Program Notes

FOM The Brandenburgs are Coming Over - March 23 & 24

FOM The Brandenburgs are Coming Over - March 23 & 24Johann Sebastian Bach

(Born in Eisenach, Germany, in 1685; died in Leipzig, Germany, in 1750)

Bach’s Time in Cöthen, Germany

German composer Johann Sebastian Bach was employed between 1717 and 1723 as the kapellmeister (music director) for the court of Prince Leopold of Cöthen (now central Germany). It was a significant time for Bach since he wrote many of his most magnificent secular instrumental works there. His musical duties were many: aside from the compulsory sacred works for worship, the Cöthen court was alive with secular music-making as well. Bach’s duties included a great deal of teaching, too, and it appears that three of his most masterful compositional sets were generated by his teaching activities. His Well-Tempered Clavier (Book I), his sonatas and partitas for solo violin, and his six suites for unaccompanied cello were all apparently written to aid in advancement of Cöthen’s many musicians. And each of these compositional sets stands at the core of Western music’s greatest accomplishments because of their excellence, beauty, and importance to the piano, violin, and cello repertoire. 

Though Bach’s first years in Cöthen were happy, he soon grew a bit restless, perhaps even overwhelmed, and he suffered several tragedies — most awfully, his wife Maria Barbara Bach died unexpectedly in 1720 at age 43. A year before, in 1719, Bach by chance had met Christian Ludwig, who was the margrave (municipal ruler) of Brandenburg-Schwedt as well as the uncle of King Fredrick-William I of Prussia. At that meeting, Ludwig expressed interest in making Bach his kapellmeister, and asked him to submit a musical portfolio for review. Bach did not act on this offer at first, but around 1720, perhaps looking for a fresh start after Barbara’s death, he began to compile material for the requested portfolio. The result was a set of six instrumental works known today as the Brandenburg Concertos, which Bach completed and presented to Ludwig in 1721. But the appointment as Ludwig’s kapellmeister never materialized and the set of concertos sat on various shelves, largely unnoticed, for many years. Finally, they were discovered in a collection that belonged to a Prussian princess and published for the first time in 1849, nearly a century after Bach’s death. Nevertheless, they would not gain the worldwide popularity they have today for yet another century, in the 1960s and ’70s, when period-instrument performances became more prevalent.

In baroque musical terms, the Brandenburg Concertos are concerti grossi (“big concertos”). A concerto grosso was a work for several groups of instruments, designed to illuminate various kinds of instrumental colors, sounds and abilities, and “orchestral” textures. This form of music would evolve during the classical period into two distinct forms: symphonies, and single-instrument solo concertos. Bach’s Brandenburgs were composed for strings and wind instruments, and although they included some individual solo playing, the point of the music was less about showcasing individual instruments than about exploring contrasts between sections of instruments. The third, fourth, and fifth concertos of the six, performed in our concert, have become some of the most beloved works in Bach’s oeuvre.

The dates of many of Bach’s compositions are not certain, but it’s mainly agreed that all the ones included in our concert were written in Cöthen — giving us a unique window into a time when one of music’s most celebrated geniuses was creating a jaw-dropping number of masterpieces.

Bach

Partita No. 2 for violin in D minor, 1st movement (Allemande)

The Partita No. 2 is one of a larger set of six works titled Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin (BWV 1001–1006) that Bach likely wrote in 1720. Each of the six is hailed as a masterpiece and they inarguably began the trend of using the violin as a solo instrument in Western music, rather than simply as an ensemble instrument. Like the Brandenburg concertos, the Sonatas and Partitas weren’t published until almost a century later, in 1809. And then they continued to remain virtually unknown until the great Hungarian violin virtuoso Joseph Joachim (1831–1907) championed them and demonstrated their excellence to the world. By now, Partita No. 2’s most beloved movements have become the opening movement, the Allemande, which is the only movement performed in our concert, and the last movement, the Chaconne.

A baroque partita is a suite of usually six dance pieces for a solo instrument. Bach used typical baroque dances for each of his partita’s movements — courtly dance pieces like allemandes, sarabandes, and gigues (but with the surprising addition of a chaconne in No. 2). 

In his partitas, Bach used these dances primarily as vehicles to highlight the poetic potency of the violin, and the allemande in his Partita No. 2 is one of his most profoundly beautiful works. 

The Allemande advances slowly, in continuously unfolding 16th notes, but played at a slow speed to allow the notes to linger and the melodic line to sing. Its key of D minor gives the movement a dark hue, but as the notes progress, Bach seems to walk a miraculous line between heart-breaking pathos and a simple, beautifully drifting melody.

Bach

Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G major

1. No tempo marking given by Bach, but typically performed as Allegro

2. Adagio

3. Allegro

Perhaps No. 3 is the most cherished of the five Brandenburg Concertos. In any case, it is distinctly different from the other four: It is fleet; its second movement is one of the most curious movements in all Western music; and it is scored sparely, with only strings and cembalo (harpsichord) and without any winds.

The first movement (typically performed allegro) opens with a main theme first heard in the violins — a cheery and bold sequence of five short oscillating rhythms. Around this theme, Bach creates his typically brilliant web of counterpoint, which bubbles all about and underneath it. The theme is so instantly recognizable that it has almost become the theme for the whole Brandenburg set. Abounding throughout this movement is Bach’s ingenuity in exploring virtuosic instrumental pairings –– something that is a hallmark of the entire set of concertos. A delightful example of this kind of virtuosity among the instruments in this first movement occurs at about four and a half minutes, when a small kernel of the famous main theme is traded from the first violin all the way down the musical chain while the other instruments create a hubbub of accompanying music. By the end of the entire sequence, Bach has captured a frenetic and thrilling musical madness.

