

Musorgsky:

2000-08-15T19:01:00.002-04:00

Pictures at an Exhibition

Modest Musorgsky (1839-1881)

Born little more than a generation before Sergei Rachmaninov, Modest Musorgsky made his way as a musician during a period in which Russian musical culture was still taking shape, when many of the most gifted composers were actually amateurs, writing music in their free time. It is hard to imagine that Alexander Borodin was employed as a professor of chemistry, and Rimsky-Korsakov began a career as a naval officer, only later becoming a professional composer and teacher. Even Tchaikovsky put in a few years as a government employee before being freed to compose full-time, in great part due to the generosity of his patron, Mme. Von Meck.

Musorgsky’s career followed a similar course. Born in a well-to-do land-owning family, he was educated at a military academy (with casual musical instruction from his mother and private teachers), and became a civil servant---the future composer of BORIS GODUNOV soon employed as “Assistant Head Clerk in the Third Section of the Forestry Department of the Ministry of State Property”! (Please note that this was fifty years before the Soviet era!) It was not quite as Kafkaesque as one might imagine. When time permitted music was composed, and Musorgsky was fortunate in having superiors who recognized his gifts and gave him considerable leeway in pursuing his creative activities. He was quite successful as a government functionary, dapper in appearance, cultivated and possessing a lively intellect. He also was subject to mental instability, fits of depression, and an increasing alcoholism which would eventually bring his short life to an end. The history books tend to overlook the more positive aspects of Musorgsky’s life, usually stressing his “unstable, disorderly temperament,” and sadly the composer is forever associated in the minds of most people with the heart-breaking portrait by I. E. Repin, painted only a few weeks before his early death. By fits and starts Musorgsky had won recognition as a gifted, if rather “eccentric” composer, closely associated with others of his generation (especially the “Mighty Five,” which included Rimsky, Borodin, Cesar Cui and Balakirev.) In the early 1870s came performances of his masterpiece, BORIS GODUNOV, soon followed by work on KHOVANSHCHINA (left incomplete at his death), a host of remarkable songs, and a number of larger compositions, many of them unfinished. The criticism of Musorgsky’s “eccentricity” usually referred to aspects of his harmonic and melodic style, as well as his idiosyncratic approach to instrumentation. Rimsky-Korsakov’s affectionate, if misguided, “revisions” and “corrections” in BORIS GUDONOV and other works left unpublished at the time of Musorgsky’s death are a clear indication of the general attitude of the composer’s contemporaries to what nowadays is considered to be remarkable originality and boldness of musical vision.

That Maurice Ravel should come to prepare an orchestration of the epic piano suite, “Pictures at an Exhibition” is an interesting aspect of the curious history of Musorgsky’s work and its emergence into the general repertoire in the 20^th century. The Russians had a traditional affinity for French culture, and not surprisingly some of the first western European musicians to take an interest in Musorgsky were French. Camille Saint-Saens, of all people, was one of the first to encounter the work of Musorgsky, followed by Debussy (who as a young man had spent time in Russia as a music instructor to the children of Tchaikovsky’s patron, Mme. Von Meck.) By the time Ravel was making his name as a composer Igor Stravinsky had burst on the scene, soon taking up residence in France. Himself a pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov, Stravinsky’s presence in Paris further strengthened the long-standing cultural bond between Russian and French culture. A further flood of Russian artists and intellectuals following the 1917 revolution added to this, with figures such as Serge Koussevitsky and Prokofiev becoming prominent in the musical life of Paris.

Ravel’s first serious involvement with the music of Musorgsky came in 1913, when he joined Stravinsky in preparing a new orchestration of the incomplete KHOVANSHCHINA, a project which was never completed. In 1922 he was commissioned by Serge Koussevitsky to transform Musorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” into a full-scale orchestral composition. This imposing fourteen-movement suite for piano was written in 1874, inspired by a memorial exhibition of works by the composer’s friend Victor Hartmann, an artist who had died the previous year. Seldom performed, often dismissed as awkwardly conceived for the piano, even today this composition is infrequently heard, and is often tinkered with by pianists, as was notably the case with Vladimir Horowitz, a lifelong champion of the work. Many musicians had suspected that “Pictures” would be better served by an orchestral transcription, and Ravel, with his feeling for orchestral color and love of Russian music, was certainly the ideal man for the job, although Ravel’s orchestral textures were closer to those of Rimsky-Korsakov than to Musorgsky’s own orchestral colours, with their bold, spare “earth tones.” First performed in Paris by Koussevitsky on 19 October, 1922, Ravel’s “Tableaux d’une Exposition” was a sensational success, and ironically has all but eclipsed Musorgsky’s rude and bluntly Russian original.

Pictures at an Exhibition is a musical depiction of paintings and drawings on display in a gallery, with the casual strolling of onlookers from one artwork to the next suggested by four short movements, each bearing the title “Promenade.”

The opening PROMENADE, marked “nel modo russico,” forms an introduction to the suite.

This is very “Russian” indeed, opening with a solo trumpet, taking on a sturdy peasant character.

The paintings are as follows:

1. GNOMUS. A design for a toy nutcracker prepared as a Christmas tree ornament. The “nutcracker” element is vividly illustrated by the use of a rattle, together with whip, side drum, cymbals and xylophone.

PROMENADE – now heard as a quiet contemplation of the paintings.

2. THE OLD CASTLE. Based upon a watercolor done by the artist on a visit to Italy in which a troubadour sings a melancholy song outside a medieval castle (here in the voice of an alto saxophone.)

PROMENADE. Now returning with fuller orchestration, fading away to prepare for the next picture.

3. TUILERIES. A painting depicting lively children’s games in the gardens in central Paris. An apt example of Ravel’s ability to bring together the distinctive Russian essence of the music, together with a Gallic elegance most appropriate for the subject of the painting.

4. BYDLO. In a foreshadowing of Stravinsky’s “Petrushka” Musorgsky depicts a Polish cart with enormous wheels, drawn by oxen, with heavy grinding rhythms and the dark colors of the Russian countryside.

PROMENADE. This ambling musical element is now heard in a lighter, more transparent texture.

5. BALLET OF THE CHICKS IN THEIR SHELLS. This is based on costumes which Hartman designed for a Bolshoi Ballet production in 1871.

6. SAMUEL GOLDENBERG AND SCHMUYLE. This musical dialogue, was inspired by a pair of portraits of two Jews: one rich, wearing a fur hat (depicted by solid, rather prideful music for strings and winds in unison), the other a poor Sandomir Jew (heard in pleading music played by muted trumpet.)

7. LIMOGES, THE MARKET PLACE. A scene of animated gossip among market women vividly mirrored in a flurry of instrumental activity, plowing head-on into the following movement.

8. CATACOMBS. Set out in two sections, the first subtitled “Sepulchrum Romanum” [“Roman Sepulchre], a stark, nearly immobile impression of the eternity of death, the second , “Cum Mortuis in Lingua Mortua” [“With the Dead in a Dead Language”] in which the Promenade theme reappears in an eerie atmosphere of muted tremolo strings.

9. THE HUT ON FOWL’S LEGS. This painting represents the famous home of Baba Yaga, a witch well known in Russian folklore, who flew through the skies in a pestle and mortar.

Here Ravel came closest to the spirit of Musorgsky with orchestral colors which create a memorable and evocation of this haunted fairy-tale world. Returning to the thumping energy of the opening section, the music hurtles on to plunge directly into the final movement.

10. THE GREAT GATE OF KIEV. Hartman’s drawing was a design for a massive memorial gate, with columns supporting an arch crowned by a huge carved war helmet. Here Ravel, seems to outstrip even such Russian masters of orchestration as Rimsky in creating an outpouring of incomparable majesty. The powerful, choral-like main theme recurs several times, contrasted by a quiet, chant-like episode rooted in the world of Russian Orthodox choral music, and a bell-like episode built upon tritone figures, with powerful echoes of the Coronation Scene from BORIS GODUNOV. The work concludes with the orchestra playing at maximum capacity, in an unparalleled display of rich sonority.

Rachmaninov: Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini , Op. 43

2000-08-15T18:59:00.001-04:00

Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini , Op. 43

Sergei Rachmaninov (1873-1943)

Like Richard Strauss, Sergei Rachmaninov lived a life which stretched from an imperial late 19^th century world to the momentous cultural and political upheaval of the first half of the 20^th century. It was a life which moved from the world of Tchaikovsky and Mother Russia to the Academy of Music in Philadelphia, Riverside Drive, and Beverly Hills.

In another parallel with Strauss, Rachmaninov’s works have always been well-loved by the wider musical public, despite the strictures of critics and academics. Unlike Strauss, who attempted to ignore political storms, Rachmaninov suffered the wrenching impact of a loss of his cultural roots in leaving Russia behind after the Bolshevik Revolution. Although, like Strauss, a celebrated conductor, and one of the great virtuoso pianists of the age, Rachmaninov’s 25 years of exile severely limited his output as a composer, with but a scant half-dozen large-scale compositions written after 1918. While these include several splendid works, including the Fourth Piano Concerto, Third Symphony, and Symphonic Dances, only the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini (1934) would gain popularity comparable with the early concertos and orchestral works.

Written in his summer home in Switzerland, the Rhapsody, which could well be regarded as a virtual “Fifth Concerto,” represents Rachmaninov at the height of his powers, still faithful to his late19t^hcentury Russian roots, yet venturing into a more tautly-constructed musical idiom, occasionally revealing some links with a more “contemporary” musical language that had been heard previously.. The basis for the work is the well-known 24^th Caprice for solo violin of Nicolo Paganini (itself actually a set of variations), which had been inspired sets of variations by a host of noted composers, among them Schumann, Liszt, Brahms and in the 20^th century Boris Blacher and Witold Lutoslawski.

The rhapsody comprises twenty-four variations, some following the theme quite strictly, others with relative freedom. And, in another time-honoured Romantic tradition, Rachmaninov makes occasional references to the medieval Gregorian Chant sequence, DIES IRAE, following in the footsteps of Berlioz and Liszt. (He had already made use of that melody in his First Symphony and the tone poem, ISLE OF THE DEAD, and it would reappear in his last work, the Symphonic Dances.)

There is a brief introduction built upon a distinctive five-note figure which runs through the Paganini theme, four sixteenth-notes linked to an eighth-note), but where one would expect to hear Paganini’s melody, Rachmaninov, in an eccentric departure from tradition, writes a skeletal “First Variation” BEFORE the theme is introduced. The Paganini’s original melody is heard in the violins in the tonality of A Minor.

Variations 2-6 form an unbroken group, performed without change of tempo, all in the home key. The five-note figure is much in evidence, only in Variation 5 moving away from a literal repetition of the theme’s melodic contours. A more reflective mood is heard in Var. 6, with greater rhythmic freedom and decorative filigree in the solo piano. The music’s momentum is slowed somewhat in Var. 7, the five-note figure now heard in an augmented form in the bassoon, the piano playing simple block chords as harmonic background. Following the toccata-like Variations 8-10, Var. 11 serves as a reflective, rhapsodic interlude, richly decorated with decorative writing in the piano against a sustained orchestral background.

Shifting to D Minor, now in triple metre, Var. 12 is marked “tempo di menuetto.” Hints of the DIES IRASE theme are heard in the piano, with elegant rhythmic figuration heard against swooning melodic figures in the orchestra. Still in D minor, the mood in Var. 13 now becomes heavy and assertive, with the piano slamming out chords, while the strings play a stripped-down version of the theme, with embellishment in the winds.

In a renewal of energy Var. 14 is set in the related key of F Major, the orchestra stepping off with a fanfare-like variant of the theme, soon joined by the piano, hammering out heavy chordal patterns.

