Bach Suite No. 2 for Flute and Strings in B Minor, BWV 1067

Suite No. 2 for Flute and Strings in B Minor, BWV 1067

Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)

The greater part of Johann Sebastian Bach’s instrumental music (concerti, suites, music for harpsichord, violin, cello) is believed to have been composed during a period of six years (1717-23) when Bach was employed at the small court of Cothen. For the only time in his life freed from the weary task of composing and presiding over the performance of church music, Bach poured out a great flood of instrumental music, including the famous Brandenburg Concertos, and the four great suites for orchestra. While Vivaldi and Telemann composed greater quantities of orchestral music (600 concertos and many hundreds of suites, respectively), Bach’s more select catalogue of works in these forms stand as the supreme orchestral achievement of the Baroque age.

Of the suites numbers two and three are the best-known. The second, in B Minor, with its scoring for solo flute with strings and continuo, takes on a somewhat “concerto-like” character, especially in the quick movements, where the solo instruments is given opportunities for virtuoso display.

In common with Baroque suites, the opening movement is the longest and weightiest. Derived from French opera, it is in fact an “ouverture”, comprising a grand, ceremonial slow introduction followed by a sharply contrasted, lengthy, tightly-constructed fugue in quick tempo. The solo flute only begins to emerge as a soloist in the more transparent “fugal episodes, ” which provide contrast.

The subsequent movements are all of a “binary” (two-part) construction, each segment repeated, and all derived from the traditional French court dances which had crept into concert music by way of opera. (This came about through the practice of French composers extracting from their stage works the introductory “overture, ” and various dances which had been used for ballet episodes, stringing them together to form an orchestral “suite.”)

These range from the graceful “Rondeau, ” to a grave and majestic “Sarabande” (a slow dance with roots in Spanish music), a pair of Bourrees (the second given over to the solo flute, followed by a reprise of the first bourree), a stately Polonaise (despite its name, not terribly “Polish, ” in fact!), with a “double” (or variation), giving the flute its most elaborate solo passagework, a gliding Minuet, and a witty, breathless “Badinerie.” (The name “Badinerie” can be loosely translated as “horseplay” – in this case one of Bach’s most genial, high-spirited movements. Always a consummate craftsman, in the Sarabande movement Bach composes an impressive “canonic” movement, in which the melody (in flute and violins) is imitated a bar later in the bass (cellos and basses).

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Haydn Symphony No. 87 in A Major

Symphony No. 87 in A Major

Franz Josef Haydn (1732-1809)

The three great figures of the Classical Age, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, although often referred to as “Viennese” composers, were all born elsewhere, later making their careers in the capital of the Habsburg Empire. Although Josef Haydn came to Vienna as a child, remaining there until his late twenties, the great bulk of his creative work actually took place far from Vienna, as court composer to the powerful Esterhazy princes in their splendid palace in the Hungarian hinterland. Unlike Mozart, Haydn would never travel until late in life, living a hectic existence as composer, conductor and over-all impresario for the Esterhazy family, with annual visits to Vienna when the princes of the realm were expected to be in attendance at the imperial court. As we know from a remarkably perceptive observation made by Haydn himself, by living in fairly isolated circumstances, the composer was forced to become original. As for gaining a wider audience, despite a stipulation in his contract that his works were to remain the property of the prince, Haydn’s music began to appear abroad, often in pirated, inaccurate copies. Soon the composer was given permission to accept commissions, and began to write works for audiences as far away as Spain and France. Paris was perhaps the most glittering musical center after Vienna, and not surprisingly it was there that Haydn’s reputation began to flourish. In 1784 came an invitation from Paris to compose a set of symphonies for an organisation in Paris, the so-called “Concert de la Loge Olympique.” This was a rather curious group of high-born music lovers (and Freemasons), who sponsored public concerts performed by a large orchestra, all members being masons, appearing before the public dressed in elegant sky-blue dress coats with lace ruffles, sporting swords! The Masonic connection may have appealed to Haydn, who himself (like Mozart) had recently become a member of the Freemasons during a period of toleration which was encouraged by the Austria Emperor Josef II, who also was a member. After a period in which his activities had been concentrated upon operatic composition, Haydn was beginning to give more attention to chamber music and orchestral music, so the time was ripe for a rich harvest of strikingly imaginative symphonies. He was in his early fifties, and ready to move into the final phase of his career, which would culminate in the great works written for London. The six “Paris Symphonies” (Nos. 82-87), although less familiar to modern audiences, are in no way inferior to the twelve “London” symphonies which followed a few years later. Three of them bear nicknames, the “Bear” (No. 82), the “Hen” (No. 83) and “The Queen” (No. 85, said to be a favourite of Austrian-born Marie Antoinette.) (One wonders whether it would be a good idea to set up a commission to give nicknames to many of the other Haydn symphonies, and thus bring about more frequent performances! )

