Stravinsky: Danses Concertantes

Danses Concertantes [1942]

Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971)

First, some thoughts on Stravinsky’s “Neo-Classicism.” If it is true that “style is the man,” then perhaps more than anything else our perception of a composer’s work and judgments as to its artistic merit may be defined by considerations of musical style. What often complicates the assessment of a composer’s accomplishments is the way in which his style develops, grows and changes over the years. Even Schubert, in a composing career of barely fifteen years, shows remarkable evolution from the earlier works to the last. Sometimes we need the perspective of time: Louis Spohr, a contemporary of Beethoven, and no fool, found Beethoven’s late works to be disorderly, reflecting a decline in creative power. Our own century has seen endless squabbles about the matters of stylistic “consistency,” famously so in the case of Arnold Schoenberg, who some still see as perversely abandoning his sumptuous early manner to embrace an unlovable, austere atonal style. As for Igor Stravinsky, it is often forgotten that he too appeared to have gone off the rails after the First World War, turning away from the dazzling dramatic manner of the early ballets to move into a world of sweet-and-sour tonality. Even as late as the 1960s Stravinsky was sometimes regarded as a sort of play actor, with a change of musical style always at the ready, rather in the manner of fashion design. Schoenberg himself had composed a cruel little choral “Satire” (1925) to his own text:

Why who could be drumming away there?/If it isn’t little Modernsky!

He’s had his pigails cut./Looks pretty good!

What authentic false hair!/Like a peruke!

Quite (as little Modernsky conceives of him)/Quite the Papa Bach!

Ironically, Schoenberg and Stravinsky, the polar figures of music before 1950, who were often attacked as destructive “revolutionaries,” actually sought to establish solid links to musical tradition in their own ways: Schoenberg’s atonality as a logical outcome of post-Wagnerian chromaticism, Stravinsky’s

“Neo-Classicism”crafting a renewal of tonal language and musical forms of Western European tradition.

The impulse to look back and learn from the music of an earlier age can be found long before the 20^th century. An example can be found in Mozart, whose music shows a decisive stylistic change brought about through his encounter with the works of J. S. Bach. Verdi counseled young composers to study the past as a means of approaching the future; and there is a marked “Neo-Classic” streak running through the work of Brahms. The work of early 20^th century composers such as Mahler, Reger, Busoni and Ravel, as well as later figures as diverse as Vaughan Williams, Bloch, Hindemith and Prokofiev show a pronounced fascination with earlier musical styles. For many of these musicians the past was a breath of fresh air, an escape from the smothering after-effects of late Romanticism. In the case of Stravinsky, there was a unique personal factor: after 1917 it was clear that he would be indefinitely cut off from the Russian roots which had so powerfully informed his great early ballets. It is important to recognise that Stravinsky was something of an “outsider,” coming from a country which had always been on the margin of European culture, untouched by the Renaissance, and whose musical traditions went back only to the 1830s. Making his home in Paris, the young emigre quite naturally sought to create for himself a bond with the heritage of Western European culture. This process began with a bit of high-class hackwork: preparing the ballet PULCINELLA based on the music of the early 18^th century composer Pergolesi. Not content to prepare an “arrangement” of the original pieces, Stravinsky strips them down to their basic components, then proceeds to reassemble them according to his own fancy. The listener has the impression that Stravinsky is rediscovering anew the most conventional 18^th century scales, harmonies and rhythmic patterns, juggling and recombining them with freshness and intuition. At first these activities might have seemed to be mere clever diversions. But when the composer took on the subject of Sophocles’ OEDIPUS REX (1927), a pinnacle of western culture, it became clear that a remarkable new artistic path was being explored. Stravinsky seemed refreshed and stimulated by 18^th century stylistic models, working with a clarity of structure and highly refined tonal vocabulary which displayed an elegance and focussed energy in marked contrast with the explosive rhythmic spontaneity, and vivid dissonant harmonic language of his earlier works. For those with sharp ears, however, Stravinsky’s music retained its rhythmic ingenuity and inventive instrumental coloration; in subtle ways textures and melodic elements even preserved links with their Russian roots.