In Var. 15 the piano sails off by itself, with richly-textured passagework which at first suggests a cadenza, joined by the orchestra to come to a quiet conclusion. Shifting to the remote, dark key of B-flat minor, the orchestra now takes the lead, with the piano heard as ornamentation over stretches of the theme heard in solo oboe, later solo violin and horn. Remaining in B-flat minor, Var. 17 forms a bridge to its successor, the piano confined to murmuring arpeggio figuration heard against the barest suggestion of the theme in the winds, with hushed tremolo in the strings.

Until now most of the variations have been tightly woven, and fairly removed from the characteristic gestures of Rachmaninov’s earlier style. But in Var. 18, at last the listener is rewarded with the celebrated D-flat major variation, revealing Rachmaninov in his most lushly Romantic guise, as through reverting to the seductive warmth of his earlier compositions. And, in a delightful instance of musical craftsmanship, this glamorous new melody turns out to be the result not of inspiration, but calculation: Rachmaninov INVERTS the Paganini theme (literally tipping the melody upside-down), a time-honored musical gimmick, with Paganini’s rather “classical” tune now taking on the distinctive lusciousness of old Russian Romanticism. First heard in the piano alone, in a easy flowing ANDANTE, the orchestra enters in full flood, producing the sort of textures which have been imitated in Hollywood soundtracks for the last seventy years. (Anyone suspicious of such “heart-on-sleeve” sentiments would do well to listen to the composer’s own recorded performance, which is both warmly tender and utterly free of sentimentality.)

In a renewal of energy, Variations 19-22 return to the home key of A Minor, each succeeding variation quickening in tempo. The soloist moves from springy triplets to buzzing sixteenth-notes (bringing back the five-note figure), followed by even more furious triplet passagework. In the march-like Var. 22 the rhythm of the five-note figure presses forward, the piano hammering out crisp chords with increasing power. Sustained lines in the strings form a background to racing patterns in the piano, the five-note figure takes the lead, building to a massive climax. A short cadenza in thundering octaves leads to Var. 23, in which the theme returns very much in its original form, with another short cadenza forming a link with the 24^th, final variation. Here the Dies Irae theme comes very much to the fore, as the music pushes on to a conclusion which, at the very last moment, suddenly pulls back to end quietly, with a final snap of the five-note figure.

Strauss: Suite from Der Rosenkavalier

2000-08-15T18:54:00.000-04:00

Suite from DER ROSENKAVALIER Richard Strauss

(1864-1949)

For many music lovers Richard Strauss represents the very essence of 19^th century Romanticism, with his sumptuous orchestral tone poems, lavish operatic works and expressive lieder. But while his most popular works appeared before the First World War, Strauss would live the greater part of his life in the 20^th century---the precocious teenager who began his career in the age of Wagner’s PARSIFAL and the Brahms symphonies, would live to be a contemporary of such figures as Pierre Boulez, Milton Babbitt and Elliott Carter! But then the career of Richard Strauss is filled with paradox. By the time he reached the age of thirty he had become the most celebrated living composer, acclaimed by many as the hoped-for successor to Richard Wagner, while many musical conservatives considered him to be a dangerous “revolutionary.” It is interesting that Johannes Brahms himself dismissed such talk, singling out Gustav Mahler as the REAL “revolutionary,” although the true importance of Mahler’s works would only be recognized fifty years after his death, as he himself had prophesied.

For all his precocious brilliance, Richard Strauss was nearly thirty years of age when he composed his first stage work, GUNTRAM (1894) , a galumphing Wagnerian epic which sank like a stone, followed in 1901 by a rather sour comic opera, FEUERSNOT, which was only a modest success. Could it be that the composer of “Don Juan” and “Zarathustra” was ill-suited for the musical stage? But the sensational premiere of SALOME in 1905 turned everything around, transforming the career of Strauss overnight. With ELEKTRA (1909), an exploration of human depravity almost exceeding the grisly power of SALOME, Strauss was at the height of his powers, hailed as the most significant figure in German opera since Wagner, as well as joining such figures as Schoenberg, Scriabin and Debussy in leading the way in new world of early 20^th century “modernism.” Strauss seemed to have made a daring leap forward not only in the striking psychological elements in these new operas, but also with regard to his basic musical language, particularly with regard to tonality and harmony. From this point forward Strauss would make opera his primary focus, ELEKTRA being the first of a half-dozen works with texts by the great Austrian poet and librettist, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, in a remarkable partnership which lasted until the poet’s death in 1929.

Strauss’ had won international notoriety as a composer of operatic horror---even New York audiences were so stunned by SALOME in 1907 that the Met waited until the 1930s to mount another production! Thus it was not surprising that news of yet another Strauss/Hoffmansthal collaboration caused sensitive souls to quake at the thought of even greater operatic shocks in store. But when DER ROSENKAVALIER was first heard in 1911 it “shocked” only by its unexpected sweetness and tuneful expressiveness. (True, there was some moralist murmuring about the opera’s first scene, which finds a married woman in bed with a strapping young eighteen year-old, but that seemed to be a problem only in London---Sir Thomas Beecham has described a “typically English compromise” with the censors, which allowed the scene to be played if NO bed appeared on the stage, leaving the text unchanged, with several references to a bed!) On the threshold of the European catastrophe of the First World War, ROSENKAVALIER was a wistful look back to the 18^th century Vienna of Mozart’s MARRIAGE OF FIGARO, complete with a poignant central female figure, and a pair of young people falling in love at first sight. Now it was the turn of musical “moralists” to take offense, attacking (as some still do to this day) Strauss’ “cowardly” turning back from the bold “modernism” of SALOME and ELEKTRA, taking “refuge” in cozy musical nostalgia. Opera lovers, on the other hand were only too happy to hear in the new work echoes of FIGARO. ROSENKAVALIER’s Marschallin seemed to be a counterpart to Mozart’s Countess, and the decision to cast the young Oktavian as a “trouser role” for mezzo-soprano was surely a glance back to Cherubino, with links with Susanna as well. And forming a nostalgic (if anachronistic) link with “Old Vienna” was Strauss’ daring decision to thread a series of luscious waltzes through the course of the work, which has helped to make ROSENKAVALIER Strauss’ most popular opera It was such an overnight success in 1911 that special trains were run to take opera-lovers to Dresden to attend the first performances.

First published in 1945, the orchestral suite from DER ROSENKAVALIER seems not to be the work of Strauss himself, but may have been prepared by the conductor Artur Rodzinski. It comprises four extended sections heard without pause, laying out key scenes spanning the entire opera, with each of the principal characters represented in turn. Chief among these is a beautiful married woman on the verge of middle age, the Marschallin (Field-Marshal’s wife), whose clandestine affair with Oktavian, a boy still in his teens, soon comes to an abrupt end over the course of the action. The Marschallin’s cousin, the boorish, impoverished Baron Ochs is the comic focus of the work, with his hopes for an arranged marriage with Sophie, an innocent young woman from a wealthy family, coming to grief when the girl falls in love at first sight with Oktavian.

The introduction to Act I of DER ROSENKAVALIER forms the opening of the suite, with a swaggering figure in the solo horn setting in motion a swirl of orchestral activity which is intended to depict a night of tempestuous love-making. When the music gives way to a mood of tenderness, the curtain rises to reveal the Marschallin and Oktavian awakening in the first light of morning. This

richly-textured tonal picture glides on to the second section, the “Presentation of the Rose” music which opens Act Two, one of the most best-loved scenes in all of opera. Here the innocent young Sophie is excitedly awaiting the arrival of the “Rose Cavalier” (who turns out to be Oktavian), who is to present her with a silver rose, the symbol of Baron Ochs’ proposal of marriage. The horncall from the first section recurs, and with ever-mounting waves of excitement the music shifts into the ripe key of F-sharp major. In a dramatic harmonic gesture Oktavian’s entrance is portrayed with music capturing the glitter of the silver rose itself, with a magical combination of high shifting harmonies for 3 flutes, 3 violins, celeste and two harps. The first tentative phrases sung by Oktavian and Sophie, here heard in instrumental guise, become a rapturous duet. Rounded out by a return of the sounds of the silver rose, the third section follows, with the boisterous and mischievous introduction to Act III, which quickly gives way to an offstage waltz-tune which in the opera forms the background to an uproarious scene in which Baron Ochs makes a bungling attempt to seduce one of the Marschallin’s “maidservants,” Mariandel---actually Oktavian, dressed in woman’s clothing! In the course of this episode is heard music famously sung by a weepy, tipsy “Mariandel” to the memorable words, “Nein, nein, ich trink’ kein Wein”…. After a second waltz the orchestra swells into a majestically expansive version of the first,which is perhaps the finest waltz not composed by Johann Strauss! (For those with a musical sweet tooth this is probably the closest musical approximation of those unforgettable Viennese pastries heaped high with “Schlagobers” [whipped cream], which ten years later would be Strauss’ title for a ballet set in Vienna!) This wonderful waltz is associated with the clownish Baron Ochs (a role written for a deep bass voice), and in a delightful instrumental touch, the Baron’s low E with which he which concludes an earlier scene, is here given to a solo tuba. The fourth and final section encapsulates the most memorable music in ROSENKAVALIER: the concluding trio sung by Oktavian, Sophie and the Marschallin, in which the older woman regretfully (if without tears) “lets go” of her young lover, giving her blessing to the union of Sophie and Oktavian. This is followed by an artless little duet sung by the young lovers when they are at last alone together. Unlike the hushed final moment of the opera, which tiptoes away in a moment of witty pantomime, the suite concludes with a noisy waltz from earlier in Act III, which had been heard over the din of Ochs being chased from the scene by creditors and small children screaming “Papa! Papa!”

A Personal Recollection of Benjamin Britten

2000-04-09T19:19:00.000-04:00

A Personal Recollection of Benjamin Britten.

The writer of these notes made an excited discovery of 20^th century English music when a teenager, and promptly wrote letters to Ralph Vaughan Williams and Benjamin Britten seeking advice and offering observations about their work. Back came warm and down-to-earth replies from both men, full of practical suggestions and kindly comments.

In the summer of 1957 Benjamin Britten spent a week at the Stratford Shakespearean Festival (in Ontario, not far from my home in Michigan), preparing for the first North American performances of his new opera, THE TURN OF THE SCREW. I had already obtained the recording of the opera (the first complete recording of a Britten stage work), and eagerly hopped on a bus to make the journey to Stratford. Britten, who knew I was coming, could not have been more friendly and welcoming. I, an eager-beaver teenager, was permitted to attend all the rehearsals, providing a glorious opportunity to see a great composer at work---and a wonderful conductor, as well, as I discovered. I was encouraged to get to know the cast members, every one of whom inscribed my precious LP recording album, and even was invited to sit in on a private rehearsal for a song recital given by Britten and Peter Pears. A page turner was needed from time to time, and I made myself useful, learning at close range what Gerald Moore meant when he pronounced Britten as the “finest accompanist in the world.” He struck me from the beginning as a figure of Mozartian versatility, spontaneity and sheer genius.

The next summer, cycling through England for the first time, I attended several concerts at Britten’s own Aldeburgh Festival, which took place each June in the village where George Crabbe had lived---an eerily beautiful place whch looked to be a living stage setting for PETER GRIMES. That was to be an introduction to an intensely “local,” “neighborly” artistic world which Britten made very much his own. He once said that in order to be universal an artist must first be able to focus upon his own friends and community. Britten’s life and career seemed to represent something quite simple, yet profound about the meaning of being a musician and citizen. Seven years later, having made the acquaintance of Imogen Holst (the delightful if slightly dotty daughter of the composer of “The Planets”), who was Britten’s tireless assistant at the Aldeburgh Festival, I found myself invited to be an assistant (and general Dog’s-Body) during the two weeks of the June Aldeburgh Festival. It was an amazing whirl of activity. Britten’s first “church parable,” CURLEW RIVER, was to be premiered; Britten conducted a performance of Haydn’s “Creation” which nearly caused the listeners to get up and dance in the isles. He brought Rostropovich over from Russia to play the Bach Cello Suites, one each evening at 11 p. m. in the parish church….he played SECONDO to Sviatoslav Richter’s PRIMO in a Schubert recital…he joined Peter Pears to perform WINTERREISE…Someone had the brilliant thought to persuade Richter and Rostropovich to appear TOGETHER in another 11 p. m. recital in the parish church---Britten turned pages.