Scored for an orchestra of one flute, pairs of oboes, horns, bassoons and strings, Symphony No. 87 dispenses with the sort of stately slow introduction often featured in Haydn’s work, jumping into action with a springy principal subject heard against a bounding rhythmic accompaniment. There is little in the way of a fully-defined secondary subject, instead a subdued transition leads to music which rounds out the exposition, quite as energetic and high-spirited as the opening. The development makes much use of the repeated-note figure (or “drum bass”) which was often a device for musical padding in hands of lesser composers, but here used to lead the music into wonderful contrasts of texture and harmony, before prancing home in a recapitulation which brings back the opening material very much as before.

The Adagio is one of those hymn-like slow movements which Haydn made very much his own. Moving through a lyrical passage with solo oboe against a pattering background of sextuplets in the strings, a second subject appears, which is actually a variant of the first, with the sextuplets remaining in accompaniment. The main theme continues to be unfolded in a brief development given over mostly to the strings, taking on increasing harmonic poignancy and contrasts of texture before recapitulating, the main theme in the oboe this time, decorated by the flute. The sextuplets remain a constant presence, Haydn giving ever more attention to the winds, who wind up the movement in a nearly cadenza-like dialogue between flute and oboe, the bassoon coming in for a final comment before the movement glides to a close.

Unlike many of the “outdoorsy” minuets to be found in Haydn (reflecting his rural origins), this minuet is strictly an in-door affair, with an engaging formal character, given a piquant touch with the snapping “acciaccatura” figure which begins the main melody. The trio is a gracious, contrasting section, featuring a rather demure oboe solo heard again a spare string background

The finale, Vivace, is both lively and rather relaxed, with a cheerful main theme used for both the first and second subjects. The development takes an unexpectedly serious turn, becoming quite intense in mood, with an elaborate contrapuntal texture. The recapitulation begins to suggest that the basic character of this music, and its unflagging rhythmic vitality might seem to form a link with the spirit of the first movement, thus bringing everything around full circle.

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Shostakovich: Symphony No. 9 in E-flat Major, Op. 70

Symphony No. 9 in E-flat Major, Op. 70

Dmitri Shostakovich
(1906-1975)

As with Hindemith, Bartok and Barber, Dmitri Shostakovich’s career exhibits unexpected shifts in critical and popular approval, uniquely affected by the political milieu in which he was forced to function, adjust, prevail, survive. Like the other composers represented on today’s concert, his reputation today is utterly transformed from the general assessment current by the middle of the 20^th century---then he was usually dismissed as a brilliant, uneven flash-in-the pan, who pandered to his masters in the Kremlin. Today his standing has never been higher.

