Brahms:Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, Op. 83

Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, Op. 83

Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)

When the twenty year-old Johannes Brahms paid a visit to Robert and Clara Schumann in 1853 the unknown young composer could hardly have imagined the remarkable chain of events which would follow, which would quickly leading fame and artistic fulfillment. Brahms,a brilliant pianist, had already written piano works of great originality, including piano sonatas which Schumann would describe in a celebrated article as “veiled symphonies.” Schumann’s composing days were nearing an end, his mind increasingly clouded by the onset of his final mental illness. But he was so taken by the young Brahms that he wrote a magazine article (his last) entitled “New Paths,” proclaiming great things for Brahms, and speaking of the young man as “a chosen one.” (In an interesting parallel, Schumann’s very FIRST critical piece had called the attention of the German musical world to the unknown young Frederic Chopin.) Aware of the high expectations raised by Schumann’s words, Brahms moved with great care in presenting his first major works to the scrutiny of the musical world. There was good reason for caution, as he learned when the first of his compositions on a truly symphonic scale, the First Piano Concerto in D Minor, Op. 15, was greeted by icy hostility at its premiere in Leipzig in 1859. Little wonder that Brahms spent a tortuous 23 years before releasing the First Symphony for performance.

IF THAT PARAGRAPH IS INDEED CUT, THE ARTICLE SHOULD OPEN WITH THIS SENTENCE:

ARTICLE STARTED HERE AS PRINTED IN PROGRAMME:

With the great success of his First Symphony (1876), which had required 23 years of tortuous labour to bring to completion, Johannes Brahms moved ahead surprisingly quickly to compose most of his other major orchestral works, the Second Symphony following in 1877, and Violin Concerto in 1878. Brahms had reached a highpoint of public esteem.

The controlled emotional intensity and insecurity of his younger years had mellowed into a tranquillity of spirit and artistic mastery which would would become manifest in the works of his maturity. The very essence of his later creative period, the Second Piano Concerto, completed in 1881 and dedicated to his beloved old piano teacher, Eduard Marxsen, was introduced with Brahms as soloist in Budapest in November of that year. In a letter to his dear friend Elisabeth von Herzogenberg Brahms described the work (in his usual sardonic manner) as “a tiny, tiny concerto with a tiny, tiny wisp of a scherzo.” In fact the work is notable for its intricate design and fascinating expressive content, and not until the Busoni Concerto of 1904 would another piano concerto exceed its massive 45 minute duration. A work of truly symphonic dimensions, the concerto has long been regarded as a supreme challenge to the performer, requiring a sovereign command of piano technique, sheer physical stamina as well as great delicacy and interpretive subtlety. (It was not long ago that the B-flat Concerto was considered out of bounds for women pianists, perhaps in line with Brahms’ jibe that “it is decidedly not for little girls” – but then, Brahms was notorious for bringing young women to tears with his teasing ways. Great women pianists such as Myra Hess and Gina Bachauer long ago disproved such antique notions.)

Brahms may have been a disciplined “classicist” at heart, but in all the works of the 19^th century there is nothing more magically “Romantic” than the opening of the B-flat concerto, with its horncall figures stealing out of silence, balanced by echoing phrases in the piano. It is an opening worthy of Weber, or even Bruckner, with its evocation of the forest, the stillness of nature. With but a few bars of gentle comment from the winds and strings, the piano suddenly bursts into an impassioned cadenza which then gives way to a full-dress orchestral RITORNELLO. Building to a powerful climax, the piano re-enters.