Later, as a violinist in one of the London orchestras, I had the dizzying good fortune to participate in a performance of the “War Requiem,” conducted by Britten, as well as some orchestral concerts at Aldeburgh and London. There was a heart-stopping performance of Bach’s “St. John Passion,” as well.

I willingly skipped a four-star Verdi Requiem performance in London to go to Aldeburgh in mid-winter to help correct proof-sheets for a new Britten work about to be published. As I sat studying the manuscript I could see on the glass-top of the desk the reflection of seagulls circling over the sea before me---and in my mind I heard the “Dawn” Sea interlude from PETER GRIMES. We early-risers had seen Britten playing tennis at 6 a. m. during the Aldeburgh Festival---we were certain that he would still be doing that at the age of 85. A heart condition required a heart-valve operation, today as commonplace a procedure as an appendectomy. It was unsuccessful, leaving Britten partially paralysed. He slipped away at the cruelly early age of 63. No one who knew him can go through a single day without missing him.

Part: Symphony No. 2

2000-04-09T19:15:00.001-04:00

Symphony No. 2 (1966)

Arvo Part (1935- )

In the last twenty years Arvo Part has become a widely recognised name in contemporary music, with a succession of works, many of them written for voices with Latin texts, which have won him a dedicated following. This was particular the case with music lovers who thirsted for new music without what was often felt to be a prevailing severe intellectualism and constricted emotional expression in much of the music composed since the 1950s. In America this desire for a simpler, more direct musical communication drew an entirely new audience to follow the work of such figures as Terry Riley, Philip Glass and Steve Reich, composers commonly labeled “minimalists,” whose work was marked by a sometimes deceptive simplicity, with great emphasis upon repetitive rhythmic patterns, the use of triadic sonorities quite divorced from traditional notions of “tonality,” and meditative, even spiritual connotations in creating moods, trance-like states of mind, with chanting, drumming and other evocations of non-western musical cultures.

Not long ago the work of Arvo Part would hardly figure in a discussion of 20^th century music---even as late as 1980 the article on Part in the New Grove Dictionary of Music consisted of a mere 25 lines. It was in 1982 that Arvo Part’s PASSIO brought wide attention to a newly evolving stage in his creative development, one which has become well known in a series of works with titles such as Litany, Miserere, Stabat Mater, Te Deum. While it is always enlightening to consider the earlier stages of a composer’s work, one might question the need to look back upon a composition dating from an early stage in his development (1966), moreover, one employing musical devices which have not remained part of his more mature style. And it is true that anyone familiar with the intensely quiet, “timeless” qualities of Part’s more recent work will be rather amazed by the Second Symphony of 1966. And yet the uniquely meditative and spiritual compositions written by Arvo Part in the last two decades might not have come into being without the composer having passed through the testing stages of his earlier, often deeply disturbing works such as the Second Symphony.

Arvo Part was born in Paide, a small town fifty miles from Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. Long a part of thre Russian Empire, Estonia became an independent Republic in 1920, only to be absorbed into the Soviet Union in 1940, finally regaining its independence in 1994. As a child he trained as a pianist, also playing the oboe and playing percussion in a dance band. In his late teens he turned to composition, studying composition in Tallinn under Heino Eller, the leading composer of the day. By then the arts in Estonia were firmly in the grip of Soviet “socialist realism” orthodoxy, harshly rejecting western influences, particularly those of serialism and the post-Webernian work of composers such as Boulez, Nono and Stockhausen. But it was also a period during which young Polish composers (most memorably Krzysztof Penderecki) were asserting their artistic independence by their own quite individual `response to some of those very western influences found to be so pernicious by the authorities in Moscow. Although a Prokofiev-like neo-classicism can be found in some of Part’s very first compositions, as early as 1960 he began to toy with the serial technique in his first major work, the cantata NEKROLOG, which immediately was attacked in official circles for its “espousal of western formalism.” While western serial composers were officially “tolerated” after 1958, an unofficial ban remained in effect, and many younger, more adventurous composers were severely criticised for their “experimental tendencies.” As late as 1968 Part’s CREDO for piano, chorus and orchestra was savagely attacked, bringing about a crisis both artistic and spiritual on the composer’s part, plunging him into a long period of silence. In the 1970s Part’s life went through some profound changes, including a conversion to the Russian Orthodox faith, and in 1980 a decision to move to Vienna, and eventually to Berlin.

Part’s growth as a composer moved directly into an intense preoccupation with serial techniques in his earlier works of the 1960s, in many respects spurred on by the vivid example of his Polish contemporaries. An element of musical “collage” and musical quotation also enters his work, as well as a fascination with traditional contrapuntal techniques often employed in serial composition, such as canonic writing. Soon Part began to explore European music of the Middle Ages and early Renaissance, including such composers as Perotin, Ockeghem and Josquin des Pres. And a highly individual response to a concept of bell-sounds referred to as “tintinnabuli music” is at the core of most of the later works, which set religious texts and focus upon spiritual concepts.

Thus it is fascinating to discover the basic elements which underlie the Second Symphony, a work of unusual expressive mystery and emotional power. Written for a full symphony orchestra, with a duration of about 15 minutes, the work carries no tempo markings, instead giving bald metronome markings for its three movements: quarter-note = 104-120 (fairly quick), half-note = 112 (quite lively), quarter-note = 48-60 (quite slowly). A somewhat bizarre novelty in terms of sound resources is the use of children’s toys to produce background noise---Mark Laycock recalls a performance in Boston in which three percussionists employed rubber duckies! There is a degree of “aleatoric” writing (in which precise rhythmic notation is abandoned to chance), as well as an underlying tonal structure which is serial in basic design, although of little direct concern to the listener.

Although often described as “non-narrative” in character, the opening movement of the symphony follows a clearly defined structure. It opens with an aleatoric (random) chattering of pizzicato notes in the strings, employing the twelve chromatic tones squeezed into the space of an octave, joined by background noise of children’s toys. The first of a series of sustained, lyrical lines (gradually taking on a nearly traditional “melodic” character) is heard in the solo horn, followed by random chattering now given to the flutes. The random element returns in pizzicato strings, now joined by the eerie rustle of cellophane being crushed, soon leading to another lyrical line, now in the clarinet, arching upward quite expressively, followed (as before) by the random chattering, now in the lower winds, creating a more agitated mood. Now bowed (and louder) the random strings figure returns, with background noise made by applying wood blocks to the piano strings. The next sustained line is heard in the bassoon, becoming more intense, now followed by random chattering in the brass. The next entry of the sustained line is given to the brass, circling from low to high registers, joined by ominous rolls on the tam-tam. Suddenly, with a dramatic glissando in the harp, we are swept into the higher reachs of winds and strings for a series of triads heaped one upon the other---“Pelion piled upon Ossa,” with distinct key centers of B, D, E, F, E-flat, etc. pressed into a sort of multi-tonal fortissimo wail, soon melting away into highly colored, dissonant clusters in the brass, joined by shrieking trills high in the winds. This rises in intensity, then settles back into a soft D Major chord, which then swells into a fullest fortissimo to end suddenly.

While Wilfred Mellers describes the second movement as “scherzoid,” Charles Ives would probably add that “this scherzo is not a joke!” Chugging into life with bouncy, rather carefree pairs of repeated notes (to be played with aleatoric rhythmic freedom), this three-minute interlude rapidly takes on a truly nightmarish character---what seemed “carefree” at first becomes mindless and brutal. The jabbering repeated notes, passed among brass and winds is punctuated by isolated sustained tones in the strings, each time swelling from soft to loud, moving from high to low registers. At midpoint the music flies into splinters, and faintly echoing Penderecki’s “Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima,” with shards of sound sailing in all directions, a jagged pointillism is underway, with long sustained tones in the lower brass against a background of smacks and thuds in percussion and piano (using the flat of the hands directly on the strings). The sustained pitches rise, becoming yet more threatening, moving into the higher brass, joined by the winds to form a screaming, sinister wall of sound, to conclude by suddenly breaking off.

Moving immediately into the final movement we are confronted by a massive fortissimo string chord built up of superimposed fourths, stretching from highest to lowest pitches against which a thundering timpani drumbeat is heard: a rhythmically precise E-flat octave which is hammered out with mechanical deadliness, first a phrase of twelve notes, then eleven, ten, nine – and so on down to a single note. Each phrase is punctuated by a rapid scurrying figure in the strings, at first in an imperceptible DIMINUENDO, then rising again in volume, while the string pattern becomes progressively more hectic. This suddenly gives way to a section with the dry rattle of COL LEGNO strings (rapping the strings with the wood of the bow) against a tapestry of murmuring winds and brass. Brass figures begin to stand out, the winds begin to create a frenzied jabber, the entire orchestra rising in a huge CRESCENDO, out of which steals a tonal melodic fragment in the clarinet. In a startling, almost cinematic shift of orchestral mood and color, we suddenly find ourselves transported into a cloudless C Major, with a naïve little tune heard with traditional harmony and orchestration of blushing modesty. The melody is a passage from Tchaikovsky’s “Sweet Day-Dream” from an 1878 collection of children’s piano pieces. Three last dissonant crashes are turned aside by the cool sounds of open-string fifths, the children’s music continues, and drifts into silence.

What can this possible MEAN, many of us would ask. But then, we raise the same question with many of the works of Beethoven, of Mahler, of Debussy – and we are forced to supply our own private, unverifiable responses. Can this be another of those “Unanswered Questions?” Can it be related to the composer’s own personal struggle for creative integrity working under Soviet repression? A vision of the artist seeking some sort of personal salvation in a nihilistic world? Arvo Part himself might not be able to answer our questions – he might choose not to, or perhaps might not know the answer himself.

In his fine little 1997 book on the composer, Arvo Part’s most devoted interpreter, Paul Hillier, has this to say about the Second Symphony: “[There is] the feeling of savage, bitter scorn unleashed, barely relieved even by the dulcet conclusion. At the outset we are knocked off balance by the unexpected sound of children’s squeaky toys, the alienating effect of which lingers in the memory and permeates the whole piece; indeed, the beginning and end of this work may be said to inhabit childhood, the purity of which is invoked as something that might eventually overcome all the evil in the world.”

Britten: Four Sea Interludes from PETER GRIMES, Op. 33

2000-04-09T19:13:00.001-04:00

Four Sea Interludes from PETER GRIMES, Op. 33

Benjamin Britten (1913-1976)

The England of Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe was also the England of Thomas Tallis and William Byrd: a rich musical heritage stretching back to the beginnings of the Renaissance, and one which would survive the disruption of the Cromwellian period to extend into the age of Henry Purcell. Then something quite odd happened: English music slipped into a position of subservience to Continental influences, and by the 19^th century the Germans, whose own musical culture hardly existed during the age of the Tudor composers, were wont to speak of England as “das Land ohne Musik” [“the land without Music”] !

