Jean Françaix (Born in Le Mans, France in 1912; died in Paris in 1997)
Trio for Oboe, Bassoon and Piano (1994)
1. Adagio — Allegro molto 2. Andante 3. Finale
Jean Françaix was a modern French composer very much in the neoclassical tradition of Poulenc. He eschewed the trends of atonality and the rejection of traditional form, choosing wit, color, and a supple lightness in service of producing musical “pleasure.” Prolific throughout his life, Françaix was a piano virtuoso, an active performer, a skilled orchestrator and a composer in myriad forms and ensembles. Like great French composers, Françaix had a skillful penchant for the wind instruments.
The Trio for Oboe, Bassoon and Piano was commissioned by the International Double Reed Society for their 24th Festival in 1994. The Trio is astonishing for its modernity and its accessibility. In the tradition of neoclassicism, the music is simultaneously familiar from the past, yet new and different, undeniably of the present. But where the original neoclassicists looked to the 18th century and earlier for their inspiration, Françaix, in this work, seems to look back within his own lifespan. In a new loop of neoclassical spirit, the music evokes the popular sounds of a young modernism in the early 20th century: syncopated urban rhythms, musical theatre, the exuberance, and occasional plaintive nostalgia of contemporary man. The strengths of the composition are its exquisite detail and complexity, the virtuosic demands placed on the performer, and the expert use of the idiomatic qualities of the instruments.
Françaix’s thoughts are as refreshing as his music:
It’s difficult for a composer to talk about his own works. If he praises them, he is accused of boasting; if he disparages them, he is considered guilty of false modesty. If he dissects them into theme A and theme B, musicologists will applaud, but musicians will find him boring. If the work is of any value, it will need no explanation; if it is of no value, no esoteric commentary will render it any better . . . . All I ask my listeners is to open their ears and be brave enough to decide whether they like my music or not. I don’t want any intermediary between me and my listeners trying to sway their judgment one way or the other. They should remember they are free human beings, not obedient automata. I want them to crush snobbery, fashion, and envy with the power of common sense and to enjoy my music if it gives them pleasure, which of course I hope it does. (Adapted from a text by Kai Christensen, Earsense.org.)
Francis Poulenc (Born in Paris, France, in 1899; died in Paris in 1963)
Selected Songs (arr. Dietrich Zöllner and Poulenc Trio)
Les chemins de l’amour (1940)
C(from 1944)
Toréador (1918; rev. 1932)
These three enchanting compositions by Poulenc, orchestrated beautifully for oboe, bassoon, and piano by German arranger Dietrich Zöllner, each portray a distinctive chapter of French history, colored by Poulenc’s extraordinary abilities as a storyteller.
LesCheminsdel’amour, or ThePathwaysofLove, a melodious creation composed in 1940, is based on lyrics by Jean Anouilh, from his play Léocadia. The creation of this piece provided Poulenc a respite from the shadow of Nazi occupation looming over his residence, as he disclosed in a 1941 New Year’s letter. He mused on the melancholic era in which they were living and wondered about its impending conclusion.
The song title, C, or Cé,originates from a French commune called Les Ponts de Cé or The Bridges of Cé, a site known for its historical significance. This commune, entrenched in numerous decisive battles, finds a mention in the song’s opening verse. The song’s text is from the DeuxPoèmes by Louis Aragon, published in 1944 during the Nazi occupation, one of the most devastating periods of French history.
The lyrics encapsulate the poet’s somber memories of the fateful days of May 1940, when a substantial part of France was on the run from invading armies. Amid the disarray, the poet crossed the bridges of Cé, amid abandoned weaponry and overturned vehicles — a poignant memory of a beleaguered nation.
The deeply sentimental tone of the narrative, akin to an old ballad, compelled Poulenc to create this song, which stands today as one of his most emotionally profound works.
Toréador, one of Poulenc’s first forays into song composition, came into existence under the guidance of Jean Cocteau. Poulenc, who used to delight his friends by singing this piece, was eventually convinced to make it public in 1932. The lyrics tell a whimsical tale of unrequited love a toreador harbors for Pépita, the so-called queen of Venice. The narrative humorously transposes the bullring to Venice’s Piazza San Marco, gondoliers are fancifully portrayed as Spanish galleons, and the oldest doge of the city becomes the lucky recipient of Pépita’s affections. This light-hearted, almost surrealist composition perfectly captures the spirit of Poulenc’s musical creativity.
Viet Cuong (Born in Los Angeles, California, in 1990)
Explain Yourself! (2019)
ExplainYourself!was commissioned by the Barlow Endowment for Music Composition at Brigham Young University for the Poulenc Trio. Here are notes from the composer:
As a clarinetist and admirer of twentieth century French music, I’ve always loved the music of Francis Poulenc. I’m particularly drawn to the joyous, witty nature of many of his pieces, and, with this piece being for the Poulenc Trio, I wanted to pay homage to Poulenc and his sense of humor. As such, the piece begins with a direct quote of his chamber piano concert, Aubade. This quote serves a few purposes: it acts as a marker for when the first section “repeats” itself, and, perhaps more importantly, the main melody of the entire piece uses the same pitches as the opening of Aubade.
After the Poulenc quote, the piece jolts into a tango-like romp with a baroque flair. The instruments all play an equal role in this music and, all things considered, it’s mild mannered. After a few minutes, the Aubade quote signifies a trip back to the beginning after the first climax concludes— much like a repeat in a classical symphony’s first movement. However, this repeat goes awry as the oboist begins to act out by replacing regular notes with raucous multiphonics. The other wind instruments begin to pick up on this mischievous behavior, and all three of them start to interrupt, mock, and distort the phrases. The pianist notices and isn’t pleased. Much like a frustrated parent or teacher, the pianist hammers out dense chords, essentially scolding the winds to get back on track.
Things nearly fall apart as the winds continue to misbehave. Eventually it all comes to a head when the pianist and oboist perform an imitative duet. In doing this, the oboist has a chance to explain himself and prove that, while these multiphonics can be funny, they can also be played melodically and provide structure to a phrase. Won over, the pianist joins in on the fun and the piece concludes in a place where functional classical harmonies and multiphonics can coexist.
André Previn (Born in Berlin, Germany, in 1929; died in New York City, 2019)
Trio for Oboe, Bassoon, and Piano
1. Lively
2. Slow
3. Jaunty
André Previn was born to a Jewish family in Berlin and emigrated with them to the United States in 1939 to escape the Nazis. He became a naturalized citizen of the United States in 1943 and grew up in Los Angeles. An Oscar winner, Previn toured and recorded as a jazz pianist and was conductor of the Los Angeles Philharmonic from 1985-89. In the UK, where he was knighted in 1996, Previn is particularly remembered for his performance on the Morecambe and Wise comedy show in 1971, which involved his conducting a spoof performance of the Grieg Piano Concerto. At a concert in Britain afterwards, Previn had to interrupt the concerto to allow the audience time to stop giggling as they remembered the sketch. It is still considered one of the funniest comedy moments of all time.
Andre Previn composed his Trio for Piano, Oboe and Bassoon in 1994 on a joint commission from the Orchestra of St. Luke’s, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Mary Flagler Cary Charitable Trust. Music for this combination of instruments is unusual but by no means unique; French composers loved the sound of woodwinds, and in some ways Previn’s Trio shows virtues that might be thought typically French: clarity, careful attention to the character of the individual instruments, and a sense of play and fun. Yet if the impulse behind this music might be thought French, here it has an American accent: Previn’s Trio is full of energy, jazz rhythms, and the open harmonies that have, since the time of Copland and Harris, distinguished American music.