The decade of the 1930s was framed by a pair of large-scale works which summed up the essence of Stravinsky’s Neo-Classicism: the Symphony of Psalms (1930) – the Symphony in C (1940). The latter work brought Stravinsky and his wife to America, which became their home after the Nazi invasion of France. Stravinsky was no strange to America, and found himself quite welcome. He had already become known as a conductor of his own music, and had a nose for publicity---that he was good “copy,” can be seen by a leafing through old copies of LIFE magazine of the 1940s. But there were always money problems---due to the failure of the Russian government to join the International Copyright Union, Stravinsky never earned a penny from his sensationally successful early ballets! With ballet just beginning to win a place in American society, and the starchy conservatism of American musical life, Stravinsky seemed doomed to be a celebrated, little-played composer. Although living in Hollywood, the movie industry took little notice of him, apart from Walt Disney’s use of “Sacre du printemps” in FANTASIA---no royalties needed to be paid! There were some commissions, often quite bizarre in nature, including the SCENES DE BALLET, commissioned by Billy Rose for performance on Broadway; the Ebony Concerto, written for Woody Herman and his band; the SCHERZO A LA RUSSE, composed for Paul Whiteman’s Band, and zaniest of all, the CIRCUS POLKA (“for a Young Elephant”) written for Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey, which had 425 performances by “Fifty Elephants and Fifty Beautiful Girls.” (The dancing pachyderms were dressed in tutus…)

Just as the First World War period had seemed to cramp Stravinsky’s creative output, the decade of the 1940s produced only two major works: the Symphony in 3 Movements (1945) and the ballet ORPHEUS (1947). However there were several works for chamber orchestra which, though little noted at the time, stand out for their wit, elegance and zestful musical imagination, notably the Danses Concertantes, completed in 1942.

The Danse Concertantes was conceived in the form of an “abstract ballet,” with each movement bearing a title drawn from the tradition of classical ballet, but without a specific subject. The composer’s plan may well have been influenced by the limited possibilities for producing a new ballet at a time when American was going to war. Though it has since been choreographed on occasion, the work has always been regarded as a concert piece. (Interestingly, two more ballets would appear, reflecting the rapid maturing of the American dance world: ORPHEUS (1947), a narrative work, and AGON (1957) an “abstract” work which stands as one of Stravinsky’s finest late works. Both were created in close collaboration with George Balanchine.)

The composition uses an orchestra of 26 players: 4 single winds, four brass, timpani and 15 strings. There are five movements:

1.) Marche: a jaunty introductory piece, whose springy B-flat major tonality at first teases us with hints of Bach’s 6^th Brandenburg Concerto (also written in B-flat), soon settling into an easy-going swagger which brings to mind the boulevardier manner of Francis Poulenc---who, of course, learned a few things from Stravinsky himself. (Even a tasty suggestion of American pop music creeps in early on…)

2.) Pas d’Action: a short movement at first reminiscent of the finale of the recently completed
Symphony in C. It is filled with the rhythmic suppleness and elegant wit which have always been characteristic of Stravinsky, but here with a leanness of texture, finely-wrought and subtle in instrumental colour.

3.) Theme varie: The work’s longest movement opens with a theme in G Minor set out in a clear, cool, open orchestral texture surprisingly akin to the textures found in some of the music of Aaron Copland---who, needless to say, was another composer who learned a great deal from the example of Stravinsky. The music soon shifts of G Major, with an extended lyrical passage for strings which echoes the gentle expressiveness of the earlier ballet, APOLLO MUSAGETE. There are four variations, rising from G to A-flat, to A, eventually to B-flat. In the first variation pattering repeated notes and quicker tempo bring a more urgent feeling to the music, followed by a yet quicker tempo in the second variation; the third variation finds the winds in dialogue over a restlessly moving bass, soon moving into the home key of B-flat for a boisterous, striding fourth variation, which proceeds without pause to the next movement.

4.) Pas de Deux: the most distinctly “choreographic” section of the work, this stylish and
dignified movement comprises five sections, opening in F Major with a murmuring dialogue in the winds, followed by a quickening of tempo (a hint of Schubert’s “Marche Militaire” in the brass), a flute cadenza which ushers in a central episode in A-flat, marked by renewed rhythmic activity, then gliding into B-flat for another glint of the Schubert tune, and a return to the lyrical opening F Major section.

