MacDowell Woodland Sketches and New England Idylls

Woodland Sketches and New England Idylls

Edward MacDowell (1860-1908)

As recently as the early 1950s Edward MacDowell continued to hold a firm position as the first universally acclaimed American composer of concert music, witnessed by the popularity of his Second Piano Concerto, the long-lasting impact of the MacDowell Colony on American artistic life, and the continued popularity of a handful of fairly easy, charming piano pieces as teaching material for generations of young piano students. MacDowell’s widow lived into the mid-20t^h century, a passionate advocate for her husband’s works, who the writer of these notes can remember hearing on the radio even in her nineties.

(In those far-off days, like so many youngsters, he was learning to play “To a Wild Rose, ” a piece much loved by lady piano teachers.) Today MacDowell’s reputation is no longer one of supremacy, for we are increasingly aware of the work of his contemporaries, especially such New Englanders as John Knowles Paine, Arthur Foote, George Whitefield Chadwick and (most fascinating of all), Amy Cheney Beach.

These composers have enjoyed a remarkable revival in the last couple decades, revealing a surprising range and depth in their work that long was obscured by MacDowell. Interestingly, this development comes at the point when that unique late-Victorian figure Charles Ives has has won a permanent position in American music history.

Yet MacDowell did not achieve his remarkable popularity and fame by a fluke. Like almost every American composer of his day (except for Amy Beach and Ives), MacDowell studied in Europe as a young man, at first in Paris. After disillusionment with frivolous French musical life, he went on to Germany, completing his studies, winning fame as a brilliant pianist, gifted teacher and composer. He played for Liszt, who himself played through and praised MacDowell’s First Piano Concerto, and was encouraged to compose a Second Piano Concerto, to this day his most widely performed work. He married a young American pianist, Marian Nevins, and in 1888 returned to America, first to Boston, then in 1896 back to his native city, New York, where be became the first professor of music at Columbia University. A rich succession of solo piano works, orchestral tone poems and songs characterise MacDowell’s activities in the 1890s. The highwater mark of his American career may have come with the premiere in 1896 of his “Indian Suite” by the Boston Symphony, a work which was long popular, now very much faded from view.

Early in the new century MacDowell’s career began to unravel, beginning with a highly publicised clash with the imperious president of Columbia University which led to his resignation. In 1904 he was run over by a hansom cab, and signs of mental instability began to appear. The last four years of his life were a terrible period of mental deterioration, and withdrawal from artistic activity.

The selections from MacDowell’s two most famous sets of piano pieces to be heard in tonight’s concert have been orchestrated for the occasion by Carson Rothrock. The titles are redolent of the late Victorian age, which a few years ago tended to be regarded with condescension---with images of a romanticized past, memories of childhood, exuding an atmosphere of gentle, wistful melancholy. But as this tough-minded, rather brutal 20^th century comes to an end, we are beginning to regain an appreciation for the Victorian age, and may be prepared to accept MacDowell’s visions without ironic smiles. The titles of theWoodland Sketches include: “To a Wild Rose, ” “Will o’ the Wisp, ” “At an Old Trysting Place, ” “In Autumn, ” and “From an Indian Lodge.”

The New England Idylls include “An Old Garden, ” “Midsummer, ” “Midwinter, ” “With Sweet Lavender, ” “In Deep Woods, ” “Indian Idyll, ” “To an Old White Pine, ” and “From Puritan Days.” Anyone familiar with the poetry of Whittier or Longfellow will immediately recognise the aesthetic world from which these pieces emerge.

It is perhaps worth taking note of a current [recent???] exhibition of the paintings of Edward Hicks by the Historical Association of Newton. Although Hicks’ work was created much earlier than the Victorian Age, a painting such as his wonderful “Peaceable Kingdom, ” is an early reflection of images and visionary themes running through American art, some of which may find resonance in the work of MacDowell.

NCO Concert

Weber Overture to Silvana

Overture to Silvana

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 in 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.

Weber was born in a 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 woodwind concerti, symphonies, songs, chamber music and piano works, including the “Invitation to the Dance, ” today best-known through the orchestration of 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 important musical criticism.

In his short life Weber composed ten operas, seven of which survive, although only the last three keep their place in the repertory: Der Freischutz, Euryanthe, and Oberon---although even these are seldom heard outside Germany. Composed in 1808-10, Silvana has totally disappeared into obscurity, even the overture absolutely unknown in concert programs.