The piece is in three movements. The opening, marked “lively,” moves from a spiky beginning through a flowing second theme-group introduced by the bassoon and marked espressivo. The basic metric markings in this movement are 2/4 and 4/4, but Previn frequently interrupts this even pulse with individual measures in such subdivisions as 7/8, 5/8 3/4, 7/16, and others. It is indeed a “lively” movement precisely for the vitality of its rhythms, and a brief coda drives to an emphatic close on a unison B-flat.
In the second movement, Slow, a piano prelude leads to the entrance of the solo oboe; this entrance is marked “lonely”, a marking that might apply to the entire movement, where long chromatic woodwind lines wind their way above chordal accompaniment. The music rises to a climax, then falls away to conclude on its opening material, now varied.
The last movement, Jaunty, changes meter almost by measure. Previn treats the two wind instruments as a group and sets them in contrast to the piano, which has extended solo passages. The leaping opening idea reappears in many forms, including inversion and near the end the tempo speeds ahead as Previn specifies that the music should be played with “jazz phrasing”; these riffs alternate with brief piano interludes marked “simply.” Gradually the movement’s opening theme reasserts itself, and the Trio rushes to its blistering close, once again on a unison B-flat. — Program notes for this work by Eric Bromberger
Dmitri Shostakovich (Born in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1906; died in Moscow in 1975)
Romance, Op. 97a (from the film score of The Gadfly, arr. Anatoly Trofimov.)
A Spin Through Moscow (from the operetta Moscow, Cheryomushki, arr. Anatoly Trofimov.)
In a musical career spanning half a century, Shostakovich engrossed himself with a staggeringly diverse range of genres and styles. Beyond his 15 symphonies and 15 string quartets, his lesser-known works offer intrigue and interest likewise. With the reappraisal of Shostakovich in recent times, his light music is beginning to enjoy unprecedented popularity in concert halls and record catalogues.
TheGadfly (1955) is probably Shostakovich’s best-known film score. It is an orchestral suite of incidental music from the film, which was based on the novel of the same name by Ethel Lilian Voynich. Set in Italy in the tumultuous 1840s, when that nation was under Austrian domination, and revolt and uprisings were common, the story centers on the illegitimate son of a cardinal who joins the fight to unite Italy. When caught, he faces the firing squad as a willing martyr. It is a story of faith, disillusionment, revolution, romance, and heroism.
As a novel The Gadfly was exceptionally popular in the Soviet Union, exerting a large cultural influence. It was compulsory reading there and the top best seller. Indeed, by the time of Voynich’s death, it is estimated to have sold 2,500,000 copies in the Soviet Union alone. Shostakovich composed the score for the film of the same name. Its most famous movement, Romance, was used in the BBC/PBS TV series, Reilly, Ace of Spies.
Moscow,Cheryomushki (1958) is a three-act comic operetta in a bewildering variation of styles, from the Romantic idiom to the most vulgar popular songs. The satirical plot deals with one of the most pressing concerns of urban Russians of the day: the chronic housing shortage and the difficulties of securing livable conditions. Cheryomushki translates to “bird-cherry trees,” the name of a real housing estate in southwest Moscow. A Spin Through Moscow is the first of the four dance-like movements of the orchestral suite from the operetta.
Gioachino Rossini (Born in Pesaro, Italy, in 1792; died in Paris, France in 1868)
Fantaisie Concertante sur des Thèmes de L’ItalianainAlgieri (arr. Charles Triébert and Eugene Jancourt)
This “concert fantasy” is from a delightful collection of opera-inspired arrangements dating from 19th-century Paris and the salon music of that time. It contains works by the opera composers Rossini and Donizetti, who were the delight of Parisian audiences, in potpourri arrangements by the oboe and bassoon virtuosi (and conservatoire professors) of the day Charles Triébert, Henri Brod, and Eugéne Jancourt. These works were not only “tuneful” but enabled the performers to show off their ample virtuosity very well. The rousing FantaisieConcertante, based on tunes from Rossini’s L’italianainAlgeri, (The Italian Girl in Algiers) is such a work.
Rossini composed L’italianainAlgeri, an operatic drama in two acts, when he was 21 years old. The work was first performed at the Teatro San Benedetto in Venice on May 22, 1813. The opera was a notable success, and Rossini made progressive changes to the work for later performances in Vicenza, Milan, and Naples.
The music is characteristic of Rossini’s style, remarkable for its fusion of sustained, manic energy with elegant, pristine melodies. The opera is notable for Rossini’s mixing of opera seria (the “serious” style of Italian opera that predominated in Europe during the early 18th century), with opera buffa (a genre of comic opera which originated in Naples in the mid 18th century).
Except where otherwise noted, program notes by the Poulenc Trio.
Béla Bartók (Born in Nagyszentmiklós, Hungary in 1881; died in New York City in 1945)
Romanian Folk Dances, Sz. 68, BB 76
(The six movements are described by their Hungarian subtitles followed by the English translation)
1. Joc cu bâtǎ (Stick Dance). Allegro moderato
2. Brâul (Sash Dance). Allegro
3. Pê-loc (In One Spot). Andante
4. Buciumeana (Dance from Bucium). Moderato
5. Poargǎ româneascǎ (Romanian Polka). Allegro
6. Mǎrunţel (Fast Dance). Allegro
For the Hungarian composer Béla Bartók, studying traditional folk music was a passion — it was of interest to him anthropologically and nationalistically, as well as musically. But it was the musicality of folksong that was most important to him, and folksongs informed, often outright, much of his composing. When he began to discover the riches of the folksongs from Transylvania around 1903, Bartók said he had “found” his own voice as well. From that point on, his tireless love for traditional music blossomed, becoming one of his musical lodestars for the rest of his life.
The set of six folk dances featured in our concert comes from Bartók’s second collecting trip to Transylvania (then politically a part of Hungary) in 1910–12, when he was able to make field recordings using the then-new technology of wax cylinders. Bartók first reimagined these dances as a short piano suite entitled “Hungarian Folk Dances” in 1915. He kept this title when he rearranged the work for a small orchestra in 1917. The orchestrated version, however, was not published until after the restructuring of Europe that followed World War I, and by that time Transylvania had become part of Romania. Thus, the orchestra version was published as “Romanian Folk Dances,” and this is the name we continue to use today. The melodies of these dances are mostly true to the dances Bartók originally recorded, but since such dances were typically played solo on a regional fiddle or indigenous “peasant” flute, Bartók added harmonic accompaniment. The brilliant brevity of this set of dances — all six of them are typically performed in under seven minutes even with a pause between each — and the dances’ light, but deeply effective, harmonizations have made Bartók’s Romanian Folk Dances one of his most popular works.
(1) Stick Dance. Bartók reportedly heard two Romani (Gypsy) fiddlers romping with this first tune. Such Transylvanian stick dances, according to the Dutch author Martinus Nijhoff, were danced by men as “a solo dance, with various figures [dance movements] the last of which—as a consummation—consists of kicking the room’s ceiling.” The dance is as graceful as it is lively, and here, it is especially tuneful.
(2) Sash Dance. This dance has a particularly sweet and carefree melody. It likely is part of a courtship dance in which the female dancer uses a sash or a decorative belt as a prop; one can imagine her flashing flirtatious smiles over her shoulder.
(3) In One Spot. This a stamping dance, and Bartók imaginatively scored it for drone-like strings with a piccolo solo played overtop (Bartók said he first heard this song played on a peasant’s flute, an instrument akin to a penny whistle,) Transylvanian “stamping” could be as much about being seductively graceful as about athleticism. Indeed, the exotic-sounding mode (key) that Bartók exploits here reminds us of the Turkish-infused music that once was played in the area during the 16th and 17th centuries, when the whole region was a part of the Ottoman Empire, before it came under Hungarian rule.