5.) Marche: in the manner of an “Entrada” movement from an 18^th century suite, the music which had led our imaginary dancers onto the stage in the opening of the work now returns in abridged form to round out the proceedings, ushering the performers off the stage.

[The following was a revision - ed.]

a reworked opening of the Stravinsky article might make it possible to include a bit of the bitch lines from that Schoenberg text about “little Modernsky”… So here is a possible rewritten opening of the article. This can segue right in with the existing text beginning with the

In 1942 found the two most powerful creative forces in 20^th century music lived a few miles from each other in Hollywood, California. What a study in contrasts: Igor Stravinsky completing his Danses Concertantes, a tightly-coiled “Neo-Classic” recycling of traditional tonality and musical vocabulary – Arnold Schoenberg composing his deeply expressive Piano Concerto, in which musical traditions seemed quite transformed through the twelve-tone method. Not only was there a great stylistic gulf between these near-neighbors, they deliberately avoided meeting each other. But then Stravinsky probably could not forgive Schoenberg’s mocking choral “Satire” (1925): “…If it isn’t little Modernsky! He’s had his pigtails cut---what authentic false hair! Quite the Papa Bach!” (Those who recall the Princeton Chamber Symphony performance of Schoenberg’s reworking of a Handel Concerto Grosso a few years ago might think that he should have known better.) An artistic reconciliation between these two quarrelsome figures finally did take place, but only after Schoenberg’s death in 1951, with Stravinsky gradually adopting the 12-tone technique and moulding it to his own personal ends.

In fact, seeking artistic renewal from the past was actually nothing new. This impulse can be found in a wide range of composers, from Mozart and Brahms, to Mahler, Ravel, Vaughan Williams and Ligeti. For many 20^th century composers the past was a breath of fresh air, an escape from the smothering after-effects of late Romanticism.

----resume main article beginning with “In the case of Stravinsky, there was a unique personal factor….”

Vivaldi: The Four Seasons: Four Concerti for Violin, Strings and Continuo, Op. 8, Nos. 1-4

The Four Seasons: Four Concerti for Violin, Strings and Continuo, Op. 8, Nos. 1-4

Antonio Vivaldi
(1678-1741)

Any music lover shopping for recordings of Baroque music, seeing the display bins AWASH with the works of Antonio Vivaldi, would probably be amazed to learn that before the 1950s hardly any of the Venetian master’s works were printed or performed---much less recorded! A reference to the 1950s is significant, because if any factor helps to explain the startling revival of interest in Vivaldi’s music, it may well be the invention of the long-playing record. (That has also been the case with a surprising number of major composers who only recently have become central to the repertoire---Berlioz , Bruckner and Mahler are remarkable instances. Some other figures remained fairly marginal to the concert world until the late 20^th century, including Handel, Haydn, Schubert and Wolf. Others were virtually unknown, for example Claudio Monteverdi . who was hardly ever heard before Nadia Boulanger’s pioneering recording of 1937.)

The eclipse of Antonio Vivaldi’s vast body of works is quite inexplicable. Although it is often claimed that J. S. Bach’s music had disappeared following his death, in fact a number of important musicians championed his compositions even before the so-called “Bach Revival” in the 19^th century. But Vivaldi, who, unlike Bach, attained international fame in his lifetime, fell into an obscurity which only began to disperse in the early 20^th century. One element in a reawakening of interest in Vivaldi was actually a by-product of Bach scholarship: the discovery of the strong influence of Vivaldi upon J. S. Bach, which prompted some specialists in Baroque music to trace that influence back to its source.