The second movement, Adagio, is an enigmatic expression — an evanescent moment made up of only two chords. Performers, historians, and conductors alike have pondered what Bach had in mind here. Because the Brandenburg concertos were largely ignored for nearly two centuries, we’ll never know if Bach expected the two chords to be the basis of a raft of soloistic improvisations, or a simple, two-chord bridge between the equally brisk first and third movements, or yet something else. Today, musicians and conductors allow themselves to make informed musical decisions about this movement, and thus, delightfully, the second movement is rarely performed twice in the same way. However it is played, its brevity and its unresolved chords create a moment of mysterious reflection before the next whirlwind movement of music. 

The third movement, Allegro, completes this baroque masterwork, filled with light and joyfulness and dance. Bach uses the structure of the gigue for this finale, a dance form that he knew in its French variation at that time, but he infuses it with contrapuntal loftiness: Right from the beginning he creates a canon (or a “round”), first in the upper strings then repeated in the lower. But most joyous is how the music immediately sweeps us up in its spinning and dancing triplets, which continue deliriously until the breathless last bars.

Mark Janello

Free Improvisation on the harpsicord

When modern musical audiences hear the word “improvisation,” they most likely think only of jazz. But improvisation has a rich musical history, particularly in the baroque period. Bach was a master of it, as was Beethoven — and Mozart as well. Improvisation waned somewhat in the 19th century, but it was still a healthy tradition, among French organists in particular, through the first half of the 20th century. The most prominent of these organists, Marcel Jean-Jules Dupré (1886–1971), was the last major exponent of it.

Bach

Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G major

1. Allegro

2. Andante

3. Presto

Concerto No. 4 features, on the one hand, a delightful concertino (the group of soloists in a concerto grosso) comprising a violin and two baroque recorders, and on the other hand, orchestral strings and harpsichord. (These days, as in our concert, modern flutes are usually substituted for the recorders.) 

The first movement, Allegro (fast), begins with a breezy and cheerful spinning first theme played by the concertino’s two solo flutes, rolling up and down over short, solid chords from the orchestral strings. Ultimately, though, the solo violin takes most of the limelight, while the two flutes play more of an extended, glorious duet in the background. The delightful contrasts and constant forward motion continue until the last bar.

The second movement, Andante (moderately slow), is beautiful and aching. For contrast here, Bach creates something different: the solo group and the orchestral group have a kind of dialogue and the contrasts come from the dynamics, loud versus soft. Still, there are some ingenious instrumental configurations, such as at about three minutes, when the solo violin is given the bass line to play underneath the flutes, making for a golden glow of color. A brief two-bar cadenza (improvised virtuosic solo) from the first flute brings this hypnotic movement to its final bars.

The last movement, Presto (very fast), begins with the orchestral violas introducing the main theme, which will then be treated like a brisk Fugato (in the manner of a fugue but not in strict fugue form). Other voices join the counterpoint, with the solo violin coming in soon after, creating a whole-ensemble chatter of cheeriness. After a virtuosic violin flurry at about two minutes, the concerto concludes with the entire ensemble forging ahead to the last bars with verve and joyfulness.

Bach

Cello Suite No. 4 in E-flat major, 1st movement (Prelude)

This suite is one of Six Suites for Unaccompanied Cello by Bach (BWV 1007–1012), and they are some of the most important, and celebrated, pieces written for the instrument. Just as Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin are so important for the violin, these cello suites stand as one of the paramount achievements in the solo cello repertoire. Music scholars believe that the cello suites were composed in Cöthen before 1720. But these works, too, stayed virtually unknown until another great musician, the Spanish virtuoso cellist Pablo Casals (1876–1973), found an edition of the complete set of them in a Barcelona thrift shop in 1889 when he was 13 years old. Though Casals would play them publicly thereafter, he waited until he was 60 years old to begin recording them, making three separate records between 1936 and 1939. From that point on, the cello suites have become global sensations, and beloved, for both cellists and audiences.

Each cello suite begins with a prelude, and all are structured like a typical baroque dance suite, employing the following set of baroque courtly dance forms: allemande, courante, sarabande, two minuets or bourrées, and a gigue at the end. Suite No. 4 is one of the most technically challenging of the six –– the key of E-flat is extremely tricky on the fingerboard.

As well as being challenging, the prelude to Suite No. 4 is also a gorgeous testament to Bach’s sense of balance and beauty. The movement begins with the cello playing a constantly changing set of “broken chords” (the notes of the chords are “broken” apart and played individually, not simultaneously) in a steady rhythm. The broken chords saunter through a vast progression of harmonies and, most beautifully, seem to change by the second in color, like a slowly revolving kaleidoscope. Then, just after two minutes, the chords come to a stop, and a cadenza gently cascades up and down with flurries of soft notes. Though the broken chords begin again, a feeling of yearning imbues the last section, with cadenza-like flourishes returning several times before the prelude’s end.