The first three notes of the horncall predominate, soon leading to a suavely CANTABILE transition melody in the violins. After some filigree passagework in the piano, the second subject (a cluster of themes) is laid out, first with a three-note motive taken from the horncall, soon bringing in a hushed, rhythmically-pointed figure heard over repeated triplet notes. This leads to graceful, atmospheric figuration in the piano, hands rippling in contrary motion, alternating between high and low pairs of notes over broken octave accompaniment. A wistful little theme first heard in the orchestral RITORNELLO is heard in a richly decorated, full-throated statement in the solo piano, followed by a tightly-sprung rhythmic section which closes out the exposition of the movement with the orchestra hammering out the main horncall melodic figure. After an orchestral RITORNELLO in the classic 18^th century manner, the soloist is drawn back into the argument, the horncall leading the way into the development, which at first focuses upon the agitated arpeggiated patterns first heard in the piano cadenza early in the movement. The music presses ahead with increased emphasis upon dotted rhythms, at first in heavy sweeping patterns, then giving way to a quiet dialogue between piano and orchestra. Harmonically the musical argument has shifted into the unlikely key of B Minor, then finds its way to the home key, the horncall leading in a smooth and easeful recapitulation. This time there is no bristling piano cadenza, instead a gentle winding down into the tonic key for the return of the second subject material, very much as before. The coda is drawn into play with hovering soft trills, the horncall (plus thematic elements from the second subject) spun out in a final developmental passage before the movement pushes ahead to a resolute conclusion.

As a rule concertos do not include SCHERZO movements, although there is one in the Liszt First Piano Concerto (the antithesis of the Brahms B-Flat concerto!)

And in a departure from the traditional structure of a SCHERZO, the second movement is actually constructed in a clear-cut sonata form plan, with a “Trio” emerging in the middle of the development. There are two well-defined thematic elements: the first is a heavy, rhythmically distinctive melody in D Minor (originally considered for use in the Violin Concerto three years earlier), thundered out by the piano in block chords against a pounding, syncopated bass-line, the second a lilting, wistful tune in A Minor in the upper register of the violins, which is heard in an extended variant in the piano. After a repeat of the exposition, the development gets down to business, tackling the two main thematic elements in turn. The first theme begins to scramble the main elements, with the pounding bass-line beginning to be taken by the piano, while the gentle secondary theme soon takes on an urgency and agitation, building to a powerful climax. This suddenly breaks into a new MARCATO D Major theme, which takes on the character of a “Trio” section. At first this has a martial, trumpet-tune character, but then fills out into richer harmonic solidity. Out of nowhere the piano sails into a hushed (“SOTTO VOCE”) passage of whirling octaves, and intricate patterns in thirds and sixths—for pianists a notorious and much-feared finger-twister. After a moment of quiet, the martial flourishes return in full FORTISSIMO. After a moment of glassy stillness (the piano momentarily stilled), the recapitulation lunges into action---this time with the roles reversed: the tune blared out in the orchestra, the piano attending to the pounding bass-line. The second theme is wonderfully transformed by a change in orchestral colour, heard in a pair of solo horns, then becoming progressively more agitated, pressing relentlessly on to conclude the movement in a hectic run for cover.

If there should be some question as to Brahms’ decision to include a SCHERZO movement, the explanation is that without such a movement the haunting effect of the ANDANTE slow movement would surely be robbed of much of its extraordinary atmosphere. Returning to the home key of B-flat, Brahms opens the slow movement with the solo cello unfolding a melody of utter serenity---a melody which (similar to the opening oboe melody of the Violin Concerto’s slow movement) is NEVER played by the piano soloist! (Although not to appear in print for another eight years, Brahms’ lovely song, “Immer leise wird mein Schlummer,” Op. 105, No. 2, shares its opening phrase and mood of hushed inwardness with the slow movement of the concerto.) The orchestra is reduced in size: only two horns, no trumpets or timpani. The cello solo takes its easeful course, joined by a solo oboe, followed by the entry of the piano, in a meditative passage which hints at the cello theme without actually quoting it. A change in mood ushers in an extended section based upon the primary melodic material, with increasingly impassioned dialogue between soloist and orchestra, finally coming to rest on the tonic minor (B-flat minor). The intense quiet of the opening has been regained, which enables Brahms to glide imperceptibly into the unearthly stillness of the remote key of F-sharp major, where time seems to stand still, a pair of clarinets hover above a murmuring figuration in the piano, a tinge of cool piano tone added to their distant warmth. The cello soloist steals back, returning to the “Immer leise wird mein Schlummer” theme (still in F-sharp major), before the return of the piano guides the music around to the home key. A coda of ever more transparency and tenderness brings the movement to a a final warm cadence.