(The writer of these notes has long been amused by pretentious claims by concert organizations that a performance of a little-known work will be “the first performance in America in the 20^th century.” While no such claim is made with regard to this overture, that might actually be the case tonight!) As for the opera’s plot and general character, a bit of sleuthing reveals a fairly predictable early 19^th century story, with a twist: the trials and tribulations of a young hero betrothed to a woman he doesn’t love, while at the same time gripped by a hopeless passion for a beautiful young woman, Silvana----who happens to be mute!

By the end of Act III the heroine recovers her voice, and in a happy ending the true lovers are united in marriage.

The overture is expertly crafted, although only occasionally showing signs of the surging emotional character to be found in Weber’s more mature opera overtures. Opening with a brief slow introduction, a sprightly principal theme is heard, first softly, then in full orchestral colours. There follows a secondary theme which is introduced by a horncall figure (perhaps the most distinctly Weberian touch), with graceful, lyrical melodic figures passed among the wind, then becoming assertive and dramatic in intensity. There is a tiny development, gliding quickly back to a straight-forward recapitulation, concluding with a brilliant, fiery coda.

NCO Concert

BernsteinMusic of Our Time: Masters of the 20th Century

Music of Our Time: Masters of the 20^th Century

As the present century winds down, the popular media and many cultural historians alike are busily at work “summing up” our age, not to mention the millennium, as well. In the concerts of the Princeton Chamber Symphony for the 1999-2000 season Mark Laycock has proposed an attractive and imaginative musical survey under the heading Music of Our Time: Masters of the 20^th Century. More than yet another “summing up,” this series explores a rich diversity of music of the past century, exhibiting a vitality, creative vision,and sheer beauty which may come as a surprise to some listeners. “Modern music” (whatever that is!) has long been a source of heated debate among music lovers, especially those most fiercely devoted to the great traditions of classical music. These concerts may well answer questions as to the importance of 20^th century music in the unbroken flow of our cultural traditions. And it is interesting to note that six of the 17 composers represented are Americans, reflecting the remarkable coming of age of American music in this century. (Indeed, seven of the other composers spent significant periods of their careers in America, as well.)

However, despite the vital position of America in the world of 20^th century music, a paradox lurks in the background. Consider this image of our age: an suite of rooms in a sleek new corporate center designed by a reputable architect, outfitted with elegant contemporary furniture, tastefully garnished with fine artwork of the late 20^th century, equipped with state-of-the-art equipment representing the last word in technology and design. Oh yes, with music quietly purring in the background: Stravinsky? Lutoslawski? No, Vivaldi! For many people the familiar old question, “What’s wrong with this picture?” would seem puzzling. Isn’t it the height of refinement to bring the civilizing properties of a concerto grosso to the rough and tumble of life in today’s dynamic world? But were Vivaldi himself to glimpse this “picture,” he would have asked, “why my music? Surely you ought to listen to music which reflects your world!”

But musically speaking, what is “our world?” And how do we view it, in terms of the music of this century? The writer of these notes has often teased students at the outset of a course on 20^th century music by asking them to identify and comment on recorded excerpts from a dozen radically contrasted composers---Richard Strauss, Cage, Shostakovich, Boulez, Vaughan Williams---only later revealing that all of the selections were composed within the space of two years! The remarkable stylistic pluralism of the music of our time can surely be seen as an stimulating and attractive aspect of our contemporary era. Yet a great many music lovers view 20^th century music with nervous uncertainty.

If many people feel confused and cautious when approaching music of this century, it is not without cause. This has been an age of ever-increasing acceleration of change, whether in technology, fashion or the arts. This is particularly the case since just before the First World War, the point at which it could be argued that the “modern age” really burst into full flower in the work of such figures as Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Joyce, Proust, Picasso, Kandinsky, whose work is still powerfully influential to this day.

The very speed of that acceleration maybe a problem for some--- a case of the artists’ “outrunning their headlights!”