Bach

Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D major, BWV 1050

1. Allegro

2. Affettuoso

3. Allegro

Bach’s daring choices for this concerto’s concertino were pathbreaking. Along with a solo violin, he adds a transverse flute and a harpsichord. The transverse flute is blown horizontally across the mouthpiece, very much like a modern flute, rather than vertically through the mouthpiece like a standard baroque recorder. In 1720, the transverse flute was not yet mainstream in Germany, and Bach’s first use of it here was an important step forward for the instrument. Bach’s use of the harpsichord as one of the soloists was also unorthodox. In the early 1700s, typical harpsichords weren’t loud enough to perform solos above a large ensemble. But the purchase of a new, bigger harpsichord for the Cöthen Court in 1719 (a purchase that Bach himself made, and which led to his chance meeting with the Marburg of Brandenburg) inspired Bach’s experiment here — and it worked, leading the way to keyboard concertos to come.

The first movement, Allegro, is a joyous affair. The first theme begins with the full orchestra and the solo violin playing a lively melody that flows up and then down, repeating each note twice, giving it texture and drive. The flute and harpsichord soon join in, but right away the harpsichord’s presence is vibrantly felt. Throughout, the trio of soloists, both alone and in pairings, have plenty of dazzling playing to do. The harpsichord most noticeably begins to play an increasingly virtuosic part, ultimately undertaking a very unexpected, extremely challenging, and breathtaking cadenza. The cadenza then leads into a final return of the orchestral opening theme to end the movement.

The second movement, Affettuoso (tenderly expressive), is also surprising as Bach scores it only for the solo trio. The tempo is slow and the mood deeply somber. The movement begins with a brief upward-motion motive with dotted rhythms, first with the violin, then the flute, then the harpsichord –– their collective voices imbuing the theme with an astonishing beauty. In this movement, the three instruments progress with this motive as soloists, as duets, and as a trio, through some of Bach’s most exquisite writing.  

The final movement, Allegro, is a galloping gigue, with skipping rhythms and dancing triplets in every bar. Although the harpsichord is still prominent, this finale mainly focuses on ensemble music-making. At about three and a half minutes, Bach does something slightly unusual, at least for what we’ve heard in the Brandenburgs so far: He completely stops and plays the beginning section again, which leads us to the last, joyful bars.

Notes on Mark Janello’s free Improvisation by Jed Gaylin. All other notes
© Max Derrickson. 

March 16 Concert

March 16 ConcertGyörgy Sándor Ligeti 

(Born in Diciosânmartin (renamed Târnăveni in 1941) in Transylvania, Romania (then part of Hungary) in 1923; died in Vienna, Austria in 2006)

Sechs Bagatellen (“Six Bagatelles”)

Allegro con spirito

György Ligeti was one of the 20th century’s great composers, and one of its most innovative. Though his music was typically in the avant-garde camp, its modernism was nonetheless molded to be accessible — dissonance, in Ligeti’s hands, could be quite beautiful. His path to recognition, though, was difficult. Like most Eastern European composers, there came a time when he had to reckon with the Soviet Union. Even in Hungary, Ligeti suffered Soviet bans on his music in the early 1950s to such a degree that he reimagined his composing aesthetic entirely, partly as a renewal and partly in protest.

As a result of particularly harsh censorship in 1951, Ligeti said that he then “began to experiment with very simple structures of rhythms and sonorities — as if to build up a ‘new music’ from nothing.” One of the first results was his set of 11 bagatelles for piano, Musica ricercata, completed in 1953. Bagatelles, in a musical sense, are musical “trifles” — very short pieces with entertainment as their goal. Musica ricercata’s “new music from nothing” began with a first movement using only two pitches. Each successive movement added one pitch, until by the final movement, the entire chromatic scale was being used. In 1953, Ligeti arranged six of these bagatelles for wind quintet, featuring flute, oboe, clarinet, French horn, and bassoon. These six works are full of energy, surprises, humor, beauty, and vivid colors. Our concert tonight opens with the first of them.

This first bagatelle, Allegro con spirito (fast and in a spirited manner), is a comically manic, and ingeniously economical, little jewel. Ligeti uses only four notes for the entire, brief work: C, E, E flat, and G, spread across several octaves. The flute and oboe take the lead in the first bars with a short, rhythmic one-measure motive — a hyper-jiggling of two notes, E flat and C.  Shortly, a G is added, and the motive branches out somewhat. But rather than sounding particularly melodic, the motive sounds almost like the flute and oboe are shouting above extremely terse little punctuations by the clarinet, horn, and bassoon. Several bars later, the clarinet takes the same motive but changes one pitch (E to E flat). The movement careens across the bars, with the motive becoming more of a conversation, spreading between the upper winds, while the horn and bassoon peck away at a lengthy run of dry, repeated notes like crazed woodpeckers. This meteoric one-minute work requires an exceptional cast of virtuosic players to perform it: Ligeti demands breakneck articulation and wild leaps in intervals from the instruments. Most impressive is the way in which just five wind instruments using a mere four notes can sound like an entire orchestral wind section. The wildness of the short motive begins to stretch longer, panting, faltering, until, wryly, the last note is pecked out in a whisper by the bassoon as though everyone is exhausted.