No one is quite certain why the early death of Henry Purcell in 1695 marked the beginning of a period of eclipse of English music. But there is no doubt who led the way in restoring English music to its proper place in the world, as was acknowledged by Richard Strauss himself, who a hundred years ago lifted his glass to toast “the success of the first English progressivist, Meister Edward Elgar, and of the young progressivist school of English composers.” More than anyone Elgar indeed led the way, especially with his “Enigma” Variations of 1899. It is not surprising that Strauss would admire Elgar, whose music, despite its underlying English character, is stylistically closely related to late 19^th century German music. This points to an awkward situation faced by English composers in Elgar’s time: to form a strong bond with the mainstream of contemporary continental music, or to renew the roots of musical “Englishry” which go back to the Elizabethan age, and to traditional folk music as well. Elgar chose the former route, while younger English composers (especially Vaughan Williams and Holst) chose the latter, in a manner somewhat parallel to that followed by eastern European composers such as Bela Bartok in forging a distinctly “national music.” (Ralph Vaughan Williams was himself a warm admirer of Bartok, and even wrote a book outlining his point of view, significantly entitled “National Music.” ) The next generation of English composers followed these divergent paths of English music in a varying ways, and even at the end of the 20^th century there still can be detected a split between the “cosmopolitan” and more “nationalist” composers. William Walton, for example, was very much a “cosmopolitan,” more influenced by his long residence in Italy than anything redolent of the English landscape. Benjamin Britten occupies a unique position as a composer of strong continental sympathies balanced by an equal bond with the distinctly English traditions of the past. Britten grew up with a profound love of the work of Henry Purcell, as well as an openness to contemporary music far beyond most young English musicians of his day. He helped to arrange for a performance of Schoenberg’s PIERROT LUNAIRE while a student at the decidedly conservative Royal College of Music, and unsuccessfully sought to use a travelling grant to study with Alban Berg, who would be a powerful influence upon the young composer.

Britten almost became an American composer, when he moved to the United States in 1939 in company with his partner, the tenor Peter Pears, and the poet W. H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood. The two writers remained in America, becoming citizens, and significantly were very much “European” artists as much as Anglo-American ones. At first intending to become a citizen, Britten initially found American life fascinating and stimulating, as can be heard in his sparkling opera PAUL BUNYAN, with a libretto by Auden, first performed at Columbia University in 1940. This was during a lively period at the end of the Great Depression, when Gershwin’s PORGY AND BESS, Virgil Thomson’s FOUR SAINTS IN THREE ACTS, and the work of Marc Blitzstein and newly-arrived Kurt Weill were raising expectations for a great things in the field of American contemporary music theatre. While PAUL BUNYAN delighted its audiences, the critics (as Britten put it) “spat at it,” and the composer turned to writing orchestral and chamber music. Britten gradually realised that his roots remained in England, and received a powerful jolt when he read an appreciation by E. M. Forster of the work of George Crabbe, an early 19^th century English poet who lived in Britten’s own native East Anglia. Serge Koussevitsky, deeply impressed by Britten’s work, had commissioned him to compose an opera to be presented at the Boston Symphony’s summer school at Tanglewood, Massachusetts. Britten searched out the work of Crabbe, and in the poem “The Borough” found his subject: Peter Grimes. This also sealed his decision to return to England. He was only 28 years of age. In the March of 1942 Britten and Pears made a perilous crossing through submarine-infested Atlantic waters go home. Work on the opera began at once, and was completed in time for a sensational premiere on 7 June, 1945 at Sadlers Wells Theatre. The war in Europe had ended less than a month before; England was battered and exhausted, everyone was hungry for the renewal of life and spirit. For many the appearance of Peter Grimes symbolised that renewal. Interestingly, 1945 was the 250^th anniversary of the death of England’s last great composer before the period of eclipse, Henry Purcell---whose DIDO AND AENEAS had remained the one great English opera. Now there was another. (The promised Tanglewood performance took place in 1946, conducted by Leonard Bernstein.)

The impact of the first performance of PETER GRIMES was vividly described by the American literary critic, Edmund Wilson, who was present: “An unmistakable new talent of this kind is an astonishing, even an electrifying experience…. You do not feel you are watching an experiment; you are living a work of art. The opera seizes upon you, possesses you, keeps you riveted to your seat during the action and keyed up during the intermissions, and drops you, purged and exhausted, at the end.”

The opera is set in a fishing village on the North Sea coast of eastern England---a village very much like Aldeburgh, the birthplace of George Crabbe, and eventually the lifelong home of Britten himself.

Grimes is a fisherman, a grim and solitary figure, disliked, feared and eventually destroyed by his community. The opera opens with scene of an inquest in which an inconclusive verdict is handed down regarding the mysterious death of Grimes’ apprentice, due to a lack of evidence. Nevertheless, most of the inhabitants of the village are convinced that the fisherman is a murderer. Shown kindness and understanding by only a handful of his neighbors, Grimes takes on another apprentice, hoping to become a successful fisherman, determined to win respect in the community. However, Grimes is abusive to the new boy, and when he is accidentally killed, the fury of the town is aroused. With a lynch mob intent upon revenge, Grimes, who has lost his reason, is persuaded to put an end to his hopeless situation by sailing out to open waters, to end his life by sinking his boat. At the end, life in the village goes on as before.

Following the example of Alban Berg’s WOZZECK (itself influenced by Debussy’s PELLEAS ET MELISANDE), there are extended orchestral interludes linking a number of the scenes in PETER GRIMES, of which the “Four Sea Interludes,” are the most widely-known orchestral music by Britten (along with his popular “Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra”). These are a vivid example of Britten’s rich musical imagination, being brilliantly-colored “tone poems” which create an unforgettable musical atmosphere. One can all but smell the sea air, and look up to behold the clouds scudding past.

1. Dawn. The opera opens with a prologue in which the inquest into the death of Grimes’ first apprentice takes place. Following this the orchestra paints a tonal picture of the North Sea, the rhythm of the waves, the wheeling of the gulls, the vast, often menacing skies.

2. Sunday Morning. This interlude serves as an introduction to Act II, which opens with Ellen Orford, a schoolteacher sympathetic to Grimes, sitting near the waterfront with the new apprentice, while from the distance are heard the sound of church bells and hymn-singing.

3. Moonlight. This introduction to Act III, outwardly poetic and peaceful, has also been described as revealing a “steely, menacing tranquillity.” Moving haltingly forward, the music is punctuated withripples of color in the flutes and harps. With these simple means we can imagine the welling of the seawater…the reflection of the moonlight..

4. Storm. At the end of the first scene of Act I Peter Grimes has made an unexpected (and unwelcome) appearance in a pub crowded with townspeople taking shelter from the storm outside. As if lost in his own world he sings the visionary words, “What harbour shelters peace, away from tidal waves, away from storms…a harbour evermore where night is turned to day…” Following the momentary stillness of that vision the curtain falls and the the astonishing Storm Interlude is heard, forming an introduction to the second scene. Growing up on the coast of the North Sea Britten had experienced such storms, and drew upon those terrifying memories in creating this powerfully atmospheric music.

Saint-Saens Piano Concerto No. 2 in G Minor, Op. 22 (1868)

2000-04-08T19:06:00.000-04:00

Piano Concerto No. 2 in G Minor, Op. 22 (1868)

Camille Saint-Saens (1835-1921)

Camille Saint-Saens was one of the great virtuoso pianists of his day, as can be verified by listening to the astonishing recordings which he made even in his advanced old age. He was an amazing child prodigy, both as composer and pianist----in his debut recital at the age of ten he offered to perform any of the 32 piano sonatas of Beethoven as an encore! However, his pianistic activities were largely confined to his own works, among them five brilliant piano concertos, of which the Second Concerto in G minor is perhaps the most popular. Doggedly tradition-minded in outlook, Saint-Saens nevertheless was a warm friend of such path-breaking figures as Hector Berlioz, Franz Liszt, and even won the admiration of Richard Wagner when he sat down to perform on the piano Tristan Und Isolde from the full score! He was the teacher of Gabriel Faure, and living well into the 20^th century, even knew the admiration of the young Maurice Ravel, and met the young Aaron Copland at the beginning of his studies in Paris in the early 1920s. (Saint-Saens also is remembered for his horrified reaction upon attending the premiere of Stravinsky’s Rite Of Spring in 1913!)

Although deservedly regarded as a musical conservative, Saint-Saens showed a lively interest in structural innovation in many of his concertos and symphonies, as in the case of the opening movement of the Second Piano Concerto. Instead of a brilliant introductory flourish, the piano quietly unfolds an improvisatory prelude heard without the orchestra, with piano writing quite clearly influenced by the characteristic figuration of Johann Sebastian Bach’s keyboard works. Only after a quite discursive initial section for piano solo is the orchestra make a striking entry with a powerful Fortissimo declamation. This leads to the principal melody set out in the piano, again lyrical rather than dramatic, which is juxtaposed with a section in B flat Major, giving an initial impression that it will serve as a second subject. But while an extended developmental section follows, there is no clear-cut recapitulation. The meditative opening improvisatory music returns, with the orchestral declamation heard again at the end. While the orchestra has its role to play, much of this ten-minute movement is confined to the piano alone. In the remaining two movements of the concerto, which are by turns brilliant, dramatic and quite popular in their “Parisian” tone, the role of the orchestra is greatly expanded from the reticent position it occupies in this poetic and reflective opening movement.

NCO Concert

Foote Serenade for Strings in E Major, Op. 63 (1908)

2000-04-08T19:04:00.002-04:00

Serenade for Strings in E Major, Op. 63 (1908)

Arthur Foote (1853-1937)

[The "editorial" remarks in brackets below were written by LRT - gene]

A native of Salem, Massachusetts, Arthur Foote is remembered today as perhaps the last of the grand school of Bostonian composers who came to prominence during the “Gilded Age” ( the final quarter of the 19^th century), a distinguished group, including John Knowles Paine (the first American professor of music, appointed to the Harvard faculty in 1875), George Whitefield Chadwick, Horatio Parker, and America’s first important woman composer, Amy Beach. After studies as a teenager at the New England Conservatory, Foote received training under Paine at Harvard (even before his teacher received his formal position), and in 1875 received the first Masters Degree in music ever given in the USA. It is notable that Foote was the first important American composer whose training entirely took place in this country.

HERE BEGINS REVISED VERSION – DISCUSSING THE correct piece!

Foote‘s works include songs, piano pieces, chamber works and orchestral works, among them several works for string orchestra. His Serenade for Strings, Op. 63 was recorded by the Boston Symphony under Serge Koussevitsky, and became a favourite repertory piece. Equally fine, although less often performed, is the Suite for Strings, Op.songs and piano pieces.

THE FOLLOWING IS A FINE DISCUSSION OF THE wrong pieces!:

Foote’s works include songs, piano pieces, chamber works and orchestral works, among them several works for string orchestra. His Suite for Strings, Op. 63 (1908) was recorded by the Boston Symphony under Serge Koussevitsky, and became a favourite repertory piece. Another fine work for string ensemble, unjustly neglected, is the Serenade for Strings, Op. 25.. Dedicated to Henry L. Higginson, founder of the Boston Symphony, it received its premiere in March, 1893 in Breslau, Germany.

Comprising five movement, the work opens with a Praeludium notable for its warmth of sonority and suave lyricism, qualities which it shares with several other late 19^th century string serenades, those of Tchaikovsky, Dvorak and Elgar. At the time Foote probably had not yet have heard the Elgar, but the likely influence of the Dvorak can be heard in the mood of the tender expressiveness of Foote’s music. As is the case with all the movements of this work, this opening movement is in an uncomplicated three-part structure, with a slight quickening of the tempo in the central episode.

The second movement bears the quite appropriate title, Air, for in its grave and restrained pathos there is an unmistakable influence of the celebrated “Air” from Bach’s Third Orchestral Suite. Especially affecting are the moments of dialogue between the violins and celli.

The Intermezzo turns away from the songful opening movements to provide contrast with its rhythmically pointed textures, with lively contrapuntal passages in the outer sections, and rustling triplet figures in muted upper strings as background to an arching solo cello melody.

The Romanze returns to the prevailing lyricism of the opening movements, again featuring melodic interplay between celli and violins. The music flows on into a central section of increasing agitation, then returns once again to the murmuring reflective mood of the opening.

The finale, which seems to hearken back to another contemporary string orchestra work, Grieg’s “Holberg Suite” of 1884, takes the form of an old Baroque dance form, the Gavotte, with its characteristic sprightly “three-four” pickup figure, crisp rhythms and clear-cut phrases. The central episode presents a sort of “musette” [Baroque bagpipe] drone over which divided violas unfold a flowing theme, which is soon taken over by divided violins. With a return to the elegant formalities of the first section, the movement comes to a courtly conclusion.