A second pair of horns rejoins the orchestra for the finale, but the trumpets and drums remain silent. The final movement is filled with genial warmth, good cheer and serenity. The surging emotions of the scherzo are past, the slow movement’s phases of anxiety have been overcome, and the remarkable vision revealed in the opening horncall is now fulfilled. While the finale has the character of an easy-going rondo, it is in fact an amiably relaxed sonata form structure, in which the initial thematic element predominates: a sprightly, rhythmically springy tune which sometimes takes on a more assertive character, but never quite loses its innocent spirit. A more lyrical variant of this tune is heard in the piano, soon circling into a second subject, one of those Brahms melodies reminiscent of his “Hungarian Dances,” intoned by the winds against a trotting triplet accompaniment in the piano. A jaunty subsidiary tune turns up in rolling sixteenth-notes in the piano against a sauntering PIZZICATO background in the lower strings. What at first sounds like a repeat of the opening melody (which would indicate a RONDO structure) soon moves into some spirited development. After a recapitulation which tightens up some of the component parts, a lively triplet version of the opening melody forms the basis of a coda which creates a spirited and good-humoured conclusion.

Weber: Overture to Euryanthe

Overture to Euryanthe

Carl Maria von Weber (1786-1826)

Carl Maria von Weber might seem to be a familiar name in music history, but anyone skimming through an account of this remarkable man’s career will be astounded to discover how little is generally known about his life, as well as how little of his finest music is ever heard. Part of the problem is due to the fact that Weber’s most important works, the operas, are rarely performed outside of Germany, while the instrumental music tends to be overshadowed by that of his immediate contemporaries, Beethoven and Schubert. Apart from a number of rather facile compositions for wind instruments few of his concert works are ever performed. And it is not widely known that Weber was one of the key figures in the development of early musical Romanticism in Germany, and a serious-minded figure in operatic history comparable to Wagner and Mahler----not merely a precursor of Richard Wagner, whose works have quite unfairly overshadowed the accomplishments of the earlier composer.

Weber was born in a middle-class family filled with professional musicians---the aristocratic “von” was a fanciful embellishment added to the family name by his father. Linked by marriage with Mozart, whose wife Constanze was a relative, he showed remarkable musical gifts at an early age, and began his professional career in opera as a teenager, becoming a Kapellmeister before the age of EIGHTEEN, with positions in Breslau, Stuttgart and Prague, later Berlin and Dresden, where he would be a predecessor of Richard Wagner. Before the age of thirty Weber had held a dizzying succession of appointments, with tours and appearances in every important city in the German-speaking world. Along the way there were commissions for the woodwind concerti, symphonies, songs, chamber music and piano works, including the “Invitation to the Dance,” today best-known through the orchestration by Hector Berlioz, a passionate advocate for Weber’s works.
By the time Weber was in his mid-twenties he was deeply absorbed in the emerging “Romantic” movement, heralded by the work of writers and poets such as Byron and Scott (in translation), and in Germany such figures as E. T. A. Hoffmann and Goethe, both of whom Weber came to know. As with composers such as Berlioz and Schumann, Weber was keenly involved in the world of literature, even writing articles, poems, sketches for a novel, and turning out important musical criticism. He even made plans to write a guidebook for musicians travelling in Germany [“Musikalisches Topographie Deutschlands.”]

Weber began writing operas in his teens, but there were to be but three major works for the stage, composed in his last decade, DER FREISCHUTZ, EURYANTHE and OBERON. These excited wide attention for their vivid Romantic elements: the exotic settings, the looking back to a fairy-tale “past,” elements of the supernatural, the descriptive, the heroic, the exploration of a dream world. These elements would have great impact upon the music dramas of Wagner, as well as exerting a powerful influence upon such composers as Berlioz, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Liszt and a host of German composers throughout the 19^th century. (As late as the 1880s the young Gustav Mahler would undertake to complete Weber’s unfinished opera, DIE DREI PINTOS.)

Weber ’s professional life in the world of opera was marked by the highest artistic standards, with close attention to details of stage design and dramaturgy, and a breadth of musical vision quite exceptional for the early 19^th century.

Not again until the appearance of Richard Wagner would such a comprehensive perspective be brought to bear upon the slapdash world of opera---it is quite understandable that Wagner viewed himself as the natural successor to Weber as the standard-bearer for German opera.