Darius Milhaud

(Born in Marseille, France, in 1892; died in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1974)

La Cheminée Du Roi René, Op. 205

1. Cortège (“Procession”)

2. Aubade (“Morning love song”)

3. Jongleurs (“Jugglers”)

4. La Maousinglade (Name of a village near Aix-en-Provence)

5. Joutes sur L’Arc (“Jousting on the Arc River”)

6. Chasse à Valabre (“Hunting at Valabre”)

7. Madrigal nocturne (“Night-time song”)

French composer Darius Milhaud grew up near Aix-en-Provence, where, centuries earlier, “Good King” René of Anjou (1409–1480), who was also count of Provence, retired. René’s reputation for being a chivalric “man of the people” still lingered in Provence in Milhaud’s time. In 1939, the director Raymond Bernard made a film that takes place in Provence called Cavalcade d’amour and asked Milhaud to provide some of the music. Milhaud then repurposed that film music into a suite of seven movements for wind quintet titled La Cheminée Du Roi René (“The Hearth of King René”). The title is derived from an old Provençal proverb that plays on the words “hearth,” “chimney”, and “promenade”: King René loved strolling through his lands in search of sunny spots on winter days, and La Cheminée leads us through an imagined day that includes one of those strolls. Milhaud’s seven-movement work has become one of his best-loved pieces. Including hints of late medieval music-making, it’s a lyrical and quirky kind of fantasy piece.  

The first movement, Cortège, introduces us to René by representing a royal procession as it makes its way through the town and its environs. The music here is calm and good-natured, as René himself was said to be. It begins with a delightfully lyrical oboe theme, replete with medieval-sounding musical ornamentations. The horn and bassoon provide the initial accompaniment and the harmonies they provide are often written in different keys (this is called bitonality — something Milhaud loved to do), making for some quirky and delightful musical moments.  

Aubade, the second movement, is the beginning of the royal court’s imagined day. An aubade is a predawn courtly love song rooted in the songs of French troubadours. Medieval courtly love emphasized nobility and chivalry, and Milhaud imbues his aubade with the dawn’s sense of gentleness and sweetness.

In the third movement, Jongleurs, the royal procession finds amusement with a quintet of jugglers. Milhaud wonderfully uses the five distinct voices of the winds to evoke the sense of things being tossed about with great skill, flipping up in the air, with the separate winds often playing in lines contrary to each other.  

The fourth movement, La Maousinglade, is a reflective movement named for the village near Aix where Milhaud still had a house. The writing is gorgeous, especially when the bassoon dives deep into its register about midway through, creating an especially rich sound for the quintet.  

The fifth movement, Joutes sur l’Arc, is a reference to René’s love for jousting; he held elaborate tournaments by the River Arc in Provence and wrote a well-known volume on the rules of the sport. But rather than trying to musically capture the sport itself, Milhaud focuses on the hubbub of the spectacle and the air of excitement and animated chatter coursing through the spectators by trading themes between the instruments.

The sixth movement, Chasse à Valabre, depicts a hunting outing in Valabre, a part of René’s estate. But the effect is comical, not noble. At the beginning, the horn is given its typical pride of place as the hunting horn, but it begins to get bogged down at about one minute into the movement. Everything seems to get off-kilter — the tempo slows down and the meter changes, and the horn and bassoon get stuck in a kind of plodding motive. To bring the hunt to a close, the flute, oboe, and clarinet take over the heralding.

The seventh movement, Madrigal nocturne, brings the day’s adventures to a close with a lovely, wistful nighttime serenade. At about one minute, some polyphony (separate melodic lines in harmony) between all the instruments creates a beautiful and spirited moment. Then, the last bars drift off into the night with tenderness.


Franz Ignaz Danzi

(Born in Schwetzingen, Germany, in 1763; died in Karlsruhe, Germany, in 1826)

Wind Quintet in G minor, Op. 56, No. 2 

1. Allegretto

2. Andante

3. Menuetto — Trio

4. Allegro

Franz Danzi was a highly respected cellist, composer, and teacher during a long career that witnessed Mozart’s last years and all of Beethoven’s working years. He was also a mentor to the German opera composer Carl Maria von Weber. As a composer in his own right, Danzi contributed to nearly every genre of the day and often with impressive works. Perhaps most important, he was one of the first composers to take a keen interest in the wind quintet genre and was influential in getting it established in the concert hall. Danzi wrote nine excellent wind quintets between 1820 and 1824, and they have become an extremely important foundation of the repertoire. His first three quintets were published together as Opus 56 in 1821 and have remained deservedly popular. Tonight’s concert presents the second of these quintets; it is a wonderful example of lyrical beauty and classical clarity.

The opening movement, Allegretto (not too fast), begins with a kind of halting set of introductory bars, as if Danzi has abandoned the melody and left it lingering unresolved several times — the effect is catchy. After a few bars the oboe arrives with a light and airy little melody, which soon launches into some wonderfully brisk sequences of virtuosic upward runs in the clarinet and flute, and later the bassoon arrives. The entire movement features this kind of virtuosity and lightness, and displays Danzi’s uncanny craft in treating the five winds as equal voices.

The second movement, Andante (moderately slow), is flowing and gently lyrical. Especially deft is Danzi’s use of all the winds to make a cohesive melody. The beautiful songfulness of the themes become even richer as Danzi often divides the melodic line among the five instruments, but in such a seamless way that it sounds more like the melody is changing color, not instruments. An especially lovely moment occurs at about one minute into the movement, with the clarinet burbling arpeggios as the oboe sings above.

The Menuetto — Trio movement is a sort of hybrid of Mozart’s classical dance movements and Beethoven’s scherzos: though light-hearted like the former, it is written in a bristling fast tempo like the latter. Danzi adds his own cleverness by delaying the natural ending to the first theme of the opening Menuett, as though the quintet has decided to keep playing the last two bars of the theme several times too many. The middle Trio section features the flute flitting gracefully about like a butterfly. The return of Menuett ends the movement.