The Serenade for Strings was introduced by the Boston Symphony, and become a favourite repertory piece under Serge Koussevitsky, who made a celebrated recording of the work with that orchestra.

Comprising three movement, the Serenade exhibits a stylistic character rather reminiscent of another Serenade for Strings, .that of Sir Edward Elgar, with which it shares a nostalgic lyricism and suave late Romantic texture.

The opening Praeludium (Allegro Comodo) is a brief, songful movement in a basic thre-part structure, sweeping to a fullness of sonority before settling back to conclude quietly.

The second movement, “Pizzicato and Adagietto” (Capriccioso, Allegretto) opens with a lively section for plucked strings, perhaps suggestive of the Scherzo movement from Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony. An extended central episode, with the strings now playing with the bows, is tender, reflective, even regretful in tone. The Pizzicato opening returns to round out the movement.

The concluding Fugue (Allegro Giusto) is a nimble, rousing movement, with a forthright, clearly-defining fugal subject which is subjected to the entire range of traditional contrapuntal devices, at the end rising into the upper register of the strings, culminating in a triumphant final statement.

NCO Concert

Mozart Symphony in C Major, K. 425, “Linz”

2000-04-08T19:02:00.000-04:00

Symphony in C Major, K. 425, “Linz”

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

In the summer of 1783 Mozart, who had recently married his wife Constanze in the teeth of strong opposition from his father Leopold, set out on a trip from Vienna to return to his hometown, Salzburg, hoping to bring about reconciliation with his father. This proved unsuccessful, and a rather dejected Mozart returned to Vienna a few months later. En route he stopped in the Austrian city of Linz, arriving on October 30^th to a hearty welcome from a local dignitary, Count Thun. Cheered by this reception, and learning that there was to be a concert presented on November 4^th (less than a week away!), Mozart plunged into action and composed a new symphony by November 3^rd, which was warmly received in its first hearing the Following Day! Even for such a quick worker as Mozart, the creation of the “Linz” Symphony over a single weekend seems all but miraculous---most musicians would be hard-pressed to COPY the score in four days, much less Compose it!

The Linz” Symphony in many respects belongs in the company of the other great later Mozart symphonies (Nos. 38-41), although it has tended to lag far behind those works in popularity and frequency of performance.

Like the “Prague” Symphony (No. 38), and the E-flat (No. 39), this work begins with a slow introduction, in this case one echoing the “French” style, with its dotted rhythms and majestic manner. More intimately “Mozartian” are the touches of melting chromatic lyricism which steal into the the musical texture midway. The principal subject (as is the case with No. 39) is at first deceptively quiet, unobtrusive, only to burst out in a full-throated fanfare-like melody heard over a driving bassline, which moves into the dominant key. Thus the first subject merges seamlessly with the second, the latter taking on a clear identity only when it unexpectedly steps into E Minor (the relative minor of the dominant key), for an assertive passage which presses on, becoming a closing section of great brilliance and energy. A thread of unaccompanied melody in the violins heard at the end of the exposition quite unexpectedly becomes the focus for the rather brief development, which quickly moves into the recapitulation. This is quite regular, at first steering the “merge” with the second subject in the direction of F Major, only to quickly swing back to the proper home key of C Major. The E Minor section returns in A Minor, quite smoothly leading back to the tonic key. The melodic “thread” forms the basis of a brief coda, at first gentle and quiet, then concluding with assertive closing gestures.

Although compact and modest in scope, the slow movement is in fact a thoroughly worked-out sonataform, with a lilting opening theme in the violins, and with a hushed transition leading to a more richly textured secondary theme, which steps briefly into C Minor, with characteristic chromatic inflection in the winds to round out the exposition. The development section is, if anything, more far-reaching than that of the first movement, with darker tones added with chromatic touches in the winds and violins, and a mysterious passage “on tiptoe, ” with hushed, yet restless figures passed between lower and upper instruments. The recapitulation lays out the basic elements very much as before.

The Menuetto is one of those “formal” minuet movements typical of Mozart---in contrast to the breezier, more “outdoors” character of many of Haydn’s symphonic minuets. The opening slurred two-note figure permeates the main minuet section, punctuated with a majestic fanfare-figure. The Trio section, marked Sempre Piano is a murmuring, meditative contrast, with doublings in the winds above and below the main violin melodic line.

The Presto finale, yet another sonataform, sets off at a whisper, interspersed with loud unison outbursts, leading to a bold transition theme which hammers its way into the dominant key for a graceful secondary theme, one which soon becomes an extensively worked-out Fugato. The closing section comprises no fewer than three themes (Mozart always tends to be a spendthrift with melodic ideas): first a buzzing, Pianissimo passage in sixteenth notes, blossoming into a whirling, legato passage (also in rapid notes), then a Fortissimo echo of the principal theme to round out the exposition. The development is brief, and memorable for its forcefulness, in which the transition theme sails around the orchestra from one instrumental voice to another. Once again the recapitulation is quite regular (perhaps the only hint that the composer was working against the clock!), with the closing section extended somewhat to wheel forward to end in jubilation.

NCO Concert

J.C. Bach Symphony in B-Flat, Op. 9, No. 1 [1773]

2000-04-08T19:00:00.000-04:00

Symphony in B-Flat, Op. 9, No. 1 [1773]

Johann Christian Bach (1735-1782)

At the height of his popularity in the 1770s Johann Christian Bach (by then resident in London, where he was called JOHN Christian Bach) had won a European reputation second only to his older brother, Carl Philipp Emannuel Bach, who had been his principal teacher after the death of their father in 1750. Indeed, Johann Sebastian Bach himself was little known as a composer in his own lifetime, and only in the early 19^th century would gradual win his eventual position as one of the supreme figures in the history of western music. In his late teens J. C. Bach found his way to Italy, where he studied with the esteemed pedagogue, Padre Martini (who later would subject the teenaged Mozart to a battery of tests to prove his professional mastery). At the age of 25 Bach was appointed an organist at the cathedral in Milan (having converted to Roman Catholicism), an accomplishment which might be viewed as a rather ironic stage in the 200-year history of the Bach family as Lutheran church musicians! But Italy held a far stronger attraction to Bach as the land of opera, and it was in that field that he earned his fame. Within two years Bach made his way to London, where he was based for the rest of his life. There he was active as an opera composer, taught members of the royal family, and gained much notice as a keyboard virtuoso---even taking part in one of the earliest known public concerts featuring the as yet little-known “pianoforte.”

Bach was a composer of remarkable diversity and industry, composing a vast number of chamber works, keyboard compositions, concerti and symphonies. His keyboard concerti are of unusual historical importance, quite apart from their intrinsic quality, for these works were to have a powerful impact upon young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who met Bach when visiting London at the age of eight. Bach’s keyboard concerti carried on a tradition which had been established by J. S. Bach (who virtually Invented the solo keyboard concerto), and carried on into the early stage of composition for the pianoforte by C. P. E. Bach. Johann Christain Bach’s fluent Italian style, with its melting lyrical quality, often strikes modern listeners as “Mozartian, ” had a profound influence on the younger composer.

Some of those stylistic elements will be heard in this evening’s Symphony in B-flat, composed in 1773 (some nine years after Mozart’s encounter with Bach in London.) Scored for the standard orchestra of the day (pairs of oboes, horns, a bassoon and strings), the work follows the tradition of the Italian “sinfonia” (which originally formed the introductory music for an opera) in consisting of three movements. The opening Allegro Con Spirito springs into action with a fanfare-like first theme, with bustling string figuration soon swelling to a climax, then yielding to a lilting, lyrical second subject given to the oboes, with an energetic closing theme reminiscent of the opening theme. Development begins with material from the primary theme, the harmony darkening, moving into G Minor, with long sustained tones in the oboes over scurrying strings. The recapitulation is quite regular, with the closing theme becoming an energetic coda, with the sustained oboe passage returning to round out the movement.

The Andante (in E-flat major) is a simple three-part structure in triple metre, subdued, almost hymn-like in character, with a measured tempo somelike akin to a slow minuet. This is the sort of cantabile style in which J. C. Bach seems to prophesy the Mozart to come. There is a central section in C Minor, with the oboes in a prominent role, followed by a return of the opening section to bring the movement to a quiet close.

The Presto finale is a vivacious movement featuring a sprightly pricipal melody over a briskly trotting bassline. In the secondary theme the oboes adopt a “concertante” role (quite characteristic of Bach), continuing the lively repeated notes in a “drum bass” pattern. Development is brief, preoccupied with the principal theme, and as in the first movement, swings into the darker colours of G Minor. The recapitulation omits the principal theme, moving directly to the secondary theme, bouncing on to a lively conclusion.

NCO Concert

Babbitt: Composition for Twelve Instruments

2000-02-26T07:43:00.001-05:00

Composition for Twelve Instruments

Milton Babbitt (1916- )

A native of Philadelphia, Milton Babbitt was brought up in Jackson, Mississippi. As a teen ager he learned several instruments, and was active in jazz ensembles, as well as showing skills as a composer of popular songs. At the age of fifteen he entered the University of Pennsylvania, intending to study mathematics (reflecting an influence from his father’s work as an actuary), but soon transferred to New York University, where he studied composition. A unique aspect of Babbitt’s coming of age as a musician in the 1930s was his interest in the 12-tone works of Schoenberg, Berg and Webern in an era when American musicians took little note of those composers, when performances of their works were rare, recordings non-existent, and even published scores were hard to come by. Babbitt’s lifetime association with Princeton dates from three years’ study under Roger Sessions which led to an appointment to the music faculty at the university in 1938. (He also was a member of the Mathematics faculty from 1942-45.) His career as a composer of distinction dates from the late 1940s, when his preoccupation with serial composition led Babbitt to write some of the earliest studies in English on the subject. In 1947 appeared his landmark “Three Compositions for Piano,” in which there is not only a structured tonal element (the “twelve tones”), but likewise a rigorous organization of other elements (rhythm and durations, for example). Always a multi-faceted musician, Babbitt wrote some film scores in the late 1940s, and even an unsuccessful Broadway musical. (He has never been ashamed of the “pop music” side of his musical activities….and he is happy to number among his pupils no less a figure than Stephen Sondheim!)

Babbitt has been the recipient of countless awards and honors, has been a prolific lecturer and writer on music, and is perhaps best known, even to those who have never heard his music, as a pioneer figure in the area of so-called “electronic” (or “synthesised”) music, especially in the 1950s when RCA invited him to take the lead in developing what became the Columbia-Princeton Electronic Center in New York. In 1961 he composed “Vision and Prayer” for soprano voice and synthesiser (using recorded tape), followed in 1964 by one of his best-known compositions, “Philomel,” composed for the same resources. More recent works include several important chamber works, and a Second Piano Concerto, given its premiere by Robert Taub with the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra under the direction of James Levine, which will be heard again during the coming year.

The Composition for Twelve Instruments is described by the composer himself in a characteristically brisk and tartly humourous commentary:

“Composition for Twelve Instruments was composed in 1948, and was scheduled for a succession of performances, all of which were canceled due to the presence of a guitar in the work, and an absence of any guitarist who, in those pre-Starobin days, could follow a conductor, for although the guitar part in itself was not difficult, its position in the ongoing rhythmic ensemble required a guitarist who could at least respond correctly to the cues of a conductor . Finally, in 1954, I substituted a harp for the guitar, but the difference in the capacities of the harp from those of the guitar led me to revise the work to the extent that it became a recomposition. This version was performed without incident and subsequently recorded. This is the version being heard at this performance; the original version has never been performed.

The seven minute, one movement work may be perceived as consisting of two complementary
“sections,” in that the “foreground”, immediate materials of one constitute the “background”, latent elements of the other. More informally, the work may be heard as a composition for a single instrument possessing a variety of timbral resources.