Antonio Vivaldi, whose father was a professional musician, was born in Venice, received early training as a violinist, and in his teens began studies for the priesthood. He was ordained at the age of 25, but while nominally a clergyman all his life, never said mass, rather devoting himself to a career as a violinist and composer. In 1703 he was appointed MAESTRO DI VIOLINO at the Pio Ospedale della Pieta in Venice, a convent school for orphaned and abandoned girls. He was in charge of instruction in string instruments, and directed the school orchestra, for which he composed a great deal of his earlier music. This orchestra soon became a great tourist attraction in Venice. Guidebooks of the day urged visitors to attend concerts presented by the school orchestra, to marvel at the sight of an orchestra composed of teen-aged girls dressed in miniature nun’s habits, playing at a remarkable level of professionalism. (Those who know the Bay Area Women’s Orchestra, or are old enough to remember Phil Spitalny’s “All-Girl Orchestra,” may be surprised to learn that indeed nothing is new under the sun!) Not surprisingly for a native of Venice, Vivaldi moved on to a successful career composing operas: at least 46 are known by title, although many have been lost. In everything he did there was great abundance, vivacity of tone, brilliant effects, and a pronounced gift for making money----and wasting it. (Vivaldi was to die penniless while visiting Vienna in 1741, engaged in yet another self-promotion scheme.) In an output of some 1000 compositions there are about 500 concerti, as well as a great quantity of church music, oratorios, cantatas, and sonatas of every description. Best known are the concerti, including about 250 for solo violin, dozens

for cello, bassoon, flute, oboe, and others composed for virtually every instrument this side of comb-and-waxed-paper!

To this day the world thinks of Vivaldi mostly in terms of his concertos----symbolized by the unfair, if delicious comment that “Vivaldi composed four concertos six hundred times.” The best reply to such a jibe is to point to the several dozen Vivaldi concerti which J. S. Bach saw fit to arrange for keyboard instruments, as well as his glittering transcription for four harpsichords and orchestra of Vivaldi’s Concerto for 4 violins, Op. 3, No. 11.

Nothing comes close to the popularity which has been won by “The Four Seasons”: Vivaldi’s
Op. 8, Nos. 1-4. The writer of these notes can remember when virtually the only available recording of the work was a galumphing performance by John Corigliano and the New York Philharmonic. At last count Vivaldi fanciers now have a choice of ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN DIFFERENT RECORDINGS!!!! This is cause for sour grapes on the part of some high-minded music lovers. In London, for example, where for generations the cash-cow perennial in the concert business has been the 1812 Overture (“with cannon and mortar effects”), the “Seasons” has joined its company as a lure for audiences of tourists and families with children. But to anyone with an open mind a good performance of the Seasons cannot but explain this popularity.

Indeed, the composition was popular from the start. While the “Seasons” was a recurring theme in 17^th century Italian and French ballets and stage spectacles, Vivaldi was probably the first composer to deal with the subject in a purely instrumental terms. Part of the appeal of his work lies in its suggestive “program” elements (which are spelled out in sonnets which accompany each concerto in turn), but even more in the brilliance and energy so characteristic of all of the composer’s best work. A success when first performed in 1725, the celebrated CONCERTS SPIRITUELS introduced the set of concertos to Paris audiences in 1728, becoming a favourite in France throughout the 18^th century. There is even a slender thread connecting Vivaldi’s work with the world of Josef Haydn, for the entire Op. 8 collection of 12 concerti (which include the Four Seasons) was dedicated to Count Morzin, of the family who would employ Haydn in the early stage of his career.

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While conforming to most of the conventional structural patterns of the day, these compositions are surprisingly “programmatic” in character, illustrative of the imagery and general tone expressed in the “Sonetti Dimostrativi” (“Demonstrative Sonnets”), which were printed at the head of each concerto in turn, poems possibly penned by Vivaldi himself. These not only lay out a variety of pictorial elements which are depicted in the music, but are even set out line by line in the printed score at appropriate points.

Concerto No. 1 in E Major, “Spring.” Following the confident, rhythmically sturdy opening RITORNELLO, the solo violin evokes the sound of singing birds, joined in the effort by two solo violins from the orchestra. Soloist and orchestra together portray the murmuring streams and gentle breezes in pulsing repeated pairs of notes, followed by a sudden brief shower (sweeping scale patterns, rapid, excited triplets.) Following the poem, things quiet down, the birds sing as before, and a concluding phrase from the RITORNELLO rounds out the movement. The second movement (marked LARGO, E PIANISSIMO SEMPRE) paints a charming scene in which the rustling of the leaves is heard (in the murmuring rhythmic figure in the violins), the goatherd sleeps (solo violin heard in a lyrical of tender simplicity), with his faithful dog nearby (barking sounds in the violas, marked “always loud and rasping”!) The lively finale is marked “Danza pastorale” – a shepherd’s dance. The solo episodes are more relaxed than dramatic, the overall tone festive and good-natured.