The final movement, Allegro (fast), is romping fun with more virtuosity, and includes some delightful outbursts from the horn. A particularly great display of woodwind pyrotechnics occurs at about two minutes into the movement, when all the winds except the horn launch into a daring dash of a long string of 16th notes, something like a gale wind. The closing section keeps the energy moving quickly forward, until the final five bars, when Danzi recaptures the light classical touch with a few solid, ending chords.


Alexandra Molnar-Suhajda 

(American; born in 1975)

Three Nature Walks 

1. Autumn Woods

2. Winter Moonlight

3. Cherry Blossom Path

Raised in northern Virginia, composer Alexandra Molnar-Suhajda studied music composition at George Mason University. She received her bachelor’s degree there in 1998, after being named the music department’s Most Outstanding Musician in 1997. Since graduation, she has taught privately and performed with many professional ensembles throughout the Washington, D.C. area. Since 2014, she has been the instrumental music director at Oakcrest School,
in Vienna, Virginia.

Three Nature Walks was commissioned by the Patagonia Winds woodwind quintet and premiered at the 2015 National Flute Association convention in Washington, D.C. It consists of three movements that Ms. Molnar-Suhajda describes as “brief vignettes inspired by the countryside surrounding the DC area.”

The first movement, Autumn Woods, is marked to be played Semplice (in a simple manner). The horn begins the walk with a kind of call to nature. One imagines looking up into the splendid colors of the trees as the quintet plays motives that continually rise up. The clarinet soon initiates a repeated oscillating motive — a motive that will take several guises throughout the entire piece — which feels as though this walk has reached one of the region’s many brooks or streams. Soon after, at about one minute, the music arrives at a lovely moment as the horn sings above the other winds as they burble upward and then downward softly underneath. This burbling section trades back and forth with the calmer opening music, bringing a sense of inner jubilation and contentedness.

The second movement, Winter Moonlight, is marked Con delicatezza (with delicateness). Here, Molnar-Suhajda evokes the beauty of moonlight on snow, and the clearness of a dark sky and brilliant moon. The movement begins with a new oscillating motive in the flute, oboe, and bassoon, and then the clarinet sings a quiet serenade. All feels aglow, especially at about a half minute into the movement when the clarinet continues into a new and beautifully lyrical melody. This melody is then shared among the entire quintet. It’s a moving love song to the night.

The final movement, Cherry Blossom Path, is marked A piacere (at pleasure – meaning the performers are free to play the rhythms loosely). This movement is a fantasia of sorts, musically celebrating one of the world’s greatest shows of beauty when millions of cherry blossoms bloom around the nation’s capitol. The bassoon begins with a solo rhapsody that is indeed at pleasure. Soon the rest of the quintet joins the walk with flurries of falling cherry blossoms, represented by trills. A new oscillating motive in the oboe and clarinet is added to the bassoon, as though the walking has stepped up. Especially delightful are the extended solos played by each member of the quintet. The final bars then slow down, ending quietly, happily surrounded by a world of pink and white blossoms.


William Grant Still  

(Born in Woodville, Missouri, in 1895; died in Los Angeles, California, in 1978)

Miniatures for Woodwind Quintet 

1. I Ride an Old Paint

2. Adolorido

3. Jesus Is a Rock in the Weary Land

4. Yaraví

5. A Frog Went a-Courtin’

In 1955, when most African American citizens in some Southern states were forbidden from even drinking out of the same water fountains as their white neighbors, composer William Grant Still achieved musical breakthroughs. He was the first African American to conduct the New Orleans Philharmonic, and indeed the first African American to conduct any major orchestra in the Deep South. He was also an important figure in the Harlem Renaissance. Still made the songs and the “blues” of African Americans the soul of much of his music, and he achieved a certain greatness in doing so. This was no small task in the pre–civil rights era in the United States. Thus, he is commonly referred to as the dean of African American music.

Still especially loved folksongs. In 1948 he wrote his delightfully popular Miniatures, a suite celebrating a spiritual and four traditional folksongs. First written as a trio for flute, oboe, and piano, Still rearranged it in 1963 for wind quintet. This is a wonderful concert piece — Still had an uncanny talent for arranging songs
and spirituals.

I Ride an Old Paint is a cowboy song from the western United States that was used to lull cattle to rest. It begins with a rapturous cadenza in the oboe. Soon the bassoon plays an ostinato that evokes the hoof steps of a Paint horse (a good-natured, speckled work horse used in cattle driving), and the flute then plays the folksong outright.

Adolorido originated in Mexico. Despite its upbeat feel, the title generally translates as “I’m sore,” and the lyrics belie the singer’s pain from a broken heart. Still has the quintet play the song as a kind of chorus, and treats the catchy tune with a short set of fun variations. 

Jesus Is a Rock in the Weary Land is a spiritual, possibly originating in the Sea Islands along the coast of Georgia in the southeastern United States. It’s a beautiful tune, and one that has attracted dozens of artists to sing it. Still makes it a very bluesy song, first being sung in earnest by the clarinet. A low, rocking motive in the accompanying bassoon and horn evokes a very world-weary soul.

Yaraví is a Peruvian genre of folksong, developed centuries ago by Incan natives who, after the Spanish conquests, incorporated Spanish and Moorish musical influences into their traditional songs. A yaraví, sometimes translated as “a lament,” typically evokes a sense of melancholic beauty, and Still’s arrangement is one of this work’s most beautiful movements.