The very existence of “German opera” owed much to Weber’s accomplishments. In Dresden, for example, when Weber was appointed music director in 1817, the lingering influence of Italian OPERA SERIA still held sway, supported by the Saxon court, with Italian singers and composers occupying the key positions.

In his post as music director at Dresden Weber set out to build a genuine German opera company in the teeth of fierce opposition, and soon began work on DER FREISCHUTZ, which had a sensational success at its premiere in Berlin in 1821. Although he would never be entirely free from financial and professional pressures (and began to show alarming effects of the tuberculosis which would soon cut short his life), Weber was now at the height of his powers. A commission for a new work came from Vienna, which led to plans for a “grand opera,” EURYANTHE, on a libretto by the Dresden poet, Helmina von Chezy. Although well-received at the first performance in October, 1823, the opera’s originality baffled many listeners, and failed to win the overwhelming acclaim shown FREISCHUTZ.

Weber’s health began to decline rapidly in 1824, and he composed little. In the final years of his life Weber appeared with great success as a conductor, not only of opera, but orchestral and choral works (including Handel’s MESSIAH.) He was one of the first to conduct STANDING before the orchestra, using a baton, and giving attention to the seating position of the players.

Weber’s last opera, OBERON, was composed to an English text for a gala premiere at Covent Garden, where it was first heard in April, 1826.

Despite his weakened condition, the composer fulfilled many musical and social engagements, and was shown lavish care and attention by his English friends.

Shortly before his planned return to Germany he died on June 5, 1826, and was buried in London amid great public mourning. In 1844, Richard Wagner, who was a successor to Weber at Dresden, organised the transfer of Weber’s remains for reburial in Germany.

The failure of EURYANTHE to win a place in the operatic repertoire is most of all due to the libretto: a tangled tale which attains a wondrous level of absurdity and word-spinning. Anyone hearing a recording (and a quite fine one exists, with Jessye Norman in the cast) may discover why Donald Francis Tovey described it as a “tremendous work,” of a quality which sometime exceeds that of Wagner’s LOHENGRIN - !

Whatever EURYANTHE’s difficulties, the Overture has always been popular. It is a clear-cut sonata form structure, leaping into action with a wonderfully zestful declamatory opening figure, which immediately is followed by a solid, “chivalric” first subject, more than a little suggestive of the medieval swagger soon to appear in LOHENGRIN and TANNHAUSER. This is followed by a sweeping lyrical secondary theme in the strings, rounded out by a closing theme of “heraldic pomp,” as Tovey puts it. True to the spirit of the age, there is a ghost scene in EURYANTHE, which suddenly is evoked at the start of the development section, in an eerie passage played by divided violins and violas in the remote (and “haunted”) key of B Minor. Returning to the primary tempo, the development is built around an inverted version of the closing theme worked out contrapuntally, at first hushed, then swelling in intensity, moving ahead to a brilliant recapitulation. The major components return in their proper places, ending with the kind of energy and dash which so fired the imagination and admiration of the young Wagner and so many others of his generation.

Dvorak Serenade for Strings in E Major, Op. 22

Serenade for Strings in E Major, Op. 22

Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904)

Antonin Dvorak grew up in humble circumstances, the son of an innkeeper/butcher who was also a gifted amateur musician. He found his way to Prague as a teenager, becoming a skilled violinist (also performing as a violist, organist and pianist), living from hand to mouth for a number of years before beginning to win success in his early thirties. His compositions came to the notice of Johannes Brahms, who was instrumental in bringing Dvorak to the attention of publishers and influential figures in the Viennese musical world. The violin remained Dvorak’s principal instrument, and not surprisingly there was to be a large body of compositions written for strings, including concerti for violin and cello, four piano trios, and fifteen splendid string quartets.

The Serenade for Strings was composed in the spring of 1875, and first heard in December, 1876 at a Jubilee concert of the Friendly Society of the Czech Theatre Orchestra---an ensemble in which the young Dvorak had performed in the years before his first success as a composer. The word “serenade” had begun to appear in the work of a number of late-19^th century composers, having largely disappeared from the musical world after the age of Mozart and Beethoven. Perhaps the best-known example of this revival of the term “serenade” is the wonderful Serenade for Strings of Tchaikovsky, but as well there are the two orchestral serenades of Brahms, and others by Max Reger, Hugo Wolf, Edward Elgar, and (in America) Arthur Foote.