A boy-wonder (his splendid First Symphony was begun the age of 18), the youthful Shostakovich was regarded (both within the USSR and beyond its borders) as representing the vigour and idealism of the new Soviet state. Second and Third Symphonies appeared in the late 1920s, which might be described as musical “poster art,” brilliant and innovative, celebrating the October Revolution, and the workers’ festivities on May Day. A fourth Symphony was being prepared for performance in 1936, only to be suddenly (and prudently) withdrawn----the premiere took place in 1961! The composer had just suffered an incredible shift in fortune when his opera Lady MacBeth of Mtzensk (1934), which at first had taken the world by storm, was abruptly attacked in Pravda as “Muddle instead of Music,” and overnight disappeared from view. Josef Stalin had attended a performance of the opera, was deeply offended, and may well have written the Pravda article himself. With the notorious Stalinist purge trials getting underway, the composer was in serious danger for his life. We now know that Shostakovich kept a suitcase packed with warm clothing next to the door of his apartment, just in case the authorities were to come for him in the middle of the night. That never happened, but it was a close call. After several years quietly composing piano pieces, and chamber music, Shostakovich released the powerful Fifth Symphony (1937), which bore the ironic subtitle, “A Soviet artist’s reply to justified criticism.” With the sensational success of the Fifth Symphony, Shostakovich regained his position in the Soviet musical world, although deeply shaken and embittered by his experience. And from that point onward a succession of symphonies (eventually fifteen in total) would mark the major stages in Shostakovich’s career, seen outwardly as emblematic of the successes of the Soviet state, and inwardly forming a personal witness as an artist and humanist. The most unusual “popular success” in Shostakovich’s career was his Seventh (“Leningrad”) Symphony (1941-42), composed during the first stage of the savage 900-day siege of his native city. This work seemed to symbolize the heroic Soviet struggle against the Nazis, and was the source of intense acclaim around the world----an audience in the millions heard the American premiere conductedby Toscanini in July, 1942. An Eighth Symphony followed, vivid in its darkness and unflinching expression of horror and grief, composed during the terrible period of the Battle of Stalingrad---the turning point in the war. With the eventual victory over the Nazis (for which the Soviets, justifiably, claimed a great share of the credit), there was every expectation that Shostakovich would unveil a “heroic” symphony, to round out the triptych of massive “war” symphonies. Shostakovich himself wrote to a friend that “I would like to write…for a chorus and solo singers as well as an orchestra if I could find suitable material for the text and if I were not afraid that I might be suspected of wanting to draw immodest analogies”—i. e., with the Beethoven Ninth Symphony. No such symphony ever was written. During the final year of the war, living at a safe distance from the area of battle, Shostakovich often joined his friend Dmitri Kabalevsky in reading through Haydn and Mozart symphonies in four-hand piano arrangements. In a remarkable refusal to dish up a much-anticipated “triumphal Ninth,” the new symphony turned out to be a trim, 25-minute work of Haydnesque wit and fineness of detail, utterly upsetting all expectations. After the new symphony was given a pre-concert playing-through on the piano, a typical reaction was: “we were prepared to listen to a new monumental fresco, something that we had the right to expect from the author of the Seventh and Eight Symphonies, especially at a time when the Soviet people and the whole world were still full of the recent victory over fascism. But we heard something quite diferent…We were offered a symphony scherzo, a joke almost, one might say, a sinfonietta!” The composer’s private views were recorded years later in conversation with his pupil, Solomon Volkov: “I confess that I gave hope to the leader [Stalin] and teacher’s dreams. I announced that I was writing an apotheosis. I was trying to get them off my back, but the attempt failed. When my ninth was performed, Stalin was incensed. He was deeply offended because there was no chorus, no soloists. And no apotheosis. There wasn’t even a paltry dedication. It was just music, which Stalin didn’t understand very well.

Just music? On the surface the work perhaps seems to be music of brightness and clarity. But an attentive listener may detect a subtle under-current of darkness and irony in this outwardly light-hearted work. Like many Russian artists of the years, Shostakovich was a master of the “sub-text.” A more disturbing aspect of this work might not have been lost on the workers, soldiers and survivors of the “Great Patriotic War.” There would be six more symphonies: a Tenth, kept in a locked drawer until the Great Teacher was safely dead: a profound and disturbing work. There followed the Eleventh and Twelfth, reflecting Soviet history in pictorial and ironic tones. In the more liberal 1960s and ‘70s came the Thirteenth, setting Yevgeni Yetushenko’s poetry attacking Anti-Semitism and the failures of the Soviet system, a Fourteenth, with solo voices, meditating upon death and human cruelty) and a deeply personal Fifteenth, written at the end of life, linked to recollections of a hospital intensive care ward.

The symphony is laid out in five movements, the final three heard without pause--the fourth movement, Largo, acting as an interlude between the lively third and fifth movements. The work calls for the same orchestral forces as the Bartok concerto, with the addition of a solo piccolo.

Stepping forth with a crisp, Haydnesque little tune in the violins, the opening movement projects an air of confidence and cheerful disposition. The second subject, led off with a blaring note in the trombone, is a cheeky little skipping tune in the piccolo over an oompah background in pizzicato strings. The exposition is repeated in the classical manner, and the music strides forward into a development which becomes more forceful and determined in putting the first subject figure through its paces. Soon becoming more serious than one might have expected, the piccolo melody comes in for attention from the full orchestra (fortissimo), now anything but “cute” in character. The recapitulation emerges out of this turbulence, the light-hearted opening melody now hammered out in unison strings. As it progresses an intrusive A-flat is heard in the trombone (a return of that “blaring” mentioned earlier), with unrelenting repetition (six times in a row), on the seventh blast finally wheeling the orchestra around to bring in the second subject in the key of A-flat. This time the piccolo ditty is given to the solo violin. The movement is rounded out by a short coda which bashes the opening notes of the “ditty” into submission, the trumpet bringing the movement home with a final teasing tootle on the opening notes of the movement.