(4) Dance from Bucium. There’s little documentation now of what social purpose this dance, also called the “Horn Dance,” from Bucium might have served in 1910. The area of Bucium, where Bartók collected this tune, was once a Roman military post in northeastern Transylvania, and the area likely saw quite a few travelers from foreign lands drift through. The tempo of this dance in Bartók’s original recording was much faster than it is recast here, where it is much more pensive with echoes of nostalgia permeating the beautiful tune. Again, the mode (key) sounds exotic like the preceding dance, reminding us of how musical elements likely traveled through this crossroad of Bucium.
(5) Romanian Polka. This polka was the Transylvanian version of the well-known polka that originated in what is now the Czech Republic and spread rapidly through Europe in the 1800s. Bartók captures brilliantly the rowdy and joyful character of its Transylvanian manifestation. This polka is set in three-bar phrases — two measures with three beats, ending with one measure having only two beats. The odd two-beat measure apparently allowed for a quick change of partners.
(6) Fast Dance. This final dance is two fast dances separated by a split-second pause. A fast dance is typically a hyperactive dance for couples arranged in columns of males and females. Fast fiddling and syncopation accompany the dancing, along with foot stamping and thigh slapping (recreated here with loud musical accents). The first dance in this pair is indeed fast and extremely brief and vibrant. The second dance is even faster and more exuberant. Together, they constitute an exhilarating ending to this wonderful early work. And as a footnote, you can detect here a precursor to the whirling, exciting final movement of Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra, which he composed three decades later in 1945, shortly before his death.
Amanda Harberg (Born in Philadelphia in 1973)
Elegy
Amanda Harberg is one of the most gifted and sought-after American composers right now. She has been commissioned by many of our leading orchestras as well as dozens of regional and chamber groups. She is also currently the primary film-score composer for the documentary film company Common Good Productions. Her Elegy has been played worldwide and recorded on Naxos American Classics.
Alongside her distinguished career as an award-winning composer, the Julliard-trained Harberg is also a celebrated concert pianist. She has performed with such world-class orchestras as the New York Philharmonic, the Philadelphia Orchestra, and the Baltimore Symphony, among others.
Perhaps just as important as her composing and performing, Harberg is a deeply committed educator of composition, piano, music theory, aural skills and contemporary music history. For nearly a decade she has distinguished herself as professor of composition at Rutgers University’s Mason Gross School of the Arts in New Jersey. This dedication to teaching has likely deepened her appreciation for those who taught her. And this is what inspired her to create one of her most poignant compositions, Elegy. Ms. Harberg explains the work’s origin as follows:
Elegy began as a prayer. The initial musical ideas came to me when I found out that my beloved piano teacher, Marina Grin, was terminally ill. But the full realization of the piece only emerged spontaneously after I learned of her passing. Elegy is dedicated to the memory of Marina Grin, who first showed me how to live a life in music.
Ms. Harberg originally wrote her Elegy for violin and piano. Soon afterward, she recast it for viola solo and string orchestra, the version featured in our concert. The work unfolds in the same way that news of great sadness always tends to sink in — slowly, as the mind initially struggles to grasp the immensity of what’s happened. At the very opening, the lower strings hum and pulse, filled with grief, everything in surreal slow motion. The upper strings then speak softly in a slow-burning, descending, five-note motif, as if that grief is sinking deeply into the heart. Before the motif can end, the solo viola — as the voice of the bereaved — comes in, speaking two downward-falling notes that float above time and space, deeply sorrowed. In this vein, Elegy moves through episodes — dialogues between strings and solo viola, like dialogues between emotions and the words we strive to give them — diving often into searing sadness but mostly allowing the grief to be processed and to come out into the open air. Throughout, the viola draws us inward, with its distinctly beautiful voice, into the heart’s narrative. About midway through the work, the viola bends (portamento) its initial two-note motif upward, as if by great intentional might, as though the bereaved refuses to keep casting eyes downward. From this point on, Harberg pushes the Elegy, bit by bit, into a memorial of tonal gratitude for her departed mentor, until the strings collectively rise together higher and higher into the light of the sky, to end this extremely moving work.
As the renowned virtuoso violist Brett Deubner (for whom Harberg wrote her highly acclaimed Viola Concerto in 2012), said:
The raw sadness followed by uplifting hope as the work ascends to the heavens is the stuff of great composers such as Barber, Tchaikovsky, and Elgar.… Her Elegy is still, in my opinion, her finest work to date.
Franz Danzi (Born in Schwetzingen [near Mannheim], Germany in 1763; died in Karlsruhe, Germany in 1826)
Sinfonia Concertante in B-flat major for Flute, Clarinet and Orchestra, Op. 41
1. Allegro moderato
2. Larghetto
3. Polonaise — Allegretto
Franz Danzi was born near Mannheim, Germany into a dedicatedly musical family. His father, a friend of Mozart, was the principal cellist in the Mannheim Orchestra (which was rapidly becoming well known in Europe at the time), and his mother was a singer. Together, both parents tutored the young Danzi in cello, voice, and piano. During this period, the city of Mannheim itself was becoming well known, too, as a place where new musical ground was being broken while baroque style evolved into the classical style.
Danzi later became the teacher and close friend of Carl Maria von Weber (1786–1826), who would become famous for writing the first successful German operas in a new romantic style. Together, Danzi and Weber were best known in their lifetimes as composers of opera and for voice. But Danzi also excelled in writing for winds and almost single-handedly created the first repertoire of works in the wind quintet genre. His gifts in writing for winds became recognized only later in his life as the taste for small wind ensemble music grew dramatically around the turn of the 19th century.
Danzi also wrote numerous sinfonia concertantes. In the later decades of the 18th Century, the sinfonia concertante began to emerge from the baroque concerto grosso, which featured several solo instruments in dialogue with a small orchestra. The sinfonia concertante was, in effect, a hybrid between what would become the classical symphony as we know it today and the solo-instrument concerto. Even while Haydn and Mozart were perfecting the classical symphony, Danzi and others (including Mozart) continued to experiment with the sinfonia concertante, and the latter retained its popularity well into the classical era. One of the great joys of the sinfonia concertante form is the delicate balance the full symphony and lots of soloistic moments for several instruments. A splendid example of this is Danzi’s Sinfonia Concertante for Flute, Clarinet and Orchestra, published in 1814, which succeeds imaginatively in this balance.
In the first movement, Allegro moderato, the orchestra’s introductory themes brim with lyricism. The entrance of the soloists, first the clarinet and then the flute, continues a theme that the orchestra has just passed along to them, and the moment is expressly joyful. And thus begins this marvelous sinfonia, which includes a back-and-forth dance of solos and duets between the clarinet and flute, with chamber-like accompaniments from the orchestra, phrase-trading between the soloists and the full orchestra, and moments when the clarinet and flute delicately blend into the fabric with all the instruments. The themes are cheery and light and enriched with colorful harmonic turns, and the writing for the two soloists only gets more inventive and virtuosic as the movement progresses.
The middle movement, Larghetto, is a smilingly relaxed love duet. It begins with a harmoniously shared moment between the soloists and the orchestral winds. Then the clarinet initiates the duet over gently plucked strings, to be joined by the flute. This movement showcases Danzi’s exeptional talent for writing perfectly for the two wind instruments together. His love of opera clearly shines here, too, as everything in this movement rings of song.