As with the Tchaikovsky Serenade for Strings, the Dvorak work is an unabashed audience-pleaser, gracious and warm in its Romantic textures, expressive melodic character and charm.

There are five movements: a rich and sweet-natures opening Moderato (cast in a simple sonataform, with a sprightly secondary theme to form contrast to the melting lyricism of the opening); a Tempo Di Valse” second movement, exhibiting all the suavity and singing qualities so unique to string ensemble music; a Scherzo filled with lithe energy and sprightly melodic figuration; a Larghetto slow movement written with a full heart, brimming with deep feeling and tenderness; a nimble, dashing finale, showing the bright colours and melodic inflection of Czech folkmusic, swinging to a zestful conclusion.

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Mehul Symphony No. 2 in D Major

Symphony No. 2 in D Major (1808/09)

Etienne-Nicolas Mehul (1763-1817)

The French often speak somewhat disparagingly about their musical heritage, often pointing out that much greater respect has traditionally been shown the other arts, such as painting, theatre, the dance. While that is perhaps true, France has nevertheless produced many remarkable creative figures in music, often forced to compete for a place in the national cultural consciousness. At the same time there is also the puzzling historical phenomenon in which foreign musicians have won important positions (and popular success) in the notoriously xenophobic French world, even becoming symbolic of the very essence of French music---for example, Lully, Gluck, Cherubini, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Offenbach! If many wonderful composers seem to have slipped into obscurity over the years, undoubtedly this complicated cultural history may offer an explanation.

A classic case of an important figure who has fallen into near-oblivion is that of Etienne-Nicolas Mehul, who once occupied a central position in French musical life, and today is just beginning to be remembered and restored to his rightful place in the concert repertoire. That Mehul was admired by Beethoven, Weber, and even performed by Mendelssohn and Wagner, might come as a surprise to those who have never heard of him! Part of the problem is that Mehul was active during a period of extraordinary turmoil---the French Revolution and the Napoleonic age---which was followed by the first flowering of intense Romantic expression, exemplified by the towering figure of Hector Berlioz, whose work over-shadowed his immediate predecessors.

Born in the provincial town of Givet, Mehul found his way to Paris in his mid-teens, and by the age of 20 was a published composer, launched upon a career of opera composition. It was during the turbulent years of the Revolution that Mehul came into his own, appointed a founding member of the Institut National De Musique in 1793. In that same year Mehul showed his sympathy with the goals of the new French Republic with his Hymne A La Raison, followed by many other “public” works, perhaps the most lavish being the Chant National Du 14 Juillet 1800, commissioned by Napoleon. Composed for performance in the great church of the Invalides (where 30-odd years later Berlioz’ celebrated Requiem would have its first hearing), Mehul’s commemoration of the fall of the Bastille was decked out in full Napoleonic glory with three choirs and two orchestras, creating a grandiose spatial effect which anticipated Berlioz’ work. The young composer became one of the five inspectors of the Paris Conservatoire, which was established in 1795, and was the only musician appointed to the French Institute. Mehul’;s political dexterity could be seen in his smooth transition from the world of the National Convention (in the time of the “Reign of Terror”), to the age of Napoleon, who showed an interest in the composer early on, even asking him to accompany the Egyptian campaign in 1797. (Mehul declined to go.) After the success of his opera Joseph (1807) Mehul turned increasingly to orchestral composition, writing four symphonies between 1808-1810. In the early years of the 19^th century Mehul became France’s most famous native-born composer, especially acclaimed by the Germans. The final years showed a falling off of activity, the composer increasingly weakened by tuberculosis. The fall of Napoleon, restoration of the monarchy, and politically-motivated closure of the Conservatoire clouded Mehul’;s final days.

Only the first two of Mehul’s symphonies were published in his lifetime---Nos. 3 and 4 were only rediscovered in 1979! While the First Symphony is the best-known, the Second Symphony in D Major is, if anything, even more brilliant and inventive in structure and working out of musical ideals. In these symphonies we hear splendid examples of the composer’s single-handed regeneration of French symphonic style, solidly based upon the model of Haydn (whose works had long been known in France), as well as the late symphonies of Mozart and the first two symphonies of Beethoven.