The slow movement (Moderato) pushes aside any notion of this symphony being merely light entertainment. Set in the murky key of B Minor, the principal subject is a limping waltz theme in the solo clarinet over a skeletal bass-line. (The music “limps” because of rests which break the melodic flow, resulting in periodic shifts from three beats per bar to four). The second clarinet enters, the melody passing to the flute, doubled by a bassoon three octaves lower. The atmosphere is glassy calm, cold, slightly sinister. The flute hangs on to the melody, surrendering it to the clarinet to bring in a contrasting section for the strings in F Minor---as remote from B Minor as can be imagined, and even darker in tone. This heavy-footed, dragging music is soon joined by horns, then the penetrating sound of high oboe and clarinet in unison. Other winds are added, a great shrillness achieved by six instruments in a high register in unison (flutes, oboes, clarinets). This painful cry is quickly dispersed, the violins drawing the music back to B minor, and a return of the primary subject, now in the flute. The horns gently lead in the secondary subject, again in the strings, but now in a glowing B Major, richly harmonised and riding into the brighter colours of the higher register of the upper strings. A consoling single line high in the violins carries the music back to earth, with a relaxed coda based on the initial melody, spun out in the solo piccolo.

The scherzo (Presto) is another of those sardonic, brightly-coloured, sharp-edged pieces which Shostakovich made very much his own. Opening with skirling jig-like figures in the winds, answered by scherzando patterns in the strings, the music whirls onward, reaching a unison restatement of the opening melody in the strings, with the bright, primary colours of winds and brass predominating. A breathless, slightly tarantella-like trio section arrives in F-sharp minor, highlighted by a festive trumpet tune sailing out over the buoyant rhythmic background. The opening section returns for a last time, only to falter and pull back from what one would expect to be a brilliant conclusion. Instead the music settles downward into the strings and comes to a complete standstill.

The fourth movement can be heard both as an interlude between two quick movements, or as a portentous slow introduction to the finale proper. It consists of two extended recitative-like passages in the solo bassoon, each introduced by a menacing, Musorgskian passage in the lower brass. The atmosphere is tense, hushed, deadly. Without hesitation the bassoon puts on a wry smile, and reverts to its traditional role as clown (like most clowns concealing pain and loss deep within), and the fifth movement is underway.

The finale is a free rondo structure, with the quirky opening bassoon melody (A) taken up by the strings, quickly countered by (B) a sinuous tune in the oboe (accompanied by a pair of undulating clarinets), vaguely “oriental” in character, promptly rejoined by the A theme in upper winds. A contrasting “episode” (C) follows, with a new melody in C minor heard in the violins over a pattering ostinato pattern in the lower strings. Becoming progressively developmental , (and a bit Tchaikovskian in character as well--- note the little brass fanfares!), the C minor melody becomes more impassioned and pathetic in mood. The bassoon tune reappears deep in the lower strings, rising into a higher register the melody is joined by a soft ostinato rumble in the timpani. Quite unexpectedly this outwardly festive music becomes grim and uncompromising, especially when the “oriental” tune (stripped of any exotic trappings) becomes an unrelenting grind in the strings and music begins to rise to a powerful climax. At that moment of recapitulation the bassoon tune is thundered out by all the lower instruments (notably the brass) soon joined by the C minor episode melody as well. The effect is of grim triumph. (Perhaps Shostakovich’s music actually did reflect the terrible victory over fascism after all!) A sudden silence ushers in a coda in a quicker tempo, rhythmically lopsided, garishly coloured, theatrical romp flying all the way to the end. It can be heard as fun and games – or (according to the sub-text?) as merriment achieved at a price.

Barber: Adagio for Strings

Adagio for Strings

Samuel Barber
(1910-1981)

Samuel; Barber was born in West Chester, Pennsylvania, raised in comfortable circumstances, with everything life could bestow upon a young man blessed with rare artistic gifts and great luck. The family was artistically inclined: his uncle Sidney Homer was a noted song composer, Aunt Louise Homer was a celebrated contralto at the Metropolitan in the days of Enrico Caruso. Barber entered the Curtis Institute at age fourteen, a member of its first class, making a name for himself with a setting of Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach,” scored for baritone and string quartet. Passing through Philadelphia Ralph Vaughan Williams happened to hear the work and commended the twenty year-old composer, admitting that “for years I have tried to set that poem without success. You have done it!” At age 26 Barber composed his First Symphony, which was immediately introduced by Bruno Walter. A string quartet soon followed, with a remarkable slow movement which caught the attention of Arturo Toscanini, who urged Barber to prepare an arrangement for string orchestra. Soon recorded, the Adagio for Strings won overnight fame for Samuel Barber, becoming perhaps the most widely performed concert work ever written by an American. An unbroken string of successes continued, among them a symphony commissioned by the U. S. Air Force after Barber was drafted into the armed forces in World War II, a piano sonata composed for Horowitz; the opera Vanessa was written for the Metropolitan Opera; a brilliant Piano Concerto written for the newly opened Lincoln Center, which won the Pulitzer Prize. Then came a fiasco: a stellar, over-produced, over-hyped version of Shakespeare’s “Antony and Cleopatra” became the operatic equivalent of the sinking of the Titanic. This shocking failure left Barber a shaken, bitter man. Never again did he recover his self-confidence, never again did he know popular success.