Concerto No. 2 in G Minor, “Summer.” This most original and theatrical of the concerti finds Vivaldi making the most of opportunities for virtuoso writing for soloist and orchestra alike, in a vivid pictorial display inspired by the dramatic elements set out in the poem. The main elements of the first movement follow a quite eccentric structural plan: A – B – A – C – D – A – E – B. While “A” might be considered a conventional RITORNELLO, it is quite unlike almost any other one to be found: a quiet, hesitant introductory passage intended to portray the sluggish atmosphere of the summer heat. In “B” the voice of the cuckoo is heard (after a fashion), the typical “cuckoo” call imbedded in bustling solo violin passagework. After a bit of “A” is heard again, “C” brings in the song of the turtledove and the goldfinch, the orchestra (in soft rapid triplets) describing the gentle southern breezes. This is suddenly swept aside by the violent blasts of the north wind (“D”) in a startling, frenzied outburst in the orchestra. A fragment of “A” cools things down, and in the “E” episode the shepherd (a sensitive soul) sheds tears of fear and anxiety. The movement’s conclusion (a return of the “B” section), While not actually dictated by the poem, Vivaldi follows his dramatic instincts to swing the movement to a conclusion in a bold and decisive manner. The slow movement portrays the frightened shepherd (heard in sweet but fearful lyrical phrases in the solo violin) wracked with fear in the presence of blasts of thunder and flashing lightning (heard in the orchestra.) The finale gives Vivaldi a glorious excuse go even one better in portraying Mother Nature in full tempestuous majesty. While the soloist has moments to be heard above the fray, the movement is notable as a splendid early example of orchestral virtuosity, creating a sense of excitement which can stand comparison with later storm in Beethoven, Berlioz and Richard Strauss.

Concerto No. 3 in F Major, “Autumn.” The opening movement is the musical equivalent of a scene by Breughel, capturing the mood of sturdy peasant merry-making at harvest time, with dancing, drinking to excess and ultimate falling into slumber. The episodes for solo violin illustrate a gradual transition from boisterous enjoyment to inevitable fatigue and exhaustion. The slow movement is an unexpectedly poetic piece of tone-painting, illustrating the “agreeableness of sweet sleep” described in the poem: sleep following upon the enjoyable excesses of drink. The rowdy pleasures of the chase set the tone for the finale, evocative of the countryside, the huntsmen, dogs, guns and cruel high spirits. The soloist expresses the energy and exhilaration of the riders, as well as the inevitable exhaustion and death of the quarry.

Concerto No. 4 in F Minor, “Winter” The first movement, marked ALLEGRO NON MOLTO (i. e., quick, but not much), opens with a memorable tonal evocation of the winter cold…. The “wild winds” are heard in the solo violin, while in the orchestra can be heard “stamping frozen feet.” The solo episodes express the physical discomforts of cold and wind, even including the portrayal of chattering of teeth at one point. The LARGO slow movement is a moment of warmth and shelter at a welcoming fireside, captured in an unbroken lyrical outpouring in the solo violin against the background of ticking PIZZICATO violins and murmuring lower strings. (Some ears may detect a delightful “pre-echo” of “April Showers,” quite appropriate in these frosty circumstances!) The final movement opens with descriptions of walking on icy ground. From a hushed, tentative beginning, Vivaldi is inspired by the sonnet’s reference to winds “loosed in battle” to press on to a forceful, emphatic conclusion. As the poem say, “such is winter, these are joys it brings.”

Vaughan Williams: Symphony No. 8 in D Minor: Scherzo Alla Marcia

Symphony No. 8 in D Minor: Scherzo Alla Marcia

Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958)

As with the Russians, the symphony became a “big statement” for 20^th century English composers, who, following a long period of relative musical eclipse (following the age of William Boyce), were bringing about the revival of English music, producing a rich harvest of symphonies by such composers as Elgar, Bax, Brian, Walton, Bliss, Britten, and Tippett. Most impressive of all were the nine symphonies of Vaughan Williams, extending from the massive choral “Sea Symphony” of 1910 to the haunting Ninth Symphony of 1958. The Eight (1956) is the most youthful and relaxed of the set, amazingly inventive in its exploration of instrumental colour for a composer nearly 84 years of age. Opening with a variations movement for full orchestra, there follows an a Scherzo movement for winds and brass, a slow movement for strings alone, and a rambunctious concluding Toccata for full orchestra using (as the composer put it) “all the spiels and gongs” of the percussion section.