Perhaps music-lovers have always tended to react slowly to change. In terms of public receptiveness, music has indeed seemed to lag behind its sister arts over the course of the 20^th century. All too often the faces seen at performances of new plays, new films, dance and exhibitions of new graphic arts are not the ones seen in the concert hall. This “lagging behind”—often referred to as the “greying of the audience” in the field of “Classical Music”--- is increasingly the subject of serious discussion in this country. One explanation (often hotly contested) points to an astonishing gap between concert audiences and the regular hearing of contemporary music. An equally heated reply contends that “if you take time for ‘pots and pans music’ that will mean less time for our beloved Beethoven and Brahms!” The obvious answer might be to find a balance between the old and the new. Indeed, anyone complacent about the state of concert life will find evidence for concern by examining bound volumes of concert programs from 80 years ago, where one discovers that concert programming then was virtually identical with that of today!! Further, looking into concert life before this century, moving back through the time of Liszt, Mendelssohn, Haydn, Handel, reveals that the music heard in those days was overwhelmingly the “contemporary” music of the time! The name of the period-instrument orchestra, the “Academy of Ancient Music” turns out to be a witty reference to 18^th century London, when any music more than 20 years old was considered ”ancient” – e. g., “old-fashioned.” To find a parallel in our day one must imagine the bafflement of movie-goers arriving at the Multiplex to find a selection of films by Barbara Stanwyck, Rita Hayworth, Alan Ladd, or Clark Gable. Those are considered “golden oldies,” to be seen in “repertory cinemas” !

Some important figures in the world of music willingly embrace a notion that the concert hall is a sort of aural museum. Others reject such an idea as destructive to the spirit of music, claiming that there is always a process of discovery and renewal in theinteraction between old and new, between performers, audiences and creative artists. The choice of Leonard Bernstein to inaugurate this series of concerts seems wonderfully appropriate----there was never any doubt where he stood in this debate about the “Music of Our Time.”.

Leonard Bernstein: Composer, Conductor, Pianist, Teacher, Public Figure, etc. etc.

Leonard Bernstein is arguably the most prodigiously gifted musician in American musical history. A much-loved figure in American music, he inspired overwhelming admiration, as well as plenty of controversy. It is difficult to take a “neutral position” with regard to Bernstein. Ever the waspish Igor Stravinsky, after hearing a characteristically head-over-heels performance of his Symphony of Psalms, was reduced to a one-word reaction: “Wow!” Like his near-contemporary, Benjamin Britten, Bernstein was long regarded as “too clever by half” for his precocious gifts and versatility, especially in his younger days. It is still too soon to say, but it is possible that, like Britten, Bernstein’s reputation may well rise to a position of unchallenged importance in American musical life.

In broad terms, it can be said that Bernstein shared a background common to several of the most gifted musicians of the first half of the 20^th century, whose work seemed to define a distinct “American voice,” most notably George Gershwin and Aaron Copland. Born to Jewish parents who had passed through Ellis Island, they were to succeed in becoming 100% Americans---and in defining the “American voice” in the art of music. Yet, for all his eventual association with the world of “Manhattan,” Bernstein was actually born in Lawrence, Mass., educated at the prestigious Boston Latin School, and attended Harvard. (He never entirely lost his Boston accent.) He followed this splendid training with two years’ study at the Curtis Institute (studying conducting under Fritz Reiner), and, in a stepping stone to a great musical career, became the star pupil of Serge Koussevitsky at the newly-opened Tanglewood School in 1940-41. Always lucky in his musical friendships, Bernstein developed important personal ties with Aaron Copland (under whom he studied composition), and the charismatic Greek conductor, Dimitri Mitropoulos, whose own magnetic public persona were to have an enormous influence upon the young man. Although eager to pursue his composing talent, conducting was Bernstein’s passport to success. He became an assistant to Koussevitsky (a life-long father figure for the young man), and in 1942 became the assistant conductor under Artur Rodzinski at the New York Philharmonic. As is well known, assistant conductors are usually saddled with such thankless tasks as conducting Christmas carol concerts, morning programs for school children---and hoping that the principal conductor will suffer some disabling illness or accident! On 13 November, 1943, straight out of a Hollywood film, the illness of Bruno Walter thrust the 25 year-old Bernstein onto the Carnegie Hall stage for a New York Philharmonic concert broadcast coast-to-coast. It was a huge success, catapulting young Bernstein into a position of adulation and publicity without equal in American musical life before or since. The rest of the career is fairly familiar: conducting engagements world-wide, increasingly activity as a composer (making shrewd use of his fame as a conductor), both of concert music and a that popular idiom generally described as “Broadway.” Broadway provided Bernstein with his first success as a composer, beginning with such musicals as On the Town (1944) and Wonderful Town (1953). In 1956 came Candide, followed a year later by his supreme popular accomplishment, West Side Story. With characteristic luck, his single film score, On the Waterfront (1954), won Bernstein an Oscar. He also taught, was active as a piano soloist (usually doubling as his own conductor), and from the very outset became known as a dedicated advocate of American music, taking his cue from the strong patronage of American music on the part of Koussevitsky. Bernstein also took strong positions on social causes, ranging from support of the new state of Israel, to Civil Rights issues and political protest in the 1960s. Unlike Gershwin and Copland, Bernstein was far from reticent on the matter of his Jewish identity: when his mentor Koussevitsky (himself Jewish) told him that the name Bernstein was “too Jewish” for a successful conducting career, Bernstein’s response was, “if that’s the case, to hell with conducting!” Today, at the end of the century it is sometimes forgotten how pervasive was an underlying anti-Semitism in American life, a fact which is interesting to consider in assessing Bernstein’s “Jeremiah Symphony” (1944). But then, Bernstein even had to contend with a widespread bias against Americans in conducting positions, of whatever ethnic origin. This can seen in a 1943 letter from Copland in which he tells the younger man that “maybe you can start a career as our first native conductor” !! Fourteen years would pass before Leonard Bernstein would be appointed the first (and to date the only) “native” conductor of the New York Philharmonic---America’s oldest orchestra. His repertoire as a conductor covered a vast span of music, from the Classical era to new music by a American composers of a wide stylistic range. He relished the symphonies of Haydn and Schumann, delighted in performing the work of his beloved Aaron Copland, and almost single-handedly promoted the work of Gustav Mahler in the United States. In a remarkable relationship which developed over the latter part of his life, Bernstein against all odds won over the skeptical members of the Vienna Philharmonic to the music of Mahler as well. Thus the very orchestras in New York and Vienna which Mahler himself directed finally were persuaded to bring that great composer’s works into the repertoire.