A Frog Went a-Courtin’ was originally an old Scottish song, but Still would have known it as an American folksong. It’s a silly children’s tune about a frog who’s riding a horse to court his love, “with a saber and pistol by his side.” The oboe plays the tune first over a steady rhythmic accompaniment in the horn, bassoon, and clarinet. But as the tune continues, Still gives it just the right touch of exaggerated swagger and fun: The tempo picks up and the volume increases as the flute and the oboe then share the tune in a duet until the song’s comical and abrupt ending.


Norman Hallam

(Born in Coventry, England in 1945)

Dance Suite for Wind Quintet

1. Waltz

2. Bossa Nova

3. Quickstep

4. Charleston

Norman Hallam is a celebrated English musician and composer. Although childhood polio left him wheelchair dependent, it never stopped him from becoming a great clarinetist. His performing career was spent almost entirely as a clarinetist with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, from which he retired in 1999, and as the clarinetist in the Canzona wind quintet from 1976 to 1986. He found his gift as a composer as well while studying at the Birmingham Conservatory and then the Royal Academy of Music. Among his finest works are his Clarinet Concerto (1998) and his very popular Dance Suite for Wind Quintet, composed in 1980 for Canzona to perform.

The Dance Suite for Wind Quintet revels in the joy of ballroom dance and, as Hallam said, as an “entertainment vehicle” for him and his colleagues in Canzona. For this work, Hallam wrote four original tunes set in popular styles from the 1920’s through the 1950’s — these are jazzy, ballroom-dance styles, with lots of syncopations and liveliness, making this work a great audience favorite.

The first movement, Waltz, is written in the typical three beats to a bar, but this is not the waltz of the Viennese ballrooms in Europe. Hallam’s Waltz uses a quicker set of steps, with the swinging feel of the smoky ballrooms of Harlem and Chicago in the 1920s. Featuring a happy-go-lucky melody, and bluesy riffs abounding, the quintet glides us jauntily across the dance floor.

The next dance, Bossa Nova, originated in Brazil in the 1950’s and it quickly migrated throughout the Western world. Most famous is its “bossa nova beat,” a syncopated ostinato (repeating figure); here, this figure is immediately played by the bassoon. Above this, the oboe plays a slightly lazy yet sensuous tune. A nice touch is the “stacked up” jazzy chord that ends the movement. 

The Quickstep comes next, a dance that originated in the 1920s and was specifically meant to be danced to ragtime tunes. Hallam makes this a light-hearted dance tune, with a tempo easy to sway and step to, with delicious melodies from each of the quintet winds. A comical little set of musical “hops” — a quick series of short little rhythms — occur after about two and a half minutes; these are then set aright to end the dance properly. 

The finale, Charleston, is a dance that came from Charleston, South Carolina, and has its roots in the African American juba dance. A juba is a dance that enslaved African Americans used to choreograph mock combat and to relay secret messages with hand and body slaps (a kind of Morse code). By the time it became popular as a ballroom dance in the early 1920’s, it had morphed from a simple set of steps into the dance we now know, with twisting feet and athletic kicks and hops. The movement’s opening measures, with its flurries of jazzy little riffs, bring us immediately into a ballroom filled with flappers and their gents. The melody then steps out, happy and filled with joie de vivre. A fun section arrives at about one minute, when a muted horn has a long, virtuosic solo. Soon after, the tempo picks up and the dance toe-taps its way to the final bars.

Program notes © Max Derrickson

FOM Mysteries, Marvels, and Mischief Nov 4 & 5

FOM Mysteries, Marvels, and Mischief Nov 4 & 5Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges

(Born near Basse Terre, Guadeloupe, in 1745; died in Paris, France, in 1799)

Overture to L’amant Anonyme (also published. as Symphony No. 2 in D Major, Op. 11, No. 2)

  • Allegro presto
  • Andante
  • Presto

Joseph Bologne was born on the French-ruled Caribbean island of Guadalupe to a French plantation owner, Georges Bologne de Saint-Georges, and an enslaved 16-year-old young woman from Senegal, known as Nanon. It was common for French nationals in the colonies to send their children, regardless of their race, to Paris to receive the best education. Thus, at the age of seven, Joseph found himself in Paris where he soon distinguished himself both in fencing and as a violinist. It was his great prowess as the finest fencer in Paris that led to the title by which we know him today, “the Chevalier de Saint-Georges” (chevalier being the noble rank of knight.)

It’s hard to capture just how exceptional Joseph Bologne was in his time. Along with being one of the finest fencers of his generation, he also excelled at boxing, dancing, horsemanship, and later, soldiering. These talents, along with his charm and good looks, prompted American president John Adams to call Bologne “the most accomplished man in Europe.” And amid all this swashbuckling, Bologne also found time to excel in the musical world.

His musical abilities earned him the nickname “the Black Mozart” — a sobriquet reflecting both Bologne’s formidable gifts and 18th-century prejudice. He was acclaimed as a violinist and conductor, and he was at the heart of commissioning and premiering Haydn’s delightful set of “Paris” symphonies (1785–86). In 1788, circumstances led Bologne and Mozart to lodge at the same palace in Paris — and the 22-year-old Mozart was apparently somewhat daunted by Bologne’s success and confidence. Later, Bologne was considered for the directorship of the Paris Opera, but the era’s racism ended that possibility.  