Set in the darkly-coloured key of B-flat minor, the Adagio for strings opens with a long-breathing melody unfolded in the violins against a subdued sustained harmonic background. The listener is unlikely to be aware of meter or rhythm, so predominant is the gentle melismatic flow of songful melody. (On the printed page the music is laid out in subtly shifting time signatures, the music moving according to the vocal nature of the melodic element---the phrases themselves are punctuated by veritable “pauses for breath.”) At first never rising above an elegiac tone, the opening music is given to the 'celli in a second section, now pressing upward into the violins, and rising to a climax of passionate intensity. This is suddenly broken off. Out of the silence a succession of solemn chords in the lower strings lead in the final segment, in which the melody is now played by violins and violas in octaves, taking on a consolatory tone as the music comes to rest on a hushed F Major cadence.

In recent times the Barber Adagio has endured all sorts of manipulations in films and solemn occasions, sometimes threatening to rob the music of its honest expression and essential poignancy.

Interestingly, the composer himself prepared a choral version of the work, set to the text of the Agnus Dei from the Latin Mass.

Bartok: Concerto No. 3

Piano Concerto No. 3 (1945)

Bela Bartok
(1881-1945)

Like such contemporaries as Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Hindemith, Milhaud, Kurt Weill and other European composers, Bela Bartok found his way to the United States with the onset of World War II. This cultural diaspora would prove to be a powerful catalyst in the transformation of of America from a rather provincial musical culture to one of great independence and self-confidence. Most of these composers were warmly received and soon found their footing in new surroundings. Some (Schoenberg, Hindemith, Milhaud) found financial security in university teaching, others (Stravinsky, Weill) were welcomed in the “musical marketplace.” Bela Bartok, believing that musical composition could not be taught, refused most offers for academic positions. As a composer, Bartok was not widely known by Americans, and his music was thought to be quite “difficult.” When the administrators of the New York Philharmonic learned that Fritz Reiner planned to program Bartok’s audience-friendly Second Violin Concerto, he was urged to drop the work. (Reiner flatly refused – and the concerto was greeted with icy hostility.) Bartok, a brilliant pianist, toured for a while, giving recitals in places as remote as Provo, Utah! His health failing, Bartok appeared in public less and less…the Steinway Company eventually informed him that the instrument which had been put at his disposal would have to be reclaimed. The final compositions were in many cases commissions secretly arranged by friends of the composer who feared for his well-being. There were successes, as well, especially the 1944 premiere of the Concerto for Orchestra by the Boston Symphony under Koussevitsky---the occasion of Bartok’s last public appearance. Stricken with leukemia, the composer went into decline and died on September 26, 1945, leaving behind several unfinished compositions. One of these (all but completed) was the Third Piano Concerto, composed in secret as a performing vehicle for Bartok’s wife, the pianist, Ditta Pasztory-Bartok, with the aim of helping to provide a measure of financial security for her. In fact she never publicly performed the work, which was introduced on 8 February 1946 by Bartok’s pupil Gyorgy Sandor, with the Philadelphia Orchestra under Eugene Ormandy.

Bartok’s two earlier piano concerti (written in 1926 and 1931 respectively) belong to a period of his most tough, harmonically challenging work, memorable for the composer’s use of the solo instrument as a percussion instrument, and for a wide range of subtle and atmospheric textures. Like other works written during the last decade of Bartok’s life (which have always been his most popular compositions), the Third Concerto,exhibits a tone of gentleness and lyrical expressiveness which has made it one of the most-played 20^th century concerti, along with comparable works by Prokofiev, Ravel and Gershwin.

Throughout his career Bartok remained a fundamentally tonal composer, loyal to the musical structures inherited from the Classical masters---he is said to have kept the score of Beethoven’s string quartets by his bedside. This strong bond with musical tradition is especially pronounced in the compositions written in the final stage of his creative life, perhaps never more so than in the Third Concerto. The concerto is set in E Major, with a crystal-clear architectural plan: a sonataform opening movement, ternary (ABA) slow movement, and a free rondo finale. The work is scored for a conventional mid-century symphony orchestra: pairs of winds and trumpets, plus four horns, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion and strings. Opening with a rustling pattern in the strings over tonic/dominant drum-taps, the piano enters directly with a plaintive theme, played softly in double octaves. This exhibits the dotted rhythms and perfect fourths typical of Hungarian folk music, the wellspring of so much of Bartok’s music. Taken over by the orchestra, the opening melody merges with an assertive transitional passage, leading to the second subject. Beginning with rippling figure in dialogue with the winds, the music settles into an arpeggiated theme in