As a teacher Bernstein’s activities ranged from his imaginative Young People’s Concerts with the New York Philharmonic to the 1973 Charles Eliot Norton lectures delivered at Harvard University, and regular summer master classes at Tanglewood. In the 1960s and 70s, Bernstein, ever more the celebrity, was in the public eye as a champion of hotly controversial social and political causes, including support of Civil Rights and the Anti-Vietnam War movement. (For many people who could care less about Leonard Bernstein the artist, the notorious attack upon him by the writer Tom Wolfe probably remains a vivid memory to this day, adding the phrase “radical chic” to the political vocabulary of the Nixon era.) During the final decade of his life Bernstein often spoke of a desire to devote himself exclusively to composition, cutting back on his conducting activities. After the abject failure of his 1976 bicentennial musical, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, there was no returning to the world of Broadway. A full-scale opera, A Quiet Place (1984) was coolly received, while such works as the Chichester Psalms (1965) and Songfest (1977) were successful. Still filled with plans for ambitious compositions, Leonard Bernstein died in October, 1990, not long after a final concert conducting the Boston Symphony at Tanglewood.

Divertimento (1980)

Leonard Bernstein’s Divertimento for orchestra is a light-hearted tribute to his beloved Boston Symphony Orchestra on the occasion of its hundredth anniversary in 1980. It is actually a suite in eight brief movements, all of them given musical unity through the use of a two-note motive, B-C = Boston Centennial. The work opens with an uproarious, fanfare-like march full of swaggering figures reminiscent of Strauss’ “Till Eulenspiegel,” bearing the rather Shakespearean title, Sennets and Tuckets (as in the lines from Henry V, Act IV, scene 2: “Let the trumpets sound the tucket sonance and the note to mount.”) This is followed by a Waltz movement of magical atmosphere and delicacy, scored for strings alone, set a decidedly unViennese 7/8 metre, folding inward to chamber music textures midway, soon fading away into thin air. The third movement, marked “Mesto” (“sad”), is a Mazurka scored for the plagent timbre of double reed instruments (oboes and bassoons) with harp. This enigmatic piece, with an evocative quotation from the oboe cadenza in the first movement of Beethoven’s 5^th Symphony, is said to be a nostalgic recollection of Boston Symphony concerts heard by the composer as a teenager. Hearkening back to the spirit of the Boston Pops, the fanfare theme from the opening movement now returns in the guise of a Samba, while the Turkey Trot struts about in a constant shift between four- and three-beat rhythms. Sphinxes is the shortest and most mysterious movement, with a pair of ascending 12-tone melodic figures, each unexpectedly closing with a conventional “diatonic cadence.” In the Blues movement, supposedly a reference to Bernstein’s youthful visits to Boston nightclubs, we get a blast of Bernstein’s Broadway manner, with scoring for brass with jazz mutes, piano and percussion. The B-C motive now is spun into another 12-tone melody, with solo euphonium heard against trumpets and vibraphone. The finale, March:

the BSO Forever, is preceded by a prefatory In Memoriam: a solemn canon scored for three flute, written in memory of Koussevitsky and other BSO personalities. (This was Bernsein’s favourite part of the work.) This is followed by the March proper, a 20^th century “Radetzky March” with two trios,