Bologne’s compositions included some extremely fine sinfonias (early versions of symphonies), concertos, string quartets, sonatas, vocal works, and operas. In his time, the Parisian taste for classical music was planted in the style gallant, a trend that favored clarity, lightness, and brevity. Such is the flavor of the overture to his comic opera L’amant Anonyme (The Anonymous Lover). Based on a play by Madame Stephanie Genlis, the opera premiered in 1780 and it is the only opera of the six that Bologne wrote that has survived in full. It was fairly common at the time for French operas to begin not with overtures (as we know them today) but with sinfonias — three-movement works, like sonatas in structure, but for orchestral performances. The overture to L’amant Anonyme is just such a sinfonia, being a three-movement work and hardly 10 minutes in length. Later, Bologne recast this overture as a stand-alone sinfonia, and called it his Symphony No. 2. Regardless of its title, the music is lyrical and spirited yet sophisticated in dramatic effect.

The first movement, Allegro presto (fast, lively), sets off at a delightfully brisk pace. Bologne uses a small orchestra — two horns; two oboes, violins, and violas; and a bass stringed instrument (designated as the basso continuo) — but even with those few instruments, the music is filled with joie de vivre. The first part of the main theme features the upper strings playing three repeated notes followed by a longer note; this longer note repeats several times, each at a higher pitch, and the effect is winningly optimistic. When the oboe plays a new phrase over plucked bass at about 30 seconds into the overture, the feeling turns delicate and tender. A contrasting section in a minor key gives this brief three-and-a-half-minute movement a kind of shadow relief, making it a concise little marvel of infectious joyfulness.

The second movement, Andante (leisurely, not fast), is scored for strings only. The themes are quietly melancholic but nonetheless gentle, and the very first bars feature a canon-like repetition between the upper violins and the violas and bass. The music evokes the pathos of the slow movements used by Bologne’s French Baroque forbears, like Jean-Baptiste Lully and Jean-Philippe Rameau, whose slow movements had the uncanny ability of reaching emotional depths with surprisingly uncomplicated melodies. Bologne’s Andante here is, similarly, disarmingly nostalgic.

The third movement, Presto (very fast), sprints out with a feeling of purpose. Each measure is motored along with at least one of the instruments in the orchestra playing driving triplets. The first part of this finale is in a major key and is fanfare-ish and exuberant. Soon, however, a section in the minor key answers that jubilance with a feeling of caution, eventually ending in a moment of rather unexpected silence. And then the minor key’s cautious music repeats, to be quickly replaced by the return of the major key’s jubilant music. The triplets then drive the movement to its sunny and resolute ending bars.


Ciprian Porumbescu 

(Born in Bukovina [now Shepit], Ukraine in 1853; died in Stupca [now Porumbescu; renamed after the composer in 1953], Romania in 1883)

Balada for Violin and Orchestra

  • Molto cantabile e espressivo (Very songlike and expressive)

Ciprian Porumbescu was born in Bukovina (today an area that straddles northern Romania and southwestern Ukraine) at a time when Romania was striving for independence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was a musical prodigy, studying piano at the age of four with Karol Mikuli, one of Chopin’s students. And although his first formal adult studies began in theology and philosophy, he continued his musical pursuits by composing religious chorales and patriotic anthems for the Romanian Unionist independence movement at his school. Austrian authorities imprisoned him briefly in 1877 because of his political activities, and he contracted tuberculosis while he was detained. After his release, he studied with Anton Bruckner at the Vienna Conservatory and then returned to Romania. Back home, his musical career began to flourish, and he became the most celebrated nationalist composer of his time.  But his death from the tuberculosis he caught in prison cut short his career at the height of his fame. Nevertheless, he left an important musical legacy for his Romanian successors. 

Many of the more than 250 works Porumbescu composed in his short life were influenced by Romanian folklore and folksong. Two of them would become especially important to Romania: his operetta Crai Nau (New Moon) based on Romanian folk tales and heroes, and his 1880 romantic showpiece, the balada for violin and orchestra. The balada ultimately became his most popular work. It is rich in pathos and lyrical beauty and steeped in a celebrated style of folksong called doina.  

The doina was a unique type of Romanian folksong meant for quiet meditation. Typically sung or played in private on a solo instrument, it was a free-flowing tune with wandering melodies. Its performance style depended on the performer’s mood but its main purpose was to bring solace and to ease one’s soul. It was in this spirit that Porumbescu composed his exceptional balada in 1880, during a break from his studies in Vienna.

True to the doina genre, Porumbescu’s balada at once evokes a feeling of rumination and heartache. It captures a deep sense of intimacy, the kind that brings tears to the cheek in silence. The first part of the work features a gentle kind of inner dialogue by the solo violin playing rubato (stretching the length of notes for expressive effect). The soloist’s reflections also observe many fermatas (moments where the forward momentum stops), as though stopping often to contemplate. Underneath this songful meditation the orchestra provides pizzicatos and quiet harmonic undertows. At about six minutes into the work, Porumbescu changes the character: the tempo quickens sharply, and the violin and orchestra join in a folk dance with two brief parts. The first part includes bracing runs by the violin, as if the dance partners are twirling with exuberance. The second part is somewhat sensual, as though the partners have slowed their dance to whisper affections to each other. This dance, however, is quite brief, almost as though it were a memory. The bittersweet music from the beginning then returns to bring this beautiful work to its final bars, marked morendo (dying away).


Camille Saint-Saëns 

(Born in Paris in 1835; died in Algiers, Algeria, in 1921) 

Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso for violin and orchestra, Op. 28

The prolific Camille Saint-Saëns might well be considered the professor emeritus of French music. Over the eight and a half decades, he composed more than 300 works in a vast range of genres; performed as a piano and organ soloist in hundreds of concerts; taught countless pupils; championed new composers even as he helped revive the works of Bach and Handel (composers he adored); and was known in every corner of the music world. The French composer Hector Berlioz quipped famously of his younger genius compatriot, “Il sait tout, mais il manque d’inexpérience” (“He knows everything but lacks inexperience”). Music poured forth from the young Saint-Saëns almost from the beginning. He learned the piano at age two and a half, was composing at three, and became a concert pianist at the age of ten. As he later said of himself, he produced music as naturally as an apple tree produces fruit.  