G Major, growing in intensity and density, then fading into a repeated pattern echoed cuckoo-like between piano and flute solo. A muted horncall (based on the first notes of the first subject) swings the music into the development, with a richly-textured arpeggio accompaniment in A-flat Major played by the piano, supporting an embellished version of the main thematic material played by the winds in unison. In a manner akin to Mozart’s developments, gliding through a succession of tonalities creates contrasts of colour and expressive tone. Pressing ahead with increasing rhythmic energy, abruptly the music swings back to E Major, the recapitulation bringing back the primary theme now heard against a background of trilling strings. The soloist again accompanies the orchestra, this time in heavy block chords, before the reprise of the second subject. The movement slips away with a final appearance of the soft cooing “cuckoo” patterns.

The slow movement written with an artless simplicity that inevitably brings to mind the famous “Hymn of Thanksgiving” movement in Beethoven’s A Minor Quartet, Op. 132. (It is not entirely fanciful to reflect that Bartok himself, composing this concerto while desperately ill, might have been aware of a such a parallel.) The key is a pure C Major, the orchestra part laid out in even quarter-notes, the piano answering in longer half notes, quite hymn-like in character. (Another parallel Beethoven comes to mind: the dialogue between orchestra and piano in the slow movement of the Fourth Piano Concerto---although here there is no element of confrontation or challenge.) The central episode, quicker in tempo, is the last of Bartok’s many magical evocations of the natural world. The whir and chatter of insect life, the murmur and chirrup of bird life are all here, with tremolo strings, sprightly interjections by solo winds, the piano alternating between its own birdcalls and a blur of arpeggios and percussive figure in triple octaves. The opening section returns, the long notes formerly heard in the piano now given to the winds, while the piano now decorates the melodic line with increasingly elaborate figuration. Rising in intensity and chromatic shading, the strings finally enter, arpeggio patterns in the piano thickening the texture, reaching an unexpected climactic point. Just as quickly the music sinks back into the hushed simplicity of C Major.

Sweeping into action, the piano launches the finale with a syncopated theme laid out in block chords in E Major, soon adding a tangy harmonic coloration with much use of major seconds. A drum rhythm receding into silence forms a link to the first contrasting (“B”) section, a free fugato in C-sharp minor. As fugatos go this is quite sprightly and carefree, taking on greater energy as more orchestral voices join in (especially the brass), rounded out as before with the same drum pattern. This time we are deposited in the remote key of B-flat, quite diatonic and insouciant---only to abruptly jump into a new metre (going from triple to duple), then a new key (A flat), and yet another fugato. This one would seem to be going nowhere when, again without warning, we return to the original triple metre, and hear again the recently introduced melody in B-flat. This time there is a precise goal in mind: to return to the home key of E, and recover the syncopated theme which opened the movement. This is accomplished, with the opening theme extended and much more use of the major seconds. A brief pause marks the start of the coda, at first with soft, gliding parallel chords, and the delicate tracery of eighth-note passagework in the piano. The rippling filigree becomes more insistent, thre syncopations take on more power, and the concerto is concluded in a final dash up the keyboard. (The final seventeen bars were realised by Bartok’s pupil Tibor Serly from sketches left upon the death of the composer. Although some have thought this final flourish a trifle too close to the that which wraps up Tchaikovsky’s B-flat minor concerto, this conclusion was based upon shorthand indications left at the end of the all-but-completed manuscript.)

Hindemith: Concert Music for Strings and Brass, Op. 50

Concert Music for Strings and Brass, Op. 50 (1930)

Paul Hindemith
(1895-1963)

As the 20^th century draws to a close lists are being drawn up assessing every possible aspect of these hundred years in terms of the greatest, the most historic, the most momentous, the best, the worst. If anyone is reckless enough to propose the most significant creative figures in 20^th century music the most likely names would be those of Debussy, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Bartok, Webern and Berg. It is interesting to consider that at the century’s mid-point Webern’s name probably would not be cited: little of his work had yet entered the general repertoire. At that time another name probably would be included in this group, although not the case today: Paul Hindemith. Like Bartok and Schoenberg, Hindemith had taken refuge in the United States with the onset of World War II, becoming an influential presence as professor of composition at Yale University. His reputation had reached its highpoint through his teaching, his writings, and (since the early 1930s) a stream of orchestral and chamber works. That his central position in contemporary music gradually faded, even before his death in 1963, was neither unexpected, nor without precedent. Musical reputations often fluctuate, especially soon after the death of a composer, as can be seen in the case of Sibelius, Strauss, Barber and Vaughan Williams. On the other hand, only after their deaths did the music of Bartok, and Webern gain a firm place in the concert repertoire.