Marked “Alla Marcia,” the Scherzo opens with spiky little tune coiling through the bassoons against a prickly muted brass background, soon leading to a contrasting trumpet solo, which in its vinegary way seems evocative of well-remembered music heard on Sundays afternoons by a brass band playing in a park. The main tune rounds out the Scherzo section, with the winds skirling away with great energy, the music full of sharply-etched contours, bright colours and rhythmic swagger. The Trio is a brief, loping, folksong-like melody, the winds taking the lead against soft punctuation in the trumpets. The Scherzo section returns, boiled down to an echo of its earlier form, sinking into a hush, ending with a fingersnap.

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Shostakovich : Symphony No. 5 in D Minor, Op. 47: Finale

Symphony No. 5 in D Minor, Op. 47: Finale

Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)

Perhaps no important composer in the history of music was more swept up in the political and social upheavals of his lifetime than Dmitri Shostakovich. A witness to the Bolshevik Revolution fought in the streets of his native Saint Petersburg, as a precocious boy of 19 Shostakovich sprang to international fame overnight with the appearance of his First Symphony, and soon was treated as the darling of the new Soviet state, reach a highpoint of brilliant success at the age of 28 with his opera Lady Macbeth Of Mtsensk, which was performed around the world, But this triumph was swept away when Josef Stalin attended a performance of the opera, and was outraged by the music’s dissonant style, as well as its raw emotion and unbridled eroticism. Within a few days Pravda published a furious attack upon the opera (probably written by Stalin himself), and the work was withdrawn immediately, not to be heard again anywhere for nearly 30 years. A powerful Fourth Symphony, was also withdrawn without a public performance. The young composer quietly waited for a knock at the door in the middle of the night----the mid-1930s was the age of the worst Stalinist terror. After a couple years spent in near-seclusion, Shostakovich surfaced with a 5^th Symphony, which turned out to be the triumph of the composer’s life. The authorities were delighted, blithely unaware of the irony underlying the composer’s own description of the work as “a Soviet artist’s reply to justified criticism,” and for years the symphony was proclaimed to be the embodiment of Soviet ideals. But years later, Shostakovich declared that this was all a façade---the entire work was a long cry of pain and protest. Speaking of the outwardly festive character of the finale, Shostakovich said bitterly, “it’s as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, ‘Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoice,” and you rise, shaky, and go marching off, muttering, ‘Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing.’”

Nevertheless. the finale of the symphony stands as a 20^th century example of the kind of dazzling Russian folk idiom is heard in the fast finales of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies. The opening is unforgettable: over pounding drumbeats, the brass thunders out the main theme, the sort of strident tune which (despite the composer’s terrible inner rage at his situation) cannot but seem utterly “Soviet” in character!) This sweeps on to a towering climax, there emerges a secondary theme of yearning and pleading tenderness. For all the outward “celebratory” character of the music, alert ears will detect a tension and stress lying just beneath the surface, even as the music attains a state of glassy, eerie calm, mostly confined to the strings of the orchestra. The drumbeat stealthily returns, and the music returns to the power and “public festival” mood of the opening. Yet the main theme doesn’t return in its original form, now heard in longer notes, more forceful, even menacing, as the music presses on to emerge in the brilliant glare of the coda: a blaze of thundering drumbeats, repeated notes in the strings, brass fanfares. The Soviet authorities heard it as a paean of praise to the state – audiences can find it a thrilling deluge of instrumental colour – attentive ears will understand the meaning of that astonishing description given by the composer himself.

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Tchaikovsky : Symphony No. 4 in F Minor, Op. 36: Andantino

Symphony No. 4 in F Minor, Op. 36: Andantino

Piotr Illyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

When Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky composed the first important Russian symphonies in the same year (1866), their achievement seemed to be an important symbolic step in defining a national musical identity. Rimsky’s symphonies are now rarely heard, but those of Tchaikovsky’s are performed, the final three (Nos. 4-6) being especially popular. The Fourth Symphony (1878) is a powerful, dramatic work, exhibiting the great extremes of emotional expression so characteristic of Tchaikovsky.