The final movement is a polonaise, a dance form from Poland that had become wildly popular throughout Europe in Danzi’s time. Danzi’s Polonaise is almost disarmingly filled with zest, delight, and magically tuneful themes. Most exceptional is the virtuosic demands the flute and clarinet must meet, both as soloists and in playing together as a duo. When the work concludes, it’s impossible not to be smiling in admiration both for the soloists’ virtuosity and for Danzi’s masterful writing.
Charles-François Gounod (Born in Paris in 1818; died in Saint-Cloud, France in 1893)
Symphony No 1 in D major
1. Allegro molto
2. Allegretto moderato
3. Scherzo. Non troppo presto
4. Finale. Adagio — Allegro vivace
The French composer Charles Gounod is mainly remembered today as an opera composer. His great opera Faust (1859) was so popular worldwide that when New York’s Metropolitan Opera House opened its doors in 1883, Faust was its obvious inaugural choice. But, of course, Gounod wrote more than operas and in these other genres he brought his superlative operatic gifts of lyricism. His Symphony No. 1 is an excellent example of this; it is lyrical, fresh, and altogether a melodic showcase. Gounod wrote the first of his only two symphonies in 1853 and 1854. He began it as a kind of exercise to hone his composing skills in writing “absolute” music — music for its own sake untethered to a story or poem, as opera and songs demanded. In this regard, one of Gounod’s great heroes was Mozart. (Gounod once remarked that when he died, as soon as he had managed to wade through all the necessary introductions with the Holy Trinity, he would immediately ask to meet Mozart.)
Indeed, this entire symphony, and especially the first movement (Allegro molto), reflects the charm and lightness of many of Mozart’s symphonies — but with the addition of Gounod’s especially winsome singability and some more modern harmonies. The first theme includes a wonderful little hitch, like a musical hiccup, at the end of many bars that propel the pacing forward, as well as create a feeling of levity. Gounod, however, provides dramatic contrast as the movement progresses — dynamic outbursts, and beautifully crafted passages in darker keys. But another of Gounod’s great talents is also on display here, as well as in this entire symphony — his exceptional skill in writing for winds. Particularly, he focuses often on the oboe and bassoon, two instruments that we’ll hear much more of throughout the symphony. The movement ends with zest and a momentary flurry from the French horn, which will return at the conclusion of the last movement.
The second movement, Allegretto moderato, is wonderfully inventive. It begins with a very melodic but somewhat ambiguous theme that evokes a stroll on a perfect day that is unhurried yet preoccupied by troubling thoughts. A second and very lovely theme by the flute and oboe over pizzicato (plucked) basses soon follows and feels like the easy-going counterpart to the first — as if clearing the head and enjoying the outing. Gounod begins to dress both of those themes with light touches of clever counterpoint and countermelodies in both the strings and winds, suggesting that he might launch into variations on those themes. Instead, though, he begins a light fugue. As the fugue fills up with all the voices playing in counterpoint to each other, the work coalesces into running unison notes that bring us to this movement’s final magical section. Gounod takes tiny slices of all the movement’s themes and has them flit here and there in what seem like random places and instruments (though uncannily keeping a completely coherent melodic line), and this wonderful movement comes to its close with three quietly plucked notes.
The third movement, Scherzo, is not the wild kind of scherzo-romp that Beethoven might have written. Rather, it’s easy-going, almost lazy, and harkening back to the dance minuets of the classical period, only with the added depth of the larger orchestra for which Gounod composed. The themes here are delightfully tuneful and seem almost tailor-made for singing. The Scherzo’s Trio (middle section) showcases a genteel duet between oboe and bassoon.
The Finale movement begins with a slow and serious introduction, a rather classically Mozartian approach. This prolongs the anticipation of the excitement to come and introduces the rapid, four-note motif that will permeate the rest of the Finale. Soon the Allegro vivace (fast and lively) begins, and the effect is as if we have been placed onto a galloping horse, alive with verve and excitement. Gounod also includes some brief but comical moments in this movement: Early on, several unresolved chords that linger with fermatas (markings that keep a note, or rest, held indefinitely, playing with our sense of momentum. Next, Gounod adds two trumpet solos in the vein of heralding horns, as if launching off into a hunt. Then the timpani and French horns revisit this hunting motif with vigor (and recall the end of the first movement). And just before the end, those unresolved, previously suspended chords appear again, as if trying to delay the final notes. But when they do indeed arrive, Gounod presents them resolutely to end this superb symphony with great cheer.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (Born in Salzburg, Austria in 1756; died in Vienna in 1791)
Piano Concerto No. 12 in A major, K. 414
Allegro in A major
Andante in D major
Allegretto in A major
The fact that Mozart needed to convince the city of Vienna that he should be better regarded as both a virtuoso pianist and a composer tells us something about the world of music in that city in 1782. Vienna had an insatiable appetite for music, yet it was not easily impressed nor—ironically—especially sophisticated. That combination would set Mozart’s teeth on edge throughout his career, especially with regard to his piano concertos. But in 1782, not long after he had moved from Salzburg to settle permanently in Vienna and had married, Mozart was determined to win over the fickle Viennese with three extremely charming piano concertos: his 11th, 12th and 13th. Indeed, in a letter to his father, Mozart described these concertos as:
… a happy medium between what is too easy and too difficult; they are very brilliant, pleasing to the ear, and natural without being vapid. There are passages here and there from which the … connoisseurs alone can derive satisfaction; but these passages are written in such a way that the less learned cannot fail to be pleased, though without knowing why.
Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 12 is certainly pleasing to the ear and anything but vapid. Charming and perfectly urbane, the first movement begins with a delightfully spirited theme that is then taken up by the piano soloist. The movement is full of light and gentle wit, perfect not only for the Viennese in the late 18th century but for any concertgoer anywhere anytime. Listen here for a characteristic of Mozart’s early concertos:The piano is typically set apart from the orchestra, often playing extended solo passages or with only the lightest accompaniment. The effect is articulate and enchanting.
For the “connoisseurs,” the second movement begins with a nearly direct quote of part of a theme written by Johann Christian Bach (1735–1782, son of Johann Sebastian) in the overture to his 1763 opera La calamita de’ cuori. While on extended tour as a young piano prodigy, the eight-year-old Mozart had met Johann Christian in London and become quite fond of him and his music. When Mozart wrote his Piano Concerto No. 12, the “London Bach” had just died earlier the same year, and the beginning of the second movement pays homage to him. Regardless of this movement’s origins, however, every listener can simply luxuriate in its gorgeousness. In its beautiful Andante, sophistication is created out of simplicity and poignancy––a hallmark of Mozart’s genius.
The Allegretto completes this concerto with a wonderful rondo (a cyclical form within which sections return) which allows the orchestra and piano to trade and play with several themes, all accomplished cleverly and stylishly. Including some charming little piano cadenzas, the movement is immensely refreshing, and brings this delightful concerto to a refined yet energetic close.
A performance note: Mozart was not only the piano soloist at the premiere of his Concerto No. 12 but also the conductor. This practice of conducting from the keyboard has a long history that predates Mozart. Well before conductors came into their modern existence, players of keyboard instruments often led/conducted their ensembles; in fact, one of the Bach sons found this to be the most superlative way of keeping an orchestra together. Nonetheless, Mozart’s dual performance roles became legendary in his own day, and thus, Maestro Jed Gaylin continues a great tradition that Mozart himself made famous in Vienna.