Paul Hindemith occupied an unusual position from the start, coming of age in a drastically transformed Germany following the First World War, where overnight Richard Strauss seemed to be a somewhat irrelevant (if revered) figure, while Arnold Schoenberg (then resident in Berlin) was regarded as the embodiment of all that was new and challenging. Paul Hindemith, however, burst onto the scene with a brisk practicality and youthful energy that led to his being labelled with the ugly word,

“Gebrauchsmusik” = “Music for Use.”

HINDEMITH ON HIMSELF:

He described himself (as early as 1921) as follows:

“Born in Hanau in 1895. Music study from the age of twelve. As violinist, violist, pianist or percussionist I have made a thorough survey of the following musical territories: cinema, café, dance music, operetta, jazz band, military music… As composer, I have chiefly written pieces I don’t like any more: chamber music for the most diverse ensembles, songs and piano pieces. Also three one-act operas, which will probably remain the only ones since as a result of the rising price of manuscript paper only small scores can now be written. I cannot give analyses of my works because I don’t know how to explain a piece of music in a few words (I would rather write a new one in the time). Besides, I think that for people with ears my things are perfectly easy to understand, so analysis is superfluous. For people without ears such cribs can’t help.” The mind boggles at the thought of Richard Strauss writing such a comment!

The young Hindemith became known equally as performer and composer----he was the soloist in the premiere of William Walton’s Viola Concerto in 1929. As a composer Hindemith was notable for a turning away from the sumptuous late Romantic style of many of his contemporaries, developing a style which was as bluff, no-nonsense and emotionally detached as the man himself. (Curiously, even today, while Hindemith’s work has yet to fully regain its place, some of those contemporaries are achieving a belated revival, as witness the popularity of Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s music.)

Hindemith’s determination to break away from the luscious tone of his immediate predecessors was reflected in his reluctance to compose for the traditional symphony orchestra. Instead, as he himself said, he preferred to write works for “diverse”chamber ensembles, including seven concerto-like “Kammermusiken,” which seem to be the contemporary equivalent to the Bach Brandenburg Concerti----allowing for the presence of such exotic instruments as an air-raid siren! Only at the age of 30 would Hindemith finally write for full orchestra, going on to compose a number of mellow symphonic works which remain his most familiar music. Those who know a work such as the “Mathis der Maler” Symphony (or the legion of sonatas written at Yale for just about every instrument short of comb and waxed paper) can be startled by the bristling energy and high spirits of Hindemith’s earlier “athletic style,” as Donald Francis Tovey put it. While performers on the tuba or viola d’amore may feel grateful for such efforts, Hindemith opened himself to the charge of dry academicism---perhaps he should have followed his own advice [spelled out in his delight book, A Composer’s World], and avoided a teaching career! Still, much of his best work remains little-known, and the final verdict on Paul Hindemith is yet to come.

The Concert Music for Strings and Brass was written in 1930 as a commission celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Boston Symphony. (That celebration resulted in a rich harvest of commissions, including Stravinsky's Symphony of Psalms, symphonies by Prokofiev, Roussel and Hanson and works by Copand, Honegger and Respighi.) A substantial work in two movements, the Concert Music belongs neither to the tradition of the symphony nor the concerto. Foreswearing winds and percussion, it is music of hard edges (almost more “iron” than “brass,”) set in blunt contrast with the flowing contours of the strings---in which, incidentally, the violins are not divided into the traditional “Firsts” and “Seconds,” rather treated as a single body of instruments. The sharp juxtaposition of instrumental masses results in music of Germanic muscle-power, but with little direct link with German orchestra tradition. There is, to be sure, a less obvious connection with the sheer heft of earlier German music; as with many of his contemporaries, Hindemith found deep artistic renewal in looking back to his roots in Baroque music, especially his beloved Johann Sebastian Bach.)