Marked In Modo Di Canzone (“in the manner of a song”) the slow movement is quite Russian in character, with folksong-like melodies in which a handful of notes are repeated and extended in a plaintive, pleading manner. This is heard in the opening theme, given to a bassoon, passed on to the cellos, followed by a richly-textured contrasting melody in the strings. After swelling to a climax, the initial theme returns in the violins, decorated by a Scherzando counter-melody in the upper winds, rounded out by the return of the fuller sonorities of the contrasting theme. Unexpectedly the tempo quickens, and a march-like tune appears in then clarinets and bassoons, also typically “Russian” in its melodic contours. After the dark and pessimistic tone of the first part of the movement, this is brighter and spirited, soon reaching a fullness of sonority and emotional expressivity.

The music settles back to a return of the opening section, the principal theme now in the violins over a Pizzicato accompaniment, with a dance-like overlay of filigree patterns in the winds. The contrasting theme is heard again, leading to a Coda in which the principal theme is heard for a last time in the bassoon, the music passing into silence.

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Mozart: Symphony No. 39 in E-flat Major, K. 543: Minuet

Symphony No. 39 in E-flat Major, K. 543: Minuet

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Written while still in his teens, Mozart’s first couple dozen symphonies are brief, charming, pieces, full of interesting details which set them apart from the run-of-the-mill Italian Sinfonias on which they were modeled. Sometimes a darker, probing character appears out of nowhere, as in the stirring, turbulent Symphony in G Minor (No. 25), which looks ahead to the famous 40^th Symphony written in the same key. No. 25 and the serene 29^th Symphony in A Major are the most popular of the earlier symphonies. An unbroken string of wonderful symphonies, serious in tone, intricate and expansive in structure, vivid in orchestral coloration, begins with No. 33. The truly great Mozart symphonies lead off with No. 38 in D Major, the “Prague” Symphony, composed around the same time as Don Giovanni, and a year later (1788), come the amazing final three symphonies, composed within the space of barely six weeks. These works are remarkably contrasted in key, instrumentation and mood. No. 41, majestic and festive, No. 40 stormy, restless and inward-turning, and the 39^th Symphony warm and expansive in keeping with all of Mozart’s music composed in E-flat Major, a key he especially prized. With this work we move from the “quasi-symphony” of Boyce to the real McCoy: four movements, the outer ones fast and brilliant, enclosing a lyrical slow movement and hearty minuet movement. The Minuet shows Mozart in his most endearing popular vein, with a hearty initial minuet section followed by an oompah trio straight out of a tavern, suggestive of the season of the “Heuriger” [Spring wine] so typical of Viennese life.

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Boyce : Symphony No. 5 in D Major

Symphony No. 5 in D Major

William Boyce (1711-1779)

William Boyce was an prominent figure in English music in the years following the heyday of George Frideric Handel, holding holding such public posts as Composer to the Chapel Royal and Master of the King’s Music. Working in a period of transition, when the conventions of Baroque music were morphing+ into the early stages of the Classical age, Boyce’s “Eight Symphonys” [sic] had little to do with the Italian opera SINFONIA of the day, rather hearkening back to an earlier use of the word , when instrumental interludes in Baroque choral music were commonly labelled as “symphonies.”

The 5^th Symphony is a compact work in three movement, rather reminiscent of the vigorous orchestral style of Handel, and exhibiting a breezy charm and forthright “English” spirit typical of Boyce. The weighty opening movement seems to have strayed in from the world of the orchestral suite, being a "French Overture," a musical structure familiar from the Overtures to many of Handel’s oratorios and operas, a familiar example being the “Ouverture” to Messiah. This first movement is indeed a brilliant, Handelian affair, with an opening section with fanfare interjections from trumpets and drums, and brilliant passages in the strings, followed by a sturdy fugue notable for its rhythmic vitality and cheerful spirit. The second movement is a neat and elegant interlude with an easy-going stride, featuring the oboes and strings. The concluding Minuetto is a sprightly dance finale, rather quicker than the kind of minuets heard later in Haydn and Mozart, bringing the symphony to a good-humoured conclusion.

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