In his late twenties, Saint-Saëns’s popular status brought him into the circles of the finest musicians of his era. One of them was one of the world’s greatest violinists, the Spanish virtuoso Pablo de Sarasate (1844–1908), for whom everyone seemed to be writing compositions. Saint-Saëns followed suit, penning his Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso specifically for the young Spanish virtuoso in 1863. Sarasate premiered the work in Paris that same year. It instantly became a favorite for both violinists and audiences, and its popularity has never diminished. And no wonder: this virtuosic showpiece offers many exquisite musical fruits.

The Introduction, marked Andante malinconico (not fast, in a melancholy manner), is one of Saint-Saëns’s most beautiful melodies: lyrically melancholic, it is imbued with an inner glow, made even more alluring by the darkly hued harmonies from the orchestra. But its somberness seems agitated: quickly there are wild little flourishes from the violin soloist as though the violin wants to break free. Then, within a minute and a half, the spell is broken and the spirit of the music changes completely as the piece moves into the wonderfully sultry beginning of the Rondo Capriccioso section.

Here, deliberate chords are repeated at a pace that evokes a Spanish flamenco dancer approaching his partner, fire in his eyes, steady and lusty. The violin then joins in with an equally lusty theme that is Roma-like in character, and indeed capriccioso (capricious, temperamental): it dances between coyness in flirty, fluttery ornamentation in the higher register and temperamental boldness with gritty turns in the lower register. This is the main theme of the Rondo (a structure in which a main theme returns periodically between other themes). Then a second theme is introduced, marked con morbidezza (softly and tenderly, smoothly), a melody of remarkable poetic beauty.

These two themes will return several times but along the way, Saint-Saëns adds increasingly delightful new and brief musical moments — both lyrically and in imaginative variation-like treatments in the orchestral accompaniment. There truly is never a moment in this work that does not dazzle. Most marvelous are the progressively virtuosic passages for the soloist, culminating in a brief cadenza of demanding triple-stops (playing three notes simultaneously). The ending section then sprints off, with sparks flying off the violinist’s strings, to the work’s final, exciting bars.


Ludwig van Beethoven

(Born in Bonn, Germany, in 1770; died in Vienna, Austria, in 1827)

Symphony No. 4 in B Major, Op. 60

  • Adagio – Allegro vivace
  • Adagio
  • Allegro vivace
  • Allegro ma non troppo

In 1806, Beethoven was commissioned to write a new symphony for Count Franz von Oppersdorff, a Prussian arts patron who was very much enamored with Beethoven’s bright and mischievous Second Symphony (1802). Beethoven obliged the count’s preferences with his Fourth Symphony, his most good-humored and joyful symphony. Though less fiery than its predecessor, the Third (the Eroica), the Fourth is equally a masterpiece and significant in Beethoven’s composing growth as he entered his middle, or “heroic,” period of composition. The techniques that Beethoven experimented with here, particularly with forward motion, became inspirational both for him and for future composers.  

The first movement begins with an introduction steeped in timelessness. Over a static, sustained chord, the winds open with a passage of sinking intervals. This passage glows with an inner strength as it meanders through sound and time, gravitating toward a delicious surprise: the orchestra essentially cranks up the symphony’s motor with several upward “rips” in the strings to begin the Allegro vivace (fast and lively), the main section of the movement. It’s a wonderful bit of humor, and when the motor starts moving, there’s hardly any stopping it but for one brief and delightfully unexpected moment: As the movement builds up momentum, a sudden pause occurs — all sound stops, save for a tremolo (a roll) on the timpani — sounding as though all the energy had escaped out of hand and was slung away, like the silent speed of a catapulted object. Then the motor is revved up again and it reels towards the ending bars, when it again seems to just quit working.

The second movement displays both motion and beauty. For motion, Beethoven turns again, mainly, to what is called the “timpani motive” (although it’s heard first immediately in the strings) to tap out a subtly motoric motive — one to which all the instruments contribute — underneath a serenely floating theme. That rhythmic motive has an easy, happy pace and serves as a kind of gentle and steady heartbeat. The themes above it are beautiful, with variations and wanderings that are as fresh and simple as any music Beethoven ever wrote. Berlioz was mesmerized by this movement, saying:

“[It] seems to have been breathed by the archangel Michael … standing on the threshold of the empyrean.”

The third movement scherzo is a fun romp full of devilish energy. In the first part, Beethoven creates a kind of motion dissonance by fitting two-beat phrases into three-beat measures (prompting Berlioz to comment whimsically that the “cross-rhythms have in themselves real charm, though it is difficult to explain why”). Then a countermelody appears in which the bassoon — an integral instrument in this symphony — recalls the winds’ timeless, sinking interval from the introduction to the first movement but humorously recasts it so the listener feels at first as though the downward intervals will continue forever.

To end such symphony of movement and gracious fun, Beethoven chooses the grandest of all motion makers — perpetual motion — launched by wonderfully whisking sixteenth notes that immediately begin this movement. From there, it’s a whirlwind of motion, joy, and excited tidings until the end.

Program notes © Max Derrickson