Opening with a long sustained C-sharp in the brass, the strings sweep up in scales to set in motion a sharply articulated “dotted rhythm” against which a long-breathed, sustained melody is unfolded in the brass, with Hindemith’s trademark interval of the perfect fourth much in evidence. Pressing steadily forward, the dotted rhythm switches to the brass, now taking on a new melodic shape with eighth-note figuration giving even greater urgency to the music. Quieting for a moment in volume, the forward momentum never slackens, the music coming heavily to rest on heavy, sustained thirds. The brass fall silent, the strings occupying the spotlight. The sweeping scales and jogging dotted rhythms from the first page return, with sustained melodic lines in the lower strings derived from the long melodic lines originally heard in the brass. Soon rejoined by the brass, the strings take up the “new melodic shape” heard earlier in the brass alone, the rhythmic and thematic elements now interwoven between both instrumental bodies. The long melodic figures return high in the strings, followed by the scale-wise figures set against the tirelessly hammering rhythmic patterns. This all stamps downward to an extended concluding section, marked “sehr breit” (“very broad”), and considerably slower than the main body of the movement. The music shifts from a lively triple metre to one of a stately four beats per bar----and what seems to be an entirely new lyrical melody played by the strings in sonorous unison has actually been heard been heard already in the first pages of the work: the flowing melody formerly played by the brass is now recapitulated in a rhythmic transformation, becoming a warm and passionate cantilena. The First Part concludes with a solid C-sharp major cadence.

The Second Part begins with a bang, laying out an extended, free fugal exposition, the subject marked by a clearly punctuated three-note pattern which breaks into racing, repeated sixteenths, heard against a flowing counter-subject. A bluesy syncopated figure in the brass is added, soon leading to a secondary element: a lilting, off-center waltz over a loping oompah accompaniment in the brass. Breaking into a gallop, the fugal element reappears to join the proceedings, sprinting onward, then suddenly coming to rest of a sustained A in the violas. A central episode, marked “Langsam” (“slowly”) is leads off with the horns intoning a procession-like rhythmic figure similar to one which will be heard in the slow movement of the “Mathis der Maler” Symphony. Set in a free A-flat Major tonality, long arching melodic phrases akin to those of the first movement are heard in the violas and trombone, then the violins. A moment of utter stillness marked by a pillar-like string chord soon ushers in the energetic music of the opening section. All of the major components return, compressed and superimposed, the “bluesy” touches much in evidence, the waltz-like melody eventually heard in a subdued trombone solo. With renewed boisterousness the galloping rhythms and scampering fugal elements fly onward, the music coming to a grandiose conclusion, crowned by the bluesy figure. Hindemith”s “athletic style, indeed!”

A distinguished musician of a quite different artistic temperament had this to say about Paul Hindemith:

“Hindemith’s limitations are to a certain extent those of his goal, that of the artist who aims first of all at perfect and expert workmanship, accepting his ideas as they come to him, and leaving the rest to Providence, Destiny or God. At the best such an attitude produces supreme
works of art; at the worst it is certain to produce good ones. And if Hindemith’s work never achieves the force of ultimate revelation, it always rests firmly on the ground of musical
reality, never giving less than it aims and pretends to give. And occasionally what it gives is of a very high order indeed.” [Roger Sessions.]

Copland Old American Songs, First Set

Old American Songs, First Set

Aaron Copland (1900-1990)

Although best known for his instrumental works, Aaron Copland composed a couple dozen vocal and choral compositions, of which perhaps only the Twelve Poems Of Emily Dickinson are heard with any regularity, along with the Old American Songs. These arrangements of ten folksongs appeared in two volumes, 1950 and 1952. That the first set should have been introduced by Peter Pears and Benjamin Britten at the 1950 Aldeburgh Festival (Suffolk, England) suggests that Copland may have taken his cue from Britten’s own imaginative settings of British and French folksongs---the two men had been good friends dating back to Britten’s sojourn in America 1939-42. (It is interesting to point out that Britten actually produced a setting of an American folksong, a little-known, haunting reworking of John Jacob Niles’ “I Wonder as I Wander, ” which has become a classic American folksong.)

As with Britten, Copland’s “arrangements” are not mere “accompaniments, ” but genuine reworkings of great freshness and invention. Originally written for piano, the songs are all the more memorable in their orchestra versions, with colours and rhythms which often hearken back to the familiar ballets and concert works of the 1930s and ‘40s.

“The Boatmen’s Dance” is a minstrel tune by Daniel Decatur Emmett (best known as the composer of “Dixie”), with an accompaniment imitating minstrel banjo playing. “The Dodger is a satirical political song from the presidential campaign of 1884. “Long Time Ago” is a simple, sweetly nostalgic 19^th century ballad. “Simple Gifts” was originally a melody composed in the 1840s for use in the religious ceremonies of the Shakers by Elder Joseph Brackett (1797-1882), which has become indelibly associated with Copland’s much-loved Appalachian Spring. Although increasingly victimised through use in splashy TV commercials, the original hymn remains a perfect expression of its words, “ to come down where we ought to be…” Unlike the grandeur of the Appalachian Spring setting, here Copland unfolds the song in his own unique vein of simplicity. The set concludes with a delightful nonsense song, “I Bought Me a Cat, ” with mischievous barnyard sounds and imitations heard in both voice and orchestral background.

NCO Concert