For some listeners a point of reference in approaching this composition may be the pointillistic textures found in the later works of Anton Webern---works which the musical world at large was just beginning to comprehend at the time when the Composition for 12 Instruments was written. The work sets out a fascinating array of instrumental colors, in a succession of individual tones passing from one player to another, always with its own dynamic marking. There are a great range of registers, attacks and shadings, such as the use of mutes, tremolo strings, flutter-tonguing in the winds---and a highly original treatment of silence in counterpoint with sound. The spiraling effect of single pitches begins to lead to overlapping instrumental entries, with quickening activity, and increasing intensity. Repeated notes begin to appear, followed by longer, sustained pitches, and a quieting of the musical atmosphere. By mid-point a thickening of sonority, with longer, layered, sustained tones leads to the first of several brief moments of “tutti” (with all 12 instruments heard together), gaining ever more in intensity. This ebb and flow of instrumental timbres becomes a “tapestry” in which (as the composer suggests) the contrasting elements may be heard as if becoming a “single instrument,” moving forward to achieve a full-throated conclusion.

Copland: Suite from “Appalachian Spring”

2000-02-26T07:41:00.001-05:00

Suite from “Appalachian Spring”

Aaron Copland (1900-1990)

Usually when a composer dies his reputation suffers a decline in popularity and critical estimation, time eventually correcting of the balance. Aaron Copland has been a happy exception to that pattern, and remains secure in his position as America’s foremost composer, indeed probably more highly regarded than ever. He seemed to have been born under a lucky star. Coming from a background quite similar to his near contemporary, George Gershwin, Copland was born in Brooklyn to Jewish parents who had come to America from eastern Europe, passing through through Ellis Island, eager to make a new life in the New World. After some solid, rather uninspiring training in New York he traveled to France, where he became one of the first pupils of the celebrated Nadia Boulanger, who for half a century would train an amazing succession of outstanding American composers. With Boulanger’s encouragement he returned to America, quickly setting out on his career with immediate success and public attention. While the best-loved music of Copland would not to appear until the late 1930s, the young composer became the focus of a dynamic generation of young American musicians (Roger Sessions, Roy Harris, Virgil Thomson and many others) who in one fell swoop were establishing 20^th century American music as a force to reckon with. Ironically, during those years the work of Charles Ives was but dimly known, and most of Copland’s best-known works were written before a note of Ives was to be heard by the general public!

Copland’s compositions of the 1920s and ‘30s, for all their spare and rhythmically-charged American flavour, were rather in keeping with the dissonant harmonic idiom which marked European music of the period. It was with the appearance of “El Salon Mexico” (1937) which signaled a conscious move on the part of the composer to turn increasingly to musical subjects (and musical elements) taken from the American landscape, popular culture and folk music traditions. Although he would compose two operas (one for high school children, and another on a larger scale, “The Tender Land”), Copland seemed temperamentally out of sympathy with the world of opera. The dance was another question, and Copland’s involvement with modern dance was well timed to come about during the period of its explosive growth in the hands of such figures as Martha Graham, Agnes De Mille, and Lincoln Kirstein.

Before Appalachian Spring received its title, Copland called it “Ballet for Martha,” which remains its subtitle. (Graham came up with the title from a poem by Hart Crane, which, as she told a surprised Copland, had otherwise nothing whatever to do with the ballet!) We now know that the stages leading to the completion of “Appalachian Spring” were far from smooth, and the details of the scenario and dramatic content of the final work went through a long process of trial and error. The completed ballet was first performed in 1944 in Washington, D. C. at the Library of Congress, with a chamber orchestra of thirteen players. Shortly afterward Copland cut the score somewhat, expanding the scoring for a full orchestra. For years the original version was suppressed by Copland, only becoming heard in the 1960s. That version (which was performed by the Princeton Chamber Symphony in 1995) has begun to be heard with some regularity, although the full-orchestra suite has from the very beginning grown in popularity, and probably is the most-performed orchestral work ever composed by an American.

In the planning stages for the ballet Martha Graham toyed an idea of including a “Shaker” element in the story. For most people the Shakers were known (if at all) for two things: their beautifully spare, strangely “contemporary” appearing furniture design---and their curious history as a late 18^th century utopian religious community rooted in New England, practicing a tradition of total celibacy, and making lively singing and even dancing a part of their worship.. What was little known was an amazing body of hymns composed for use in Shaker worship, sung without accompaniment, and written down in an inscrutable musical notation which few persons could comprehend. The Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts” was composed around 1875 by Elder Joseph Brackett, and thanks to Copland has become immensely popular. (It can be heard on a recently-issued CD, sung by members of the last surviving Shaker community of Sabbathday Lake, Maine. Although there were no references to the Shakers in the ballet, (nor were they found in the Appalachian region of western Pennsylvania where the work was set), Copland took the hymn as symbolic of the simplicity and spareness of the ballet setting and dramatic framework. (This can be seen in the opening words of the hymn, “’Tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free; /‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be;/ And when we find ourselves in the place just right, /“Twill be in the valley of love and delight.”

The score carries this description of the ballet’s scenario: “A pioneer celebration in spring around a newly built farmhouse in the Pennsylvania hills in the early part of the last century. The bride-to-be and the young farmer-husband enact the emotions, joyful and apprehensive, their new domestic partnership invites. An older neighbor suggests now and then the rocky confidence of experience. A revivalist and his followers remind the new householders of the strange and terrible aspects of human fate. At the end the couple are left quiet and strong in their new house.”

The work opens in a hushed mood suggesting the dawn of a new day, the peaceful atmosphere of the rural countryside. There is a sudden burst of energy, full of buoyancy and hope, as well as a tender duo for the bride and her husband-to-be. With the appearance of the revivalist there is a change to a mood of sternness, followed by an episode with the music taking on a distinct character of country fiddling and square dancing. There follows a solo for the bride, filled with the mingled feelings of joy, wonder and fear. A pantomime scene, depicting the prospect of daily married life, takes place, culminating in a set of variations on the Shaker him, first heard in the clarinet. The variations rise to a climax of impressive grandeur, suddenly giving way to the hushed mood of the opening, now a benediction of lyrical tenderness.

Ives: The unanswered question

2000-02-26T07:40:00.001-05:00

“The Unanswered Question”

Charles Ives
(1874-1954)

Fifty years ago hardly anybody had heard of Charles Ives, apart from a small band of dedicated champions of new American music. Now, at the end of the twentieth century, Ives is regarded as the great father figure among American composers, the very earliest and most original of them all, many of whose major works have begun to be heard with regularity. He remains controversial, even scoffed at in some quarters, but is indisputably a formidable presence in American music, and one recognized world-wide.

During the years when Ives’ work was just beginning to be heard, discussions of his music often seemed to be obsessed with what seemed to be an amazing string of “anticipations”: focusing upon innovations in rhythm, musical structure, sonority and all the musical elements which had usually been claimed to be the creation of figures such as Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Bartok. Thankfully, now we usually focus upon the innate qualities of the music itself, rather than whether or not it was Ives who did something

FIRST, which really adds up to little more than citations in a musical record book. The small, zealous band of devoted Ivesians who by the 1930s were pressing for an acceptance of the music (among their number Elliott Carter, Nicholas Slonimsky, and John Kirkpatrick) had discovered in Ives a powerful artistic vision, remarkably fresh and original, as well as distinctly American in tone.

Ives’ “Americanness” has created mischief for the serious consideration of his work, sometimes leading to a veritable “Ives industry,” with much fuss made about the quirky, “ornery,” cussed aspects of the composer’s personality, with the risk that Ives may be seen as some sort of picturesque New England “character.” Ives’ use of a wide range of musical Americana (patriotic songs, Revival hymns, marching band tunes, echoes of ragtime and Victorian ballads) has led to this tendency to make the composer into a lovable old geezer. The fact is that the finest Ives compositions often exhibit a tough-mindedness, even a kind of bracing “abstract” quality which is very off a piece with the most innovative music written in the early 20^th century. Yet hardly any of this music was known at the time it was being composed----the Ives Third Symphony, written in 1904, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1947!

The career can be summed up fairly briefly: solid musical training under an eccentric father (Ives’ greatest influence, as he never tired of insisting), advanced study at Yale under Horatio Parker, which was both highly professional and, in its rigid conservatism, deeply frustrating to the young composer. After Yale a successful public career in the insurance business, with composition reserved for evenings and weekend. Ives composed most of his important music in the space of little more than twenty years, many of the most important works written in the first dozen years of the century. Attempts to win publication and performance of his works were mostly abortive, and only in the years of Ives’ retirement did a trickle of public hearings begin to stir up interest in his music. Perhaps the signal event was the Town Hall premiere of the great “Concord” Sonata by John Kirkpatrick in 1939 which marked an important step in the direction of delayed recognition for Ives’ music.

“The Unanswered Question” encapsulates in the span of seven minutes some of the most vivid visionary elements in Ives’ music---music quite removed from the “picturesque” side of his personality, instead closely related to his private philosophical and spiritual preoccupations. There was a powerful influence throughout Ives’ life of the Transcendentalist movement of mid-19^th century New England, which found its fullest expression in the “Concord” Sonata, with its movement inspired by Emerson, Hawthorne, the Alcotts and Thoreau. Here, however, we have a particularly private meditation upon spiritual matters set out in music of stunning simplicity. There are three instrumental elements, each with its own distinct coloration, rhythmic character---each utterly set apart from the others. A vast curtain of string sonority (nothing more than familiar diatonic chords) is unfolded in eerie stillness, forming a background to an unvarying intoning of a dissonant, unyielding phrase in a solo trumpet, heard in contrast to a succession of contrapuntal, chromatic passages in the winds. Ives states that the strings represent the “Silence of the Druids---who Know, See and Hear Nothing.” Seven times the trumpet intones “The Perennial Question of Existence,” heard each time in exactly the same tone of voice. The winds (representing human beings) seek to uncover “The Invisible Answer,” each response to the “Question” progressively more active, even frantic. In their frustration the winds become the “Fighting Answerers” as time goes on, and after a “secret conference” seem to realize futility, and begin to mock “The Question”---the strife is over for the moment. After they disappear, ‘the Question’ is asked for the last time, and the ‘Silences’ are heard beyond in “Undisturbed Solitude.”

Ravel: Concerto in G for Piano and Orchestra

2000-02-26T07:39:00.001-05:00

Concerto in G for Piano and Orchestra

Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)

The Concerto in G was composed 1930-31 simultaneously with the Piano Concerto in D for the left-hand. These were the last major works completed by Ravel, who began his slow, terrible decline into mental incapacity which ended with his death at the end of 1937. It might have seemed difficult to imagine that the young man whose career was launched in the 1890s with the Minuet antique and the celebrated “Pavane” would conclude his creative life with a brilliant, fizzy virtuoso showpiece, one in which jazz inflections and moments of Spanish coloration would be joined with music of Mozartian simplicity and tenderness. But then, Ravel was always a complex figure, who remains something of an enigma to this day.

Like all gifted French musicians, Ravel attended the Paris Conservatoire, where he studied with Faure, a musician of a quite different temperament and outlook, but warmly devoted to his dazzling young pupil. Unlike many a lesser talent, Ravel’s repeated attempts to win the famous Prix de Rome were unsuccessful, even after he had won considerable fame as a composer---eventually this scandalous situation led to the resignation of the director of the Conservatoire, although the prize never was to be his.

The youthful Ravel was very much a product of the post-Baudelairian, ripely decadent fin-de-siecle spirit of the time, sporting an elegantly shaped beard, exquisitely dressed with “dandified” stylishness, projecting an air of mystery. These outward traits would soon fade, although the stylishness remained, and Ravel would always possess a detachment and passion for privacy which added to his reputation as a mysterious figure. Yet he showed a gift for friendship, and for all his Parisian worldliness, was wonderfully responsive to children and able to express their world better than almost any other composer. Utterly French in personality, he was totally free of chauvinism, even defending “enemy composers” (such as Bartok, Schoenberg, Richard Strauss) from shrill nationalists during the Great War. Like many French composers of the day he was fascinated by American jazz. Visiting New York in 1928 he politely refused invitations by local worthies to attend events at the Met and Carnegie Hall---no, he could hear that sort of thing in Paris. He wanted to spend time in the jazz clubs on 125^th Street in Harlem! (He also echoed Dvorak’s pleas that the music of African-Americans be regarded as a great artistic resource in lectures on delivered to often unsympathetic audiences in places such as Dallas, Texas!!)