Anton Webern (Born in Vienna, Austria in 1883; died in Mittersill, Austria in 1945)
Langsamer Satz (“Slow Movement”)
This exquisite work was composed in 1905, early in Anton Webern’s career, when his compositions were tonal, highly chromatic, and steeped in the ethos of the Romantic era. Its title, Langsamer Satz (literally, “Slow Movement”), suggests that Webern may have intended it to be part of a full-fledged string quartet. Yet he never wrote any more movements. The short work remained unpublished and seems to have been shelved and nearly forgotten until nearly 20 years after his death, when it finally received its premiere at a concert in Seattle, Washington, in 1962. Three decades later, in 1992, the Seattle Symphony conductor Gerard Schwartz arranged the piece for string orchestra. Since its reemergence, musicians and audiences have found this brief, orphaned work, with its tenderness and rapturous beauty, to speak completely for itself—its possible place in a never-completed string quartet unnoticed.
At the time of the work’s writing, 1905, Webern had just begun studying composition with Arnold Schoenberg in Vienna. Around 1919, Schoenberg, Webern, and his fellow pupil Alban Berg would later usher in an entirely new method of composing now known as “serial,” or 12-tone, music. Webern’s serial approach was unique, however:His works were concise, given to utter clarity almost above all else, and infused with an uncanny lyricism. Because of these guiding principles, Webern’s short list of his 12-tone works are often celebrated as rarefied musical gems. And though Langsamer Satz was created long before his serial works, Webern’s guiding principles of clarity, concision and lyricism infuse this work and all his early Romantic works just as significantly.
Langsamer‘s beguilement, too, is certainly owed in part to its inspiration from a particularly wondrous time in Webern’s life. Indeed, just before this work’s creation, Webern had just taken a holiday in the Alps with his cousin, Wilhelmine Mörtl, and he was head-over-heels in love with this young woman who would later become his wife. As Webern wrote in his diary in 1905:
To walk forever like this among flowers, with my dearest one beside me, to feel oneself so entirely at one with the universe, without care, free as the lark in the sky above—O what splendor! …. When night fell (after the rain) the sky shed bitter tears, but I wandered with her along a road …. A coat protected the two of us. Our love rose to infinite heights and filled the Universe. Two souls were enraptured.
In the mere 10 or so minutes of this piece, Webern seems to capture those ecstatic, joyful, contented emotions. The piece is cast in three sections, beginning with a main theme that is full-blown ecstasy. Here, the violins set out with an achingly beautiful and lyrical song that will soar into the infinite blue sky. A delightful passage that contrasts with this theme soon appears, featuring the lower strings accompanying in pizzicato (plucked strings). The music in this section is filled with sweet energy as well as vulnerability, as if Webern is evoking his fluttering heart. In the work’s short central section, a second theme is introduced, joyful and poetic, with violins and cello trading bits of this new theme back and forth, like sweethearts. These two themes come together to fill out the last section, flowing but intense and luxuriating in their harmonies. The plucked strings reappear, this time with a heart-catching tenderness, and this may be one of the loveliest moments in all of Webern’s music. After another, gentler climax, the concluding section quietly fades into a contented lovers’ twilight, which Webern has repeatedly marked zögernd—a musical direction meaning “lingeringly.”
Franz Josef Haydn (Born in Rohrau, Austria in 1732; died in Vienna in 1809)
Symphony No. 44 in E minor (Trauersymphonie), H. I/44
Allegro con brio
Menuetto e Trio; Allegretto
Adagio
Presto
Haydn created his beloved Symphony No. 44 (nicknamed the Trauersymphonie—trauer meaning “mourning”) in 1772. At that time, he was about halfway through his long journey of writing his 104 symphonies, and in true Haydn form, he was continuing to experiment with the genre. During the same period, German artists in both literary and musical circles were using the sturm und drang (“storm and stress”) technique, a proto-Romantic aesthetic. In music, the idea was to turn away from rationalism and classicism and to give more freedom to experimentation, the emotions, and disquiet. Since Haydn was “cut off from the word,” (as he humorously described it) by his role as Kapellmeister (director of music) for the Austrian Esterhazy Estate, he was able to experiment without censure. Indeed, his 104 symphonies run a most wonderful gamut of experimentation in form, humor, and emotionalism, as well as early forays into chromaticism. We see this in his Symphony No. 44, which specifically stands out for its unrelenting energy and its unique exploration of pathos.
Symphony No. 44 is one of only a few of Haydn’s symphonies written in a minor key, which in the 1770s would have been perceived as a uniquely serious tonal world. The very opening of the first movement bears this out: It is strident and edgy, as though something gravely important, even sinister, is afoot. Notice, too, how the dynamics begin loud (forte) and then immediately drop to soft (piano)—a technique used here for emotional affect, to keep listeners at the edge of their seats. These abrupt dynamic changes occur throughout the symphony, but they are especially prevalent in this first movement. With its thematic emotional gravitas and its dynamic jangling, together with a pulsing motive that permeates the entire movement, Haydn’s techniques are delightfully tense and thrilling.
The second movement is a menuetto (a stately dance) which by the late 18th Century was typically placed as the third movement in symphonies. But Haydn here is experimenting with pacing and balance:After the intense first movement, a light dance stabilizes the symphony’s weight. Nevertheless, the themes in this Menuetto’s first section also flirt with dark emotions, despite their parlor-waltz characteristics. Haydn also marks the score as canone in diapason, meaning “canon in the octave [apart].” A canon is a musical form that repeats its melody in a delayed manner, so that the two (or more) iterations soon play in harmony with each other. You can hear this canon technique immediately in this Menuetto’s very first bars, as well as throughout the movement. But where ordinarily these themes tumbling about themselves might seem jolly, in this case Haydn has created a mesmerizing feeling of the singing of repetitive sorrows.Only in this movement’s middle section, the trio, do we hear a bit of major-key sunshine, which feels all the brighter in contrast to what has come before. The beginning theme returns to close the movement somberly.
The slow third movement, “Adagio”. is one of Haydn’s loveliest creations. Musical lore tells that Haydn asked for this movement to be played at his funeral. That may be apocryphal, but we do know for certain that this adagio was played at a commemorative concert in Berlin in 1809 after Haydn died. Hence, the reference to mourning in the symphony’s nickname. In tone, this movement pulls away from the symphony’s turbulence and darkness and instead explores serenity, moving with simplicity and with few frills. The melody is gently active, its accompaniment unrushed, and its feel is calming and content. A particularly beautiful section occurs when the upper strings sing above a quietly undulating triplet figure in the lower strings.
The frenetic finale, however, leaves no prisoners. The pace is breakneck—a cyclone of driving energy. The beginning, and main, theme is played in unison in the strings, evoking a feeling of an urgent statement. From there, Haydn creates a race to the last bars with an almost inexorable relentlessness. Extraordinary, too, is how much energy comes surging out of the few instruments that Haydn scored for: only two oboes (often bassoons), two horns, and the typical strings. Listen also for the abrupt dynamic changes in this movement and more canonic writing, all of which serve to create one of the most breathlessly exciting finales in any of Haydn’s symphonies.
Poulenc Trio – October 7 & 8, 2023
Program NotesJean Françaix
(Born in Le Mans, France in 1912; died in Paris in 1997)
Trio for Oboe, Bassoon and Piano (1994)
1. Adagio — Allegro molto
2. Andante
3. Finale
Jean Françaix was a modern French composer very much in the neoclassical tradition of Poulenc. He eschewed the trends of atonality and the rejection of traditional form, choosing wit, color, and a supple lightness in service of producing musical “pleasure.” Prolific throughout his life, Françaix was a piano virtuoso, an active performer, a skilled orchestrator and a composer in myriad forms and ensembles. Like great French composers, Françaix had a skillful penchant for the wind instruments.