Swinging along in irresistible high spirits.

Symphony No. 1, “Jeremiah” (1942)

Although in 1942 few Americans had a full grasp of the horrors then taking place in the death camps of eastern Europe, any person with an awareness of the meaning of Nazism and the declared aims of Adolf Hitler and his regime could not long remain untouched by the catastrophe taking place at that moment. This modern destruction of the Children of Israel, comparable to the destruction of Jerusalem described in the Book of Jeremiah, inspired Leonard Bernstein, at the age of twenty-four, to create one of his finest and most compelling works, the Jeremiah Symphony. Although a sketch of the concluding Lamentation was composed as early as 1937, it was in 1942 that Bernstein undertook to write the symphony, the Lamentation becoming the basis for the concluding movement. Dedicated to the composer’s father, the symphony is an intensely serious work, with important thematic links to Jewish liturgical music. In 1977, on tour in Berlin, Bernstein said of the Symphony, “the work I have been writing all my life is about the struggle that is born of the crisis of our century, a crisis of faith. Even way back, when I wrote Jeremiah, I was wrestling with that problem. The faith or peace that is found at the end of Jeremiah is really more a kind of comfort, not a solution. Comfort is one way of achieving peace, but it does not achieve the sense of a new beginning…”

At the time of the symphony’s first performance Bernstein wrote that “the Symphony does not make use to any great extent of actual Hebrew thematic material. The first theme of the Scherzo [Profanation] is paraphrased from a traditional Hebrew chant, and the opening phrase of the vocal part in the Lamentation

Is based on a liturgical cadence still sung today in commemoration of the destruction of Jerusalem by Babylon. Other resemblances to Hebrew liturgical music are a matter of emotional quality rather than of the notes themselves.” (However, as we shall see, there are other important links with traditional Hebrew music not accounted for by Bernstein.)

The opening movement, Prophecy, is a sombre, ominous movement opening with heavy thudding chords over which is intoned a melody in the horn, soon taken up by the strings, gaining in sonority. The heavy chords continue to punctuate the melodic flow, which quiets down, the flute taking up the horn melody, joined by the winds. A transitional passage introduces a plaintive melody in the trumpet, soon passed to the brass and winds, leading in a shining melody high in the flute and upper winds. This is soon joined by full orchestra, rising to a passionate climax, the opening horn melody and heavy chords returning, building to a yet greater climax. Now the transitional trumpet melody takes on a powerful, chorale-like intensity before moving back to the horn melody in the upper strings, sinking down into a quiet conclusion.

[Bernstein’s long-time assistant, Jack Gottlieb has stated that the opening theme is derived from a traditional Amen heard during Pasover, Shavuot (Feast of Weeks), and Sukkot (Festival of Tabernacles), as well as another cadence used during the High Holy Days.]

The second movement, Profanation, is a scherzo, laid out according to fairly traditional practice, with two contrasting elements: a nervous, nimble, rhythmically irregular initial section, linked to a heavily stressed, sustained melodic element in the winds. These are repeated, moving directly to a jagged, hectic developmental passage, in which focuses upon the sustained melodic element. To this point the movement has been dominated by unbroken, prancing eighth-note figuration, rather Coplandesque in effect. Suddenly a moment of unexpected quiet and delicacy is heard, with springy dotted rhythms, at first heard softly in the winds. An expressive new theme in unadorned C Major comes out of nowhere, only to be pushed aside by a return of the dotted rhythms, now taking on a forbidding insistency. XXXXX The C Major theme reappears, but the dotted rhythms prevail. The horn melody from the opening of the symphony makes a dramatic appearance, heard against the dotted rhythms. In the end the initial scherzando music returns, and the movement ends with full force. [Jack Gottlieb explains that the principal theme is based on cantillation motives used during the chanting of the bible of the Sabbath.]