It is a common reflex to link Ravel’s name to that of Debussy, usually with blithe use of that handy term, “impressionism.” Actually there are pronounced, clearly-defined differences between the two composers which can be seen even in the earliest of Ravel’s works. While the two men admittedly shared a vivid approach to musical colour and texture, the emotional tone is utterly different, with Ravel’s music usually more sharply etched, even dry in character, “objective” in character, often with a parodistic tinge.

Where Debussy might have earned the use of the term “impressionist” through his responsiveness to the world of late-19^th century French painting, Ravel tended to be more influenced by literary sources, and was strongly drawn to the exotic, the fairy-tale, the world of childhood dreams. Interestingly, in the area of piano music it might be claimed that in one important respect Ravel (the younger man) may have influenced Debussy, for it was only after the appearance of Ravel’s remarkable “Jeux d’eaux” that Debussy began to compose his succession of brilliant and original keyboard pieces.

In a very general sense that awkward term “impressionist” might occasionally seem appropriate in speaking of lthe music Ravel composed during the years before the Great War, culminating in his grandest orchestra work, the ballet “Daphnis et Chloe.” But after 1918 there is a marked shift in the musical language and expressive content, vividly heard in the unique blend of the lush and acrid textures in the Choreographi Poem, “La Valse” of 1920. And with the suite, “Le Tombeau de Couperin” the composer hearkens back to his earlier “neo-classic” works (Minuet Antique, Sonatine), which anticipate the new directions being taken by Stravinsky in his neo-classicism of the 1920s.

Ravel was remarked that “the music of a concerto should…be light-hearted and brilliant, and not aim at profundity or dramatic effects, transparent,” and went so far as to examine piano concertos of Mozart and Saint-Saens in preparing to compose his Concerto in G. This seems particularly appropriate for a composer whose entire career was marked by a constant return to the spirit of classicism. Indeed, should Mozart have known the work of Gershwin and Stravinsky he might well have composed a work comparable to this.

The concerto springs into action with a crack of a whip, the piccolo leading the way with a mocking tune heard against swirling bitonal arpeggios in the piano. This teasing, swaggering melody is repeated in the trumpet over dissonant chords which to some ears suggest the barking of dogs---a curious touch for the cat-loving Ravel! Settling into a transitional theme in F# Major there appears the first of many touches of American jazz scattered throughout the concerto, with a bluesy five-note figure in winds and trumpet. (Ravel had returned from a highly invigorating tour of the USA a few years earlier, and at first thought of composing this concerto as a work for himself to perform on a return tour---sadly, one which never took place.) Easing into E Major, the piano unfolds a second subject of wistful lyricism and simplicity, with the orchestra relegated to the background. Plunging into the development, the soloist focuses almost entirely upon a toccata-like version of the opening piccolo tune (spiced with periodic references to the five-note “blues” figure), becoming a breathless steeplechase with brilliant broken chord and triplet passage-work. A quick sprint the full length of the keyboard leads in the recapitulation, the piccolo tune now played by the piano in more broken chords, accompanied by the “dog bark” figure in the brass. The “bluesy” transitional section returns in regular fashion, preparing the listener for a reprise of the second subject. But in an ingenious cadenza-like passage a fragment from the transition is heard played by the harp in harmonics against a mysterious blur of glissando in the background. Interrupted by a decidedly “jazzy” outburst by the orchestra at full volume, the melody appears high in the solo horn, with the glissandi becoming a murmuring in the winds. There follows an extended cadenza for the piano, with the second subject elaborated in the left hand (in an evocation of that OTHER Ravel concerto), the right hand playing an strings of trills of an almost theremin-like character. This flows forward into a richly romantic statement of the second subject with full orchestra, only to plummet into the lowest register of the piano register to launch a coda based on the opening tune. Again taking on a toccata-like form, the music dashes headlong to conclude the movement with appropriate panache.

Ravel claimed to have composed the ADAGIO ASSAI slow movement “two bars at a time,” modeling it on the slow movement of the Mozart Clarinet Quintet. That this intensely personal music would be Ravel’s farewell to composition makes the stillness and simplicity of the movement all the more touching. Heard at length in the piano alone, as if lost in a thought, this plaintive melody then is shared with solo winds. The artless clock-ticking piano accompaniment (moving smoothly without a pause throughout the movement) leads to a subsidiary theme,soon rising to a momentary climax. The main melody returns in the English horn, embellished by delicate figuration in the upper reaches of the piano, for one haunted moment even gliding into a rapt C# Major. The piano figuration becomes a trill, and the movement dissolves into silence.

With a snap to attention, the finale is off and running, with a shrill, “train-whistle” figure in the winds against a chattering rhythmic ostinato pattern in the piano. This quickly gives way to a punchy rhythmic section, decorated with repeated notes in the piano, finding quiet contrast in a buzzing “chinoiserie” passage reminiscent of Ravel’s earlier “faux-orientaliste” music. The “snap to it” chords usher in a jaunty march-like secondary section, leading to brilliant sixteenth-note display which suggests the sort of well-oiled whirl characteristic of Saint-Saens’ piano writing. Without hesitation the rhythmic energy of the movement’s opening leads in the development, first heard in muttering of bassoons, soon taken over by the soloist, joined by winds (referring to the march-like secondary theme), pressing ever onward in mounting excitement. The recapitulation slips in scarcely noticed, the “factory-whistle” theme played by the piano (in F# Major), while at the same time the rattling momentum of the sixteenth notes continues unabated in the orchestra (in G Major!) The march tune returns in all its strutting bluster, the piano revels in its the sixteenth-note bravado, and the movement ends as it began, with a final “snap to attention.”

Prokofiev: Summer’s Day Suite, Op. 65bis

2000-02-26T07:37:00.001-05:00

Summer’s Day Suite, Op. 65bis

Sergei Prokofiev

(1891-1953)

For much of the 20^th century contemporary music in the Soviet Union was dominated by two giant figures, Sergei Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich. In the west the two composers were often thought of as linked in style and general outlook in a way rather akin to Debussy and Ravel in the early years of this century. Of course such a notion overlooks important contrasts between those earlier composers, and likewise the two Soviet composers were fundamentally quite unlike each other in a number of important ways. To begin with, Prokofoiev was fifteen years older than Shostakovich, had grown up in the rich artistic climate of early 20^th century tsarist Russian, and quite indifferent to the ideals of the Bolshevik Revolution, left the tumult of his homeland behind to spend nearly twenty years in voluntary exile in America and Europe. (By contrast, Shostakovich, a native of Saint Petersburg, witnessed the revolution from the windows of his home, grew up with the Soviet state, was intensely involved in the cross-currents of political activities and ideology to the end of his life – and he knew the world outsider the USSR only in short, carefully “managed” tours abroad as an artistic spokesman for the regime.)

In some respects Prokofiev could be regarded as the lucky one. He had made periodic tours back to his home country from time to time, but only after many attempts by the Soviet authorities to end his residence abroad did he finally yield to their blandishments, returning to live the rest of his life in the USSR. He was 45 years old, had lived a full life in the “outer world,” and must have thought that he could work undisturbed by the pressures which were already tormenting his younger colleague, Dmitri Shostakovich.

His timing could not be worse. The very year that Prokofiev took up residence in Moscow marked the beginning of the “purge trials” which displayed to the world at large the terror and brutality of Stalin’s rule. True, Prokofiev was honoured by the state, there were many commissions and a clearly defined role as an

“artist of the people,” but even he would not be exempt from state oppression. At first enthusiastically in sympathy with the vague ideals of “socialist realism” propounded by party hacks seeking to keep artists in line, he too suffered criticism, indignities of all sorts, and some fearful periods—especially during the last year’s of Stalin’s tyrannical paranoia. (Ironically, Prokofiev, in poor health in the years following World War II, would die on the same day as Josef Stalin!)

It is possible to see a distinct stylistic development in the three principal phases of Prokofiev’s career: dazzling virtuosity and vivid imaginative coloration in the works written before 1920 (mostly in Russia), a drier, more muscular quality (undoubtedly influenced by the work of Stravinsky) in the music composed in Paris, followed by a simpler, often warmly “romantic” element coming to the fore in the music written in the USSR. This less complex, often unabashedly tuneful music is sometimes explained by a need to adhere to the “socialist realism” ideology of the time. In fact, it is actually a renewal of a powerful lyrical element in the composer’s makeup which was quite pronounced even in his earliest works. Unlike Shostakovich, whose music (after his first brush with Stalinist criticism)often exhibited a tortured subjectivity, Prokofiev’s works usually exhibited a direct, almost breezy objectivity, largely removed from tragic introspection, and thus well gauged for the “official optimism” of the Soviet state. Ironically, perhaps his most universally popular work in among Americans is indeed a splendid example of “Socialist realism”: “Peter and the Wolf”!

The Summer Day Suite is based upon a set of piano pieces, Music for children, written in 1935. In 1941 Prokofiev selected seven of these to form an orchestral suite which is characteristically

1. Morning. Opening with a background of woodwind figuration and shimmering string tremolo, a broad, sustained melody sweeps upward from the bass into the upper strings and winds, swelling to richness of sonority, then drifts downward to a quiet conclusion.

2. Tip and run. This sprightly picture of children’s games is a jig-like rondo, filled with lively

pizzicato and spiccato figures, darting into the upper reaches of winds and strings, concluding XXXX

3. Waltz. One of the paradoxes of the Soviet era was that while the trappings of the tsarist past were swept aside, some evocations of that vanished world were were revived and received with official approval. In music this was especially the case with that vivid reminder of 19^th century privilege,

the WALTZ, which enjoyed great popularity in the age of the Five Year Plan! Prokofiev himself composed a surprising number of waltzes, as in the opera WAR AND PEACE, the CINDERELLA ballet, and even the Seventh Symphony. This warmly sentimental movement, filled with swooping melodic figures, leavened with elegant, yet ironic harmonic twists, is an example of this surprising element in the Prokofiev’s later style.

4. Repentance. This title was not explained by Prokofiev – is it perhaps descriptive of the sadness of a child punished for bad behaviour? This darkly-colored, wistful movement consists of several repetitions of a melody of a Slavic folksong character, mostly confined to the lower strings, with contrasting figures in the upper winds.

5. March. Prokofiev excelled in grotesque, mocking march movements---famously so in the case of the March from “Love for Three Oranges.’ This brief bit of brightly-textured, edgy orchestra swagger is a prime example the composer’s prickly musical imagination.

6. Evening. An opening theme for strings and flute becomes more rhythmically pointed, leading to a secondary strain in which a cricket-like figure is heard in castenets, adding an atmospheric touch.

7. The Moon is over the meadows. A reflective andantino, the final movement opens with a sweetly lyrical melody in the flute, exhibiting the tender simplicity which would so memorably characterise Prokofiev’s ROMEO & JULIET ballet several years later. The melody is repeated several times in shifting orchestral colors, heard in the celli and oboes. In a passage suggestive of the composer’s portrait of the young Juliet, the solo horn is heard against a restless pizzicato background, the music soon fading away in a quiet ending.