The Trio for Oboe, Bassoon and Piano was commissioned by the International Double Reed Society for their 24th Festival in 1994. The Trio is astonishing for its modernity and its accessibility. In the tradition of neoclassicism, the music is simultaneously familiar from the past, yet new and different, undeniably of the present. But where the original neoclassicists looked to the 18th century and earlier for their inspiration, Françaix, in this work, seems to look back within his own lifespan. In a new loop of neoclassical spirit, the music evokes the popular sounds of a young modernism in the early 20th century: syncopated urban rhythms, musical theatre, the exuberance, and occasional plaintive nostalgia of contemporary man. The strengths of the composition are its exquisite detail and complexity, the virtuosic demands placed on the performer, and the expert use of the idiomatic qualities of the instruments.
Françaix’s thoughts are as refreshing as his music:
It’s difficult for a composer to talk about his own works. If he praises them, he is accused of boasting; if he disparages them, he is considered guilty of false modesty. If he dissects them into theme A and theme B, musicologists will applaud, but musicians will find him boring. If the work is of any value, it will need no explanation; if it is of no value, no esoteric commentary will render it any better . . . . All I ask my listeners is to open their ears and be brave enough to decide whether they like my music or not. I don’t want any intermediary between me and my listeners trying to sway their judgment one way or the other. They should remember they are free human beings, not obedient automata. I want them to crush snobbery, fashion, and envy with the power of common sense and to enjoy my music if it gives them pleasure, which of course I hope it does. (Adapted from a text by Kai Christensen, Earsense.org.)
Francis Poulenc
(Born in Paris, France, in 1899; died in Paris in 1963)
Selected Songs (arr. Dietrich Zöllner and Poulenc Trio)
Les chemins de l’amour (1940)
C (from 1944)
Toréador (1918; rev. 1932)
These three enchanting compositions by Poulenc, orchestrated beautifully for oboe, bassoon, and piano by German arranger Dietrich Zöllner, each portray a distinctive chapter of French history, colored by Poulenc’s extraordinary abilities as a storyteller.
Les Chemins de l’amour, or The Pathways of Love, a melodious creation composed in 1940, is based on lyrics by Jean Anouilh, from his play Léocadia. The creation of this piece provided Poulenc a respite from the shadow of Nazi occupation looming over his residence, as he disclosed in a 1941 New Year’s letter. He mused on the melancholic era in which they were living and wondered about its impending conclusion.
The song title, C, or Cé, originates from a French commune called Les Ponts de Cé or The Bridges of Cé, a site known for its historical significance. This commune, entrenched in numerous decisive battles, finds a mention in the song’s opening verse. The song’s text is from the Deux Poèmes by Louis Aragon, published in 1944 during the Nazi occupation, one of the most devastating periods of French history.
The lyrics encapsulate the poet’s somber memories of the fateful days of May 1940, when a substantial part of France was on the run from invading armies. Amid the disarray, the poet crossed the bridges of Cé, amid abandoned weaponry and overturned vehicles — a poignant memory of a beleaguered nation.
The deeply sentimental tone of the narrative, akin to an old ballad, compelled Poulenc to create this song, which stands today as one of his most emotionally profound works.
Toréador, one of Poulenc’s first forays into song composition, came into existence under the guidance of Jean Cocteau. Poulenc, who used to delight his friends by singing this piece, was eventually convinced to make it public in 1932. The lyrics tell a whimsical tale of unrequited love a toreador harbors for Pépita, the so-called queen of Venice. The narrative humorously transposes the bullring to Venice’s Piazza San Marco, gondoliers are fancifully portrayed as Spanish galleons, and the oldest doge of the city becomes the lucky recipient of Pépita’s affections. This light-hearted, almost surrealist composition perfectly captures the spirit of Poulenc’s musical creativity.
Viet Cuong
(Born in Los Angeles, California, in 1990)
Explain Yourself! (2019)
Explain Yourself! was commissioned by the Barlow Endowment for Music Composition at Brigham Young University for the Poulenc Trio. Here are notes from the composer:
As a clarinetist and admirer of twentieth century French music, I’ve always loved the music of Francis Poulenc. I’m particularly drawn to the joyous, witty nature of many of his pieces, and, with this piece being for the Poulenc Trio, I wanted to pay homage to Poulenc and his sense of humor. As such, the piece begins with a direct quote of his chamber piano concert, Aubade. This quote serves a few purposes: it acts as a marker for when the first section “repeats” itself, and, perhaps more importantly, the main melody of the entire piece uses the same pitches as the opening of Aubade.
After the Poulenc quote, the piece jolts into a tango-like romp with a baroque flair. The instruments all play an equal role in this music and, all things considered, it’s mild mannered. After a few minutes, the Aubade quote signifies a trip back to the beginning after the first climax concludes— much like a repeat in a classical symphony’s first movement. However, this repeat goes awry as the oboist begins to act out by replacing regular notes with raucous multiphonics. The other wind instruments begin to pick up on this mischievous behavior, and all three of them start to interrupt, mock, and distort the phrases. The pianist notices and isn’t pleased. Much like a frustrated parent or teacher, the pianist hammers out dense chords, essentially scolding the winds to get back on track.
Things nearly fall apart as the winds continue to misbehave. Eventually it all comes to a head when the pianist and oboist perform an imitative duet. In doing this, the oboist has a chance to explain himself and prove that, while these multiphonics can be funny, they can also be played melodically and provide structure to a phrase. Won over, the pianist joins in on the fun and the piece concludes in a place where functional classical harmonies and multiphonics can coexist.
André Previn
(Born in Berlin, Germany, in 1929; died in New York City, 2019)
Trio for Oboe, Bassoon, and Piano
1. Lively
2. Slow
3. Jaunty
André Previn was born to a Jewish family in Berlin and emigrated with them to the United States in 1939 to escape the Nazis. He became a naturalized citizen of the United States in 1943 and grew up in Los Angeles. An Oscar winner, Previn toured and recorded as a jazz pianist and was conductor of the Los Angeles Philharmonic from 1985-89. In the UK, where he was knighted in 1996, Previn is particularly remembered for his performance on the Morecambe and Wise comedy show in 1971, which involved his conducting a spoof performance of the Grieg Piano Concerto. At a concert in Britain afterwards, Previn had to interrupt the concerto to allow the audience time to stop giggling as they remembered the sketch. It is still considered one of the funniest comedy moments of all time.
Andre Previn composed his Trio for Piano, Oboe and Bassoon in 1994 on a joint commission from the Orchestra of St. Luke’s, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Mary Flagler Cary Charitable Trust. Music for this combination of instruments is unusual but by no means unique; French composers loved the sound of woodwinds, and in some ways Previn’s Trio shows virtues that might be thought typically French: clarity, careful attention to the character of the individual instruments, and a sense of play and fun. Yet if the impulse behind this music might be thought French, here it has an American accent: Previn’s Trio is full of energy, jazz rhythms, and the open harmonies that have, since the time of Copland and Harris, distinguished American music.
The piece is in three movements. The opening, marked “lively,” moves from a spiky beginning through a flowing second theme-group introduced by the bassoon and marked espressivo. The basic metric markings in this movement are 2/4 and 4/4, but Previn frequently interrupts this even pulse with individual measures in such subdivisions as 7/8, 5/8 3/4, 7/16, and others. It is indeed a “lively” movement precisely for the vitality of its rhythms, and a brief coda drives to an emphatic close on a unison B-flat.
In the second movement, Slow, a piano prelude leads to the entrance of the solo oboe; this entrance is marked “lonely”, a marking that might apply to the entire movement, where long chromatic woodwind lines wind their way above chordal accompaniment. The music rises to a climax, then falls away to conclude on its opening material, now varied.