The concluding Lamentation introduces a mezzo-soprano voice, singing Hebrew texts from Chapters 1, 4 and 5 of the Book of Jeremiah. Marked “Lento,” the voice enters immediately, in an extended cantilena of great lyrical beauty, distinctly Hebraic in character, urgent and compelling. [Jack Gottlieb reports that the “liturgical cadence” mentioned by the composer is a sequence of motives derived from dirges sung to the words of the actual Biblical Lamentations of Jeremiah. There are four vocal segments, linked by orchestral interludes, which are gentle and reflective for the most part, coloured by high winds and smooth string sonorities. The second interlude builds to a crashing climax, the third returning to the quiet atmosphere of the first, again with high winds and strings. But this third interlude, the longest, is extended, rising to a grand climax, suddenly joined by the voice fortissimo. Over a deep sustained tone in the lower strings the voice gradually becomes return to the meditative calm of the opening. There is a poignant coda with soft solo strings, swelling into full strings, then drifting into stillness.

It seems strange to us today to learn that a number of fine musicians, including Fritz Reiner, urged Bernstein to add a lively fourth movement, so that the conclusion of the work would not be so “sad and defeatist,” as the composer himself put it. Wisely, Bernstein did not yield to such advice.

As Bernstein’s biographer, Humphrey Burton has written, “Bernstein emerges from it…firm in his faith, expressing in direct musical language the beauty and anguish of his Jewish inheritance. He leaves the listener in no doubt as to his anger at ther way that legacy was destroyed by persecution and his belief that through tenderness and love a lost faith can eventually be restored.”

Facsimile (1946)

Leonard Bernstein’s first work for the theater was the 1944 ballet, Fancy Free, followed by the musical On the Town later the same year. In both of these productions the key figure was to be a creative artist whose own background closely mirrored that of Bernstein: the dancer and choreographer, Jerome Robbins. The two men were of similar age, background and artistic outlook, and were destined to work together in virtually all of Bernstein’s theater works. After the breezy charm and popular idiom of their first two projects, the next collaboration,Facsimile (1946), was to move in quite a different direction.

It was to be a ballet profoundly influenced by the experiences which the two friends had known in undergoing psychoanalysis. Bernstein himself described the work as follows: “the inspiration of [Robbins’] scenario, with its profoundly moving psychological implications, had entered into this music in a degree which, I believe, produced what one might almost call a ‘neurotic music,’ mirroring the neuroses of the characters involved. The action of the ballet is concerned with three lonely people---a woman and two men---who are desperately and vainly searching for real interpersonal relationships.

THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH MAY BE OMITTED IF NECESSARY:

[They meet for the first time, develop quick and passionate connections, and, inevitably, find themselves left in a state of ennui and resentment: inevitably, because they are unintegrated personalities with little if any capacity for real relations.” A triangular relationship develops and the climax is reached when all three perceive the emptiness of their feelings. “This point is accomplished in the ballet by the desperate cry of ‘Stop!’ from the woman, followed by a minute of silence in which only her sobbing is heard. The men stand by, abashed and motionless.” Not surprisingly, the ballet was received with unfriendly incomprehension, and has not been revived since 1951.]

The response to the original ballet production was one of cold incomprehension – the work has not been staged since 1951. A year later Bernstein extracted a concert work was extracted from the ballet, which is all too seldom performed. There are four sections preserved from the orginal ballet, played without pause, which the composer himself discusses in a foreward to the published score. The following is the composer’s own description of scenario of the ballet (in italics), together with commentary on the music.

1. Solo. THE WOMAN IS ALONE IN AN OPEN AND DESOLATE PLACE, TRYING (AND FAILING) TO ESCAPE FROM HERSELF.

Opening in a clear, unclouded (though wistful) C Major, the primary melody is intoned by the oboe, then passed to flute and trumpet.

2. Pas de deux (in 2 sections).

A. MEETING WITH THE FIRST MAN, FLIRTATION (WALTZ), AND SUDDEN PASSIONATE CLIMAX.

A new melody of great expressive languor and expansiveness is heard in the flute against a restless background. Soon this melody is passed to the violins in a richly harmonised, romantic passage. A new, flowing theme in the lower strings is heard against punctuating figures in muted trumpets, becoming more agitated, pressing on to suddenly shift into F Major, where the music takes on a greater dissonant edge, becoming increasingly dramatic, almost with the blare of a circus band. There is a pause, followed by massive full orchestral sonority, with heavy, darkly textured chords, leading to a brief piano cadenza.