The first movement opens with a slow introduction which is closely linked to the main thematic material, making much use of an ascending scale pattern, repeated a number of times in the strings, with the winds interjecting contrasting figuration. The tonality slips from the home key of D into F Major, then into D Minor, back to the main key and suddenly the ascending scale becomes the primary theme of the main body of the movement: energetic and forceful, with striking use of a repeated note figure. An unusually spacious and densely-packed second theme is heard in A Major, lilting, lyrical and graceful, soon becoming more assertive, shifting into the cool freshness of C Major, then back to A Major for a lively codetta. Mehul’s fondness for exploring a wide range of tonalities is much in evidence in a compact development entirely absorbed by the primary theme. The major components return as before in the recapitulation, rounded out by a brilliant coda.

The slow movement is set in the relative key of B Minor, as a sort of “double variation” structure somewhat akin to that found in the work of Haydn. Led in with a beguiling sustained single note in the horn, the main melody is a gracious, Scherzando affair, remaining snugly in its home key, followed by a contrasting passage which shifts into other tonalities (including C-sharp minor!) The main theme returns, with a rolling, restless figure in the lower strings, again veering into other keys in a contrasting section: starting with a militant D Major, gliding into B-flat, with a wonderful passage for winds (with Pizzicato strong accompaniment), soon bringing back the B Minor theme to conclude the movement in a coda of rich harmonic colours.

The minuet is particularly Haydnesque in tone, opening with a folk-like tune with repeated notes (no fewer than 25 in a row!), following the traditional pattern of repeated sections, with a middle section in which the repeated notes slide into B-flat Major. The Trio (in G Major) is delightfully French in its pastoral coloration, bringing to mind Rameau’s early 18^th century tonal landscapes. A spirited bridge passage carries the music back to a reprise of the main minuet section.

The finale (Allegro Vivace) opens with a drone-like figure, piling up the notes of the D Major tonic chord, bursting into a main theme quite Haydn-like in its bustling energy. There is a gliding second subject – but most of all, a buzzing rhythmic figure heard early on in the movement now heard in a number of variants, giving a zestful air to the proceedings, which move into a development of rich harmonic textures. The opening elements are recapitulated much as before, followed by a coda of surprisingly Beethovenian propulsion, with stentorian unison figures and vivid harmonic twists, pressing on to a resounding finish.

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Telemann Viola Concerto in G Major

Viola Concerto in G Major

George Philipp Telemann (1681-1767)

To those who automatically associate the names of J. S. Bach and George Frideric Handel with the glory years of the late Baroque age in the first half of the 18^th century, it can come as a bit of a shock to discover that while Handel was certainly quite celebrated, Bach was little more than a figure of local importance, although well-known as the finest organist of his day. In the German musical world the composer of supreme fame and influence was Georg Philipp Telemann, whose long life extended right into the age of Haydn and the boyhood of Mozart. Born in a family of remarkable sophistication and culture (nearly all of his ancestors earned university degrees), Telemann traveled widely, received a superb education (including university studies), and from his earliest years held important positions in major German cities, including Leipzig, Frankfurt and Hamburg. His energy and industry were staggering: Telemann composing well over 1000 cantatas, and more than 40 Passion settings for use in the Lutheran church, hundreds of songs, scores of sonatas, hundreds of concerti, hundreds of orchestral suites---perhaps upwards of 3, 000 compositions! There are two surviving concerti for viola, the best-known being the Concerto in G Major.