The last movement, Jaunty, changes meter almost by measure. Previn treats the two wind instruments as a group and sets them in contrast to the piano, which has extended solo passages. The leaping opening idea reappears in many forms, including inversion and near the end the tempo speeds ahead as Previn specifies that the music should be played with “jazz phrasing”; these riffs alternate with brief piano interludes marked “simply.” Gradually the movement’s opening theme reasserts itself, and the Trio rushes to its blistering close, once again on a unison B-flat. — Program notes for this work by Eric Bromberger
Dmitri Shostakovich
(Born in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1906; died in Moscow in 1975)
Romance, Op. 97a (from the film score of The Gadfly, arr. Anatoly Trofimov.)
A Spin Through Moscow (from the operetta Moscow, Cheryomushki, arr. Anatoly Trofimov.)
In a musical career spanning half a century, Shostakovich engrossed himself with a staggeringly diverse range of genres and styles. Beyond his 15 symphonies and 15 string quartets, his lesser-known works offer intrigue and interest likewise. With the reappraisal of Shostakovich in recent times, his light music is beginning to enjoy unprecedented popularity in concert halls and record catalogues.
The Gadfly (1955) is probably Shostakovich’s best-known film score. It is an orchestral suite of incidental music from the film, which was based on the novel of the same name by Ethel Lilian Voynich. Set in Italy in the tumultuous 1840s, when that nation was under Austrian domination, and revolt and uprisings were common, the story centers on the illegitimate son of a cardinal who joins the fight to unite Italy. When caught, he faces the firing squad as a willing martyr. It is a story of faith, disillusionment, revolution, romance, and heroism.
As a novel The Gadfly was exceptionally popular in the Soviet Union, exerting a large cultural influence. It was compulsory reading there and the top best seller. Indeed, by the time of Voynich’s death, it is estimated to have sold 2,500,000 copies in the Soviet Union alone. Shostakovich composed the score for the film of the same name. Its most famous movement, Romance, was used in the BBC/PBS TV series, Reilly, Ace of Spies.
Moscow, Cheryomushki (1958) is a three-act comic operetta in a bewildering variation of styles, from the Romantic idiom to the most vulgar popular songs. The satirical plot deals with one of the most pressing concerns of urban Russians of the day: the chronic housing shortage and the difficulties of securing livable conditions. Cheryomushki translates to “bird-cherry trees,” the name of a real housing estate in southwest Moscow. A Spin Through Moscow is the first of the four dance-like movements of the orchestral suite from the operetta.
Gioachino Rossini
(Born in Pesaro, Italy, in 1792; died in Paris, France in 1868)
Fantaisie Concertante sur des Thèmes de L’ Italiana in Algieri (arr. Charles Triébert and Eugene Jancourt)
This “concert fantasy” is from a delightful collection of opera-inspired arrangements dating from 19th-century Paris and the salon music of that time. It contains works by the opera composers Rossini and Donizetti, who were the delight of Parisian audiences, in potpourri arrangements by the oboe and bassoon virtuosi (and conservatoire professors) of the day Charles Triébert, Henri Brod, and Eugéne Jancourt. These works were not only “tuneful” but enabled the performers to show off their ample virtuosity very well. The rousing Fantaisie Concertante, based on tunes from Rossini’s L’italiana in Algeri, (The Italian Girl in Algiers) is such a work.
Rossini composed L’italiana in Algeri, an operatic drama in two acts, when he was 21 years old. The work was first performed at the Teatro San Benedetto in Venice on May 22, 1813. The opera was a notable success, and Rossini made progressive changes to the work for later performances in Vicenza, Milan, and Naples.
The music is characteristic of Rossini’s style, remarkable for its fusion of sustained, manic energy with elegant, pristine melodies. The opera is notable for Rossini’s mixing of opera seria (the “serious” style of Italian opera that predominated in Europe during the early 18th century), with opera buffa (a genre of comic opera which originated in Naples in the mid 18th century).
Except where otherwise noted, program notes by the Poulenc Trio.
Folk ‘N’ Fancy – May 20 & 21, 2023
Program NotesBéla Bartók
(Born in Nagyszentmiklós, Hungary in 1881; died in New York City in 1945)
Romanian Folk Dances, Sz. 68, BB 76
(The six movements are described by their Hungarian subtitles followed by the English translation)
1. Joc cu bâtǎ (Stick Dance). Allegro moderato
2. Brâul (Sash Dance). Allegro
3. Pê-loc (In One Spot). Andante
4. Buciumeana (Dance from Bucium). Moderato
5. Poargǎ româneascǎ (Romanian Polka). Allegro
6. Mǎrunţel (Fast Dance). Allegro
For the Hungarian composer Béla Bartók, studying traditional folk music was a passion — it was of interest to him anthropologically and nationalistically, as well as musically. But it was the musicality of folksong that was most important to him, and folksongs informed, often outright, much of his composing. When he began to discover the riches of the folksongs from Transylvania around 1903, Bartók said he had “found” his own voice as well. From that point on, his tireless love for traditional music blossomed, becoming one of his musical lodestars for the rest of his life.
The set of six folk dances featured in our concert comes from Bartók’s second collecting trip to Transylvania (then politically a part of Hungary) in 1910–12, when he was able to make field recordings using the then-new technology of wax cylinders. Bartók first reimagined these dances as a short piano suite entitled “Hungarian Folk Dances” in 1915. He kept this title when he rearranged the work for a small orchestra in 1917. The orchestrated version, however, was not published until after the restructuring of Europe that followed World War I, and by that time Transylvania had become part of Romania. Thus, the orchestra version was published as “Romanian Folk Dances,” and this is the name we continue to use today. The melodies of these dances are mostly true to the dances Bartók originally recorded, but since such dances were typically played solo on a regional fiddle or indigenous “peasant” flute, Bartók added harmonic accompaniment. The brilliant brevity of this set of dances — all six of them are typically performed in under seven minutes even with a pause between each — and the dances’ light, but deeply effective, harmonizations have made Bartók’s Romanian Folk Dances one of his most popular works.
(1) Stick Dance. Bartók reportedly heard two Romani (Gypsy) fiddlers romping with this first tune. Such Transylvanian stick dances, according to the Dutch author Martinus Nijhoff, were danced by men as “a solo dance, with various figures [dance movements] the last of which—as a consummation—consists of kicking the room’s ceiling.” The dance is as graceful as it is lively, and here, it is especially tuneful.
(2) Sash Dance. This dance has a particularly sweet and carefree melody. It likely is part of a courtship dance in which the female dancer uses a sash or a decorative belt as a prop; one can imagine her flashing flirtatious smiles over her shoulder.
(3) In One Spot. This a stamping dance, and Bartók imaginatively scored it for drone-like strings with a piccolo solo played overtop (Bartók said he first heard this song played on a peasant’s flute, an instrument akin to a penny whistle,) Transylvanian “stamping” could be as much about being seductively graceful as about athleticism. Indeed, the exotic-sounding mode (key) that Bartók exploits here reminds us of the Turkish-infused music that once was played in the area during the 16th and 17th centuries, when the whole region was a part of the Ottoman Empire, before it came under Hungarian rule.
(4) Dance from Bucium. There’s little documentation now of what social purpose this dance, also called the “Horn Dance,” from Bucium might have served in 1910. The area of Bucium, where Bartók collected this tune, was once a Roman military post in northeastern Transylvania, and the area likely saw quite a few travelers from foreign lands drift through. The tempo of this dance in Bartók’s original recording was much faster than it is recast here, where it is much more pensive with echoes of nostalgia permeating the beautiful tune. Again, the mode (key) sounds exotic like the preceding dance, reminding us of how musical elements likely traveled through this crossroad of Bucium.