Bizet: Fandole from L’Arlesienne Suite No. 2

2000-02-05T16:30:00.001-05:00

Fandole from L’Arlesienne Suite No. 2

Georges Bizet (1837-1875)

In 1872 Bizet composed 27 short orchestral numbers as incidental music for Alphonse Daudet’s play, L’Arlesienne, music which is often regarded as close in spirit to the vivid musical characterization of Carmen. The play is set in Provence, that intensely Latin part of southern France, which shares with Spain a brilliant and reckless Mediterranean temperament. The Farandole, which concludes the suite, is a dance movement, at first quiet and unassuming (with a pair of flutes playing the first of the two main melodies), passed on to the other winds, the secondary tune heard in the violins, later the trumpet. The effect of the movement is a constant crescendo, pressing ever onward, gaining in velocity, racing onward ever faster until ending in a breathless whirl.

GPYO concert

Halvorsen: Entrance March of the Boyars

2000-02-05T16:30:00.000-05:00

Entrance March of the Boyars

Johan Halvorsen (1864-1935)

Johan Halvorsen was a Norwegian musician of modest reputation, who made his name as a conductor and as composer of theatre pieces and colorful orchestral works written in the Romantic tradition of Edvard Grieg and other late 19^th century Scandinavian composers. He is another of those little-known composers who lay a small claim to fame with a single attractive work, this being the “Entrance March of the Boyars” (1895). It is his best-known composition, written as incidental music to a stage play (presumably one set in imperial Russia, judging by the title). It is a brilliantly-orchestrated march with the sort of exotic textures which meant to evoke a somewhat “oriental” atmosphere, with Trio section featuring brilliant brass fanfares.

GPYO concert

Debussy : “Clair de Lune”

2000-02-05T16:28:00.001-05:00

“Clair de Lune”

Claude Debussy (1862-1918)

Best known in its original guise as a piece for solo piano (a movement from the early Suite Bergamasque of 1889), “Clair de Lune” (“Moonlight”) is probably the best-known and most
often-performed work of Claude Debussy. Full of rapt silence and nocturnal radiance, it is the sort of atmospheric tone painting which links the name of Debussy with the French Impressionist painters of those years at the end of the 19^th century, sharing with them an emphasis upon texture, shading and emotional subtlety.

GPYO concert

Bizet: Carmen Suite No. 1

2000-02-05T16:27:00.000-05:00

Carmen Suite No. 1

George Bizet (1838-1875)

While George Bizet composed a number of operas (including one which is occasionally heard, The Pearl Fishers), as well as vocal, choral and instrumental music, he is known most of all for a single, supremely vivid masterwork, the opera Carmen, as well as the incidental music to L’Arlesienne, some of which will be heard in today’s concert as well. Carmen, introduced only a few months before the composer’s early death, was not quite the overwhelming success it would soon become---indeed, Bizet died filled with doubts about his beloved opera. Soon, however, it became perhaps the single most popular opera ever composed, one dearly loved by Johannes Brahms, of all people---and one which antagonists of Richard Wagner would claim to be the model of what a true musical drama ought to be!

The four movements comprising the suite are taken from the introductory music to each of the opera’s four acts: a lively Prelude (in effect the “overture” to Carmen), the prelude to Act II, subtitled “Dragons d’Alcala,” an Intermezzo (prelude to Act III), and to conclude the tempestuous prelude to the final act, known as the Aragonaise. In Carmen Bizet, who never set foot in Spain, miraculously created a sweeping panorama of Spanish musical styles which the Spaniards themselves hail as true to the spirit of their culture.

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Gershwin : Rhapsody in Blue

2000-02-05T16:25:00.001-05:00

Rhapsody in Blue

George Gershwin (1898-1937)

With the first performance of the Rhapsody in Blue in February, 1924, George Gershwin won instant and sensational fame as a composer of great originality and creative power. He had previously made a name for himself in “Tin Pan Alley,” the world of commercial popular music, but a commission from the bandleader Paul Whiteman for a concert work featuring solo piano in a jazz idiom was the beginning of a rich and varied career as a composer of “serious music.” Soon there followed such works as the Concerto in F (1925), American in Paris (1928), and the opera, Porgy and Bess (1935). We can only imagine what might have been had Gershwin’s life not been so tragically cut short.

The opening clarinet solo, so defiantly confident and startlingly original, seems to proclaim the arrival of a bold new genius in American music. The solo piano, which is first heard in a quite casual manner, soon moves into brilliant virtuoso display, the raw energy of the music a reflection of the reckless spirit of “Roaring Twenties” America. Perhaps the most famous moment is that which forms a link to the traditions of concert music: the broadly lyrical, Romantic melody unfolded in the strings, then taken up by the piano. Gershwin actually composed a “Second Rhapsody” in 1931, a fine work which has always been overshadowed by the more celebrated work of 1924.

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Copland :Variations on a Shaker Melody

2000-02-05T16:18:00.000-05:00

Variations on a Shaker Melody

Aaron Copland (1900-1990)

In this centenary year of the birth of Aaron Copland it is indeed appropriate to hear his Variations on a Shaker Melody – the very melody which was brought to wide notice when heard as the climax of his well-loved ballet, “Appalachian Spring’ (1944). This 1967 composition (closely based upon the final section of the ballet) was the last of several settings which Copland made of “Simple Gifts,” one of the hundreds of wonderfully fresh and original hymns created by the Shakers for their religious ceremonies. (The words speak of the plain and uncomplicated lives which were the goal of the Shakers, a Utopian religious sect which flourished in the early 19^th century, and survives until today in a single community in Maine.) The Shakes are widely renowned for their fine furniture and design, but as well for their fresh and lively music (and dancing!) which occupied a unique position in their worship. The words of the hymn say it all: “’T is a gift to be simple, ‘t is a gift to be free, t’ is a gift to come down where you ought to be…”-

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Gould: American Salute

2000-02-05T16:14:00.000-05:00

American Salute

Morton Gould

(1913-1998)

Morton Gould is perhaps the finest example of a composer of the sort of music which all too often is given little attention or critical respect: “light music,” music written in a direct and unabashed popular idiom, aiming to reach a wide audience. At the same time Gould was an artist of integrity, creating works of elegance and fastidious craftsmanship. A New Yorker, he began at an early age to work as a conductor and arranger in the world of radio----today it is hard to remember that before the television age network radio (and even some independent radio stations) maintained performing ensembles and staffs of professional musicians, producing a rich variety of excellent music (heard in live broadcasts), today rarely to be encountered. This provided Gould with his training as a composer, leading to work in the theatre, films and later television. Increasingly he was in demand for concert and stage works, including the acclaimed ballet, “Fall River Legend” (1947), his American Symphonettes, Symphony of Spirituals---even a “Tap Dance Concerto.” The “American Salute” (1947) is probably his best-known composition, being a rousing orchestral arrangement of the American folksong, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

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Haydn Symphony No. 104 in D Major, “London”

2000-01-11T20:36:00.001-05:00

Symphony No. 104 in D Major, “London”

Franz Josef Haydn (1732-1809)

Like most musicians of his day, Josef Haydn found employment as a “court composer” in a number of aristocratic households until he reached his sixties. For nearly thirty years his patron was the celebrated Prince Nicolaus Esterhazy, whose elegant palace in the middle of the Hungarian farm country was to be the composer’s home, and scene of his artistic development. In a sense it was also his place of aristic isolation, from which he could escape only for brief visits to Vienna where the prince’s entourage spent an annual period of residence in the imperial capital. Unlike Mozart, who from early childhood was to visit most of the centers of Europe, Haydn never had the freedom to travel, being constantly under pressure to preside over a court orchestra and opera company, as well as to compose everything from dance music to chamber music, orchestral works, stage works and religious music. After nearly thirty years’ service at the palace of Esterhaza, the death of Prince Nicolaus finally made it possible for Haydn to accept offers to travel. An ambitious musician, Johann Peter Salomon (German by birth, now resident in London), learned of the death of Haydn’s patron, and determined to swoop down upon the composer and bring him to London for a series of public concerts. Salomon met Haydn in Vienna, greeting him with the famous words, “I am Salomon of London, and have come to fetch you. Tomorrow we will arrange an accord.” The two men hit it off immediately, and in December, 1790 Haydn set out for London, saying goodbye to Mozart, who feared for the older man’s stamina, warning him against such a dangerous undertaking. (Ironically, Mozart himself would die within a year, the two friends never again seeing each other.) Haydn spent two long periods in England, where he met the cream of society, from royalty to the artistic celebrities of the day. He was awarded an honorary degree at Oxford (responding with his “Oxford” Symphony, No. 92), and the unhappily married composer even had a late-life romance with a German widow living in London, as well. Above all, a dozen symphonies were composed expressly for London, which were to be the summing up of a lifetime of creative endeavour. The last of these was No. 104, nicknamed “London” ever since its premiere on a glittering concert on May 4^th, 1795. Bearing an inscription on the manuscript in English, “the 12^th which I have composed in England, ” this was to be Haydn’s last symphony. The composer himself stated that he could do no better.

The symphony, like many others by Haydn, opens with a slow introduction, a grand, serene gateway to the lively music which follows. The main body of the first movement leads off with a gentle, murmuring melody heard softly in the strings, followed by brilliant ruffles and flourishes with trumpets and drums, the strings in characteristic bustling display. The secondary theme, at first identical with the first, becomes more agitated, adding a closing theme with a graceful, lilting character. The development focuses upon a detail all but overlooked at its initial appearance: a pattern featuring four repeated notes taken from the very first bars of the first subject. Entirely absorbed with this tiny detail, the music seems to “germinate” into a richly textured, tightly argued musical discussion, reaching a climactic point before a pause which ushers in the recapitulation. Among the unexpected twists in rounding out the movement is a sudden passage for winds alone, followed by a grand and emphatic coda to form a solid conclusion.

The slow movement is a spacious three-part structure in G Major, with a meditative opening section wholly given over to the strings, save for a memorable moment when a lone bassoon adds its plaintive tones an octave below the violins. A tiny transitional passage (in the minor) for winds alone leads to a startling chance of mood, shifting to D Minor, with the full orchestra playing fortissimo, as turbulent as the opening had been tranquil. There is a tiny recollection of the opening melody, swept aside by a renewed stormy section. Quieting down, the opening section returns, this time with added colour from the woodwinds, and a further dramatic, rhythmic outburst by full orchestra. An extended passage with triplet figuration reaches an eerie standstill in the remote region of D-flat major. Once again a short woodwind phrase leads the music back to the home key, with an extended energetic coda, relaxing into an atmosphere of quiet benediction.

The minuet movement is perhaps the composer’s finest, with a peasant heartiness (a reminder of his long years living in the Hungarian heartland), with pounding accents and swinging rhythmic twists. The trio steps directly into a quietly refreshing (and unexpected) B-flat major, with a smoothly unwinding melodic line in the violins (assisted by solo oboe and bassoon from time to time) over a soft pizzicato background. As is so often Haydn’s practice in this symphony, the winds take the lead in bringing us back to a robust reprise of the minuet.

The concluding Spiritoso is Haydn’s most thoroughly “worked-out” finale, yet at the same time as engaging and entertaining as any other he had written. Over a a bagpipe-like “drone, ” an opening tune of disarming, low-key character is heard, which has sometimes been likened to an English folktune,

“Hot-crossed buns.” It quickly swells in energy and volume, moving into a second subject which, as in the first movement, is the same as the first, here heard in the winds. But an important “counter melody” is heard in the violins, and the music becomes shot through with detail and touches of instrumental colour, with swirling figures in the strings which to some ears are reminiscent of moments in the finale of another D Major Symphony---the Second Symphony of Brahms. A quiet, unexpected touch is the entry of a subsidiary part of this “second subject, ” in the form of a hushed passage for winds (plus a bassoonXXX), which moves into a short, brusque closing theme to round out the exposition of the movement. The development is one of Haydn’s biggest, and most intricately constructed, with a meshing together of the main melodic and rhythmic motives in a brilliant display of orchestra ingenuity. The hushed “subsidiary” theme reappears, this time extended, and in a delightfully unpredictable manner glides into the recapitulation. The main elements return as before, but lead directly into a full-scale coda, virtually a second “development” (as would later be the practice with Beethoven), bringing the symphony to an exultant conclusion.

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