Telemann’s best-known instrumental music tends to reveal the strong influence of the French style, which is as much to be found in German music of the early 18^th century as the influence of the lively Italian style, which music-lovers today most of all associate with the works of Antonio Vivaldi. But Italian instrumental music was an equally important factor in the development of Telemann’s own individual style, as can be heard in the G Major Viola Concerto. Unlike the solo concertos of Telemann’s friend and contemporary, J. S. Bach, which are almost always laid out in the three-movement (fast/slow/fast) format exemplified by the works of Vivaldi, Telemann here follows an earlier Italian model, one closely resembling the old “trio sonata” pattern found in the concertos of Arcangelo Corelli and other Italian composers working at the end of the 17^th century. This calls for a sequence of four movements (slow/fast/slow/fast), fairly short in duration, and somewhat less lavish in virtuosic display than the later examples written by Vivaldi and Bach. The opening Largo leads off with a dignified, lilting Ritornello (played by the strings), then taken up by the solo viola. This introductory material then glides through several related keys, with a cadenza (a modern interpolation not customarily found in Telemann’s day), and a quiet close in the home key of G. The Allegro second movement is filled with rhythmic vigour, surprisingly suggestive of Vivaldi in its brilliant character. As with the first movement, here again the Ritornello, that characteristic Baroque device so characteristic of Italian string writing, is employed to give a structural clarity to the music: heard at the outset, again at midpoint, and in the final bars of the movement. The third movement, an Andante, is set in E Minor, with a delicately-inflected melodic line heard over a restless bassline, always moving forward with quiet determination. (Once again, modern editors have introduced a cadenza toward the end of this movement.) The Presto finale has a dance-like character, emphasised by the use of “binary” form (a movement in two section, each repeated.) The mood is brisk, cheerful and eager.

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Mozart Overture to Idomeneo

Overture to Idomeneo

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is unique among even the greatest composers in his unsurpassed versatility; composing important compositions in every single category or genre of music known to the 18^th century. Because the 20^th century musical world gives prime attention to the concert hall, it is easy to forget that Mozart pursued success as a composer of opera above all else. For a man who died just short of his 36^th birthday, it is amazing to consider that Mozart was occupied with operatic projects for fully 25 years, ranging from Apollo Et Hyacinthus (composed at the age of eleven) to La Clemenza Di Tito (written twelve weeks before his death.)

The very first operas written as a child were charming apprentice pieces, followed by a succession of increasingly mature and elegantly crafted works, culminating in the remarkable La Finta Giardiniera (composed at age 18), which seems to look ahead to the Marriage Of Figaro, which would appear a dozen years later. It was with Idomeneo, Re Di Creta [“Idomeneo, King of Crete”] that Mozart made his boldest step into full maturity, creating an opera which, even viewed from the perspective of the great works of his last years, could be regarded as his grandest, most ambitious work for the stage.

Mozart had composed several works which could be described as Opera Seria----works of a serious, lofty tone, following operatic traditions which had been in place for a century, and which were soon to be displaced by the more relaxed dramatic elements and varied musical elements which Mozart himself helped to establish in operas such as Figaro, Don Giovanni and Magic Flute. For many years (from the time of Beethoven to the mid-20^th century) writers on opera puzzled over Mozart’s fervent desire to compose a type of opera which clearly was becoming obsolete in its own age. Complicating any clear understanding of Mozart’s ambitions was the basic fact that the music itself was hardly known, and it was assumed that the conventions of Opera Seria were a barrier which would automatically dismiss Idomeneo out of hand. When the work finally began to be given serious attention (in the 1950s), there was widespread surprise to discover how imaginative and flexible was Mozart’s manipulation of those Opera Seria elements, and, above all, the astounding energy and emotional impact of the music itself. Finally, at the end of the 20^th century, Idomeneo has come into its own, and is now becoming a part of the repertoire along-side the later, popular Mozart operas.

A major factor in Mozart’s approach to composing Idomeneo was that the opera was to be introduced in Munich by a company of singers and instrumentalists whom Mozart had known from their earlier home, the court in Mannheim. The famous Mannheim orchestra was widely hailed as the finest in Europe, especially notable for its splendid wind players. The Mannheim orchestra included clarinets, which particularly attracted Mozart’s attention. This accounts for the remarkably rich orchestral element in the opera, with wonderfully inventive and vivid writing for the winds. In the end, Idomeneo never quite won a secure place for itself, and was revived only once in Mozart’s lifetime, although the composer loved the work perhaps more than any of his other operas.

The Overture is brief and remarkably concise, setting out with a bold ceremonial flourish in a brilliant, fanfare-like D Major, followed by a lyrical secondary theme. There is no real development, instead a prompt return to the introductory material, recapitulated very much as before. As though eager for the drama to begin, the overture unexpectedly winds down into a quiet conclusion, smoothly linking up with the opening scene of the opera.

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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….”