(5) Romanian Polka. This polka was the Transylvanian version of the well-known polka that originated in what is now the Czech Republic and spread rapidly through Europe in the 1800s. Bartók captures brilliantly the rowdy and joyful character of its Transylvanian manifestation. This polka is set in three-bar phrases — two measures with three beats, ending with one measure having only two beats. The odd two-beat measure apparently allowed for a quick change of partners.
(6) Fast Dance. This final dance is two fast dances separated by a split-second pause. A fast dance is typically a hyperactive dance for couples arranged in columns of males and females. Fast fiddling and syncopation accompany the dancing, along with foot stamping and thigh slapping (recreated here with loud musical accents). The first dance in this pair is indeed fast and extremely brief and vibrant. The second dance is even faster and more exuberant. Together, they constitute an exhilarating ending to this wonderful early work. And as a footnote, you can detect here a precursor to the whirling, exciting final movement of Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra, which he composed three decades later in 1945, shortly before his death.
Amanda Harberg
(Born in Philadelphia in 1973)
Elegy
Amanda Harberg is one of the most gifted and sought-after American composers right now. She has been commissioned by many of our leading orchestras as well as dozens of regional and chamber groups. She is also currently the primary film-score composer for the documentary film company Common Good Productions. Her Elegy has been played worldwide and recorded on Naxos American Classics.
Alongside her distinguished career as an award-winning composer, the Julliard-trained Harberg is also a celebrated concert pianist. She has performed with such world-class orchestras as the New York Philharmonic, the Philadelphia Orchestra, and the Baltimore Symphony, among others.
Perhaps just as important as her composing and performing, Harberg is a deeply committed educator of composition, piano, music theory, aural skills and contemporary music history. For nearly a decade she has distinguished herself as professor of composition at Rutgers University’s Mason Gross School of the Arts in New Jersey. This dedication to teaching has likely deepened her appreciation for those who taught her. And this is what inspired her to create one of her most poignant compositions, Elegy. Ms. Harberg explains the work’s origin as follows:
Elegy began as a prayer. The initial musical ideas came to me when I found out that my beloved piano teacher, Marina Grin, was terminally ill. But the full realization of the piece only emerged spontaneously after I learned of her passing. Elegy is dedicated to the memory of Marina Grin, who first showed me how to live a life in music.
Ms. Harberg originally wrote her Elegy for violin and piano. Soon afterward, she recast it for viola solo and string orchestra, the version featured in our concert. The work unfolds in the same way that news of great sadness always tends to sink in — slowly, as the mind initially struggles to grasp the immensity of what’s happened. At the very opening, the lower strings hum and pulse, filled with grief, everything in surreal slow motion. The upper strings then speak softly in a slow-burning, descending, five-note motif, as if that grief is sinking deeply into the heart. Before the motif can end, the solo viola — as the voice of the bereaved — comes in, speaking two downward-falling notes that float above time and space, deeply sorrowed. In this vein, Elegy moves through episodes — dialogues between strings and solo viola, like dialogues between emotions and the words we strive to give them — diving often into searing sadness but mostly allowing the grief to be processed and to come out into the open air. Throughout, the viola draws us inward, with its distinctly beautiful voice, into the heart’s narrative. About midway through the work, the viola bends (portamento) its initial two-note motif upward, as if by great intentional might, as though the bereaved refuses to keep casting eyes downward. From this point on, Harberg pushes the Elegy, bit by bit, into a memorial of tonal gratitude for her departed mentor, until the strings collectively rise together higher and higher into the light of the sky, to end this extremely moving work.
As the renowned virtuoso violist Brett Deubner (for whom Harberg wrote her highly acclaimed Viola Concerto in 2012), said:
The raw sadness followed by uplifting hope as the work ascends to the heavens is the stuff of great composers such as Barber, Tchaikovsky, and Elgar.… Her Elegy is still, in my opinion, her finest work to date.
Franz Danzi
(Born in Schwetzingen [near Mannheim], Germany in 1763; died in Karlsruhe, Germany in 1826)
Sinfonia Concertante in B-flat major for Flute, Clarinet and Orchestra, Op. 41
1. Allegro moderato
2. Larghetto
3. Polonaise — Allegretto
Franz Danzi was born near Mannheim, Germany into a dedicatedly musical family. His father, a friend of Mozart, was the principal cellist in the Mannheim Orchestra (which was rapidly becoming well known in Europe at the time), and his mother was a singer. Together, both parents tutored the young Danzi in cello, voice, and piano. During this period, the city of Mannheim itself was becoming well known, too, as a place where new musical ground was being broken while baroque style evolved into the classical style.
Danzi later became the teacher and close friend of Carl Maria von Weber (1786–1826), who would become famous for writing the first successful German operas in a new romantic style. Together, Danzi and Weber were best known in their lifetimes as composers of opera and for voice. But Danzi also excelled in writing for winds and almost single-handedly created the first repertoire of works in the wind quintet genre. His gifts in writing for winds became recognized only later in his life as the taste for small wind ensemble music grew dramatically around the turn of the 19th century.
Danzi also wrote numerous sinfonia concertantes. In the later decades of the 18th Century, the sinfonia concertante began to emerge from the baroque concerto grosso, which featured several solo instruments in dialogue with a small orchestra. The sinfonia concertante was, in effect, a hybrid between what would become the classical symphony as we know it today and the solo-instrument concerto. Even while Haydn and Mozart were perfecting the classical symphony, Danzi and others (including Mozart) continued to experiment with the sinfonia concertante, and the latter retained its popularity well into the classical era. One of the great joys of the sinfonia concertante form is the delicate balance the full symphony and lots of soloistic moments for several instruments. A splendid example of this is Danzi’s Sinfonia Concertante for Flute, Clarinet and Orchestra, published in 1814, which succeeds imaginatively in this balance.
In the first movement, Allegro moderato, the orchestra’s introductory themes brim with lyricism. The entrance of the soloists, first the clarinet and then the flute, continues a theme that the orchestra has just passed along to them, and the moment is expressly joyful. And thus begins this marvelous sinfonia, which includes a back-and-forth dance of solos and duets between the clarinet and flute, with chamber-like accompaniments from the orchestra, phrase-trading between the soloists and the full orchestra, and moments when the clarinet and flute delicately blend into the fabric with all the instruments. The themes are cheery and light and enriched with colorful harmonic turns, and the writing for the two soloists only gets more inventive and virtuosic as the movement progresses.
The middle movement, Larghetto, is a smilingly relaxed love duet. It begins with a harmoniously shared moment between the soloists and the orchestral winds. Then the clarinet initiates the duet over gently plucked strings, to be joined by the flute. This movement showcases Danzi’s exeptional talent for writing perfectly for the two wind instruments together. His love of opera clearly shines here, too, as everything in this movement rings of song.
The final movement is a polonaise, a dance form from Poland that had become wildly popular throughout Europe in Danzi’s time. Danzi’s Polonaise is almost disarmingly filled with zest, delight, and magically tuneful themes. Most exceptional is the virtuosic demands the flute and clarinet must meet, both as soloists and in playing together as a duo. When the work concludes, it’s impossible not to be smiling in admiration both for the soloists’ virtuosity and for Danzi’s masterful writing.
Charles-François Gounod
(Born in Paris in 1818; died in Saint-Cloud, France in 1893)
Symphony No 1 in D major
1. Allegro molto
2. Allegretto moderato
3. Scherzo. Non troppo presto
4. Finale. Adagio — Allegro vivace