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

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

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

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)

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)

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

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