B. SENTIMENTAL SCENE. THE LOVE INTEREST PETERS OUT, LEAVING THE PAIR BORED AND HOSTILE.

Sweetly yearning, swooping chords in the strings introduce a gentle, cantabile episode for strings alone, threaded through with solo writing for strings. The opening theme suddenly reappears, now in the bassoon.

3. Pas de trois (in 2 sections.)

A. ENTRANCE OF A SECOND MAN (SCHERZO, FEATURING EXTENDED PIANO
SOLO PASSAGES). FORCED HIGH SPIRITS, TRIANGULALR INTRIGUE,
BRITTLE AND SOPHISTICATED INTERPLAY.

Abruptly the music moves into a much quicker tempo, with lively dotted rhythms, becoming jaunty, sprightly in a manner not far removed from some of the springy moments in Copland’s “El Salon Mexico”---a work much beloved of Bernstein.

B. DENOUEMENT: DISCOVERY OF TRIANGLE-SITUATION, REPROACHES, ABUSES, IMPRECATIONS, THREATS. THE THREE ARE NOW CONVINCED THAT THEY ARE “REALLY LIVING” – OR AT LEAST EMOTIONALLY BUSY – ONLY TO ARRIVE AT A POINT OF PAINFUL RECOGNITION OF THE ABSURDITY OF THEIR BEHAVIOUR, AND THE EMPTINESS OF THEIR FEELINGS.

Ever more dance-like, the music quickens, pressing on in ever more frenetic energy. The solo piano contributes piquant “boogie-woogie” touches, taking on a more prominent concertante role at this point. With the return of the full orchestra a climax is reached, only to break off and return (with full orchestral sonority) to the opening material.

4. Coda. ONE BY ONE THE MEN MAKE EMBARRASSED EXITS, THE RELATIONSHIPS OBVIOUSLY EXHAUSTED, LEAVING THE WOMAN ALONE, NO RICHER IN REAL EXPERIENCE THAN SHE WAS AT THE START.

Gradually moving into stillness, the Coda unfolds an unforgettably simple duet between flute and piano, returning to the long flute melody heard early in the work. The oboe follows with its very first phrase, joined by the strings, melting into silence.

Symphonic Dances from West Side Story (1961)

With the composition of the musical, West Side Story Leonard Bernstein achieved the smash hit of his life. Directed by Arthur Laurent, with lyrics by the young Stephen Sondheim (who was little known, and not yet active as a composer), choreography by Jerome Robbins, and music by Bernstein, the innovative integration of drama, dance and music, and inventive transposition of the familiar Romeo and Juliet story to urban Manhattan resulted in a work which was viewed as a step into a higher plane of music theatre never before attempted. Ironically, the glorious dawn of a new Broadway age may actually have been a sunset, for the idealistic visions summoned up by the success of West Side Story have never truly been realised. Bernstein was to attempt one more musical, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, written for the Bicentennial year of 1976. This turned out to be a disappointing failure, bringing Bernstein’s Broadway career to a close.

In 1961 Bernstein extracted a number of sections from the musical to form the Symphonic Dances, which quickly took its place in the concert repertoire. (Oddly enough, this was the only portion of the musical which Bernstein himself orchestrated----true to Broadway tradition, Bernstein----a peerless orchestration---turned the task of scoring the work to other hands!

The Symphonic Dances are laid out as a continuous musical fabric, loosely following the plot of the musical:

Prologue – Growing rivalry between two teenage gangs, the Jets and the Sharks.

“Somewhere” – In a visionary dance sequence the two gangs are united in friendship.

Scherzo – In the same dream they break through the city’s walls and suddenly find
Themselves in a world of space, air and sun.

Mambo – Reality again; competitive dance between the gangs.

Cha-Cha – The star-crossed lovers see each other for the first time and dance together.

Meeting Scene – Music accompanies the lovers’ first spoken words.

“Cool” Fugue – An elaborate dance sequence in which the Jets practice controlling their hostility.

Rumble – Climactic gang battle during which the two gang leaders are killed.

Finale – Love music developing into a procession, which recalls, in tragic reality, the vision Of “Somewhere.” [This summary taken from a description written by Bernstein’s assistant, Jack Gottlieb.]

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.

NCO Concert

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.

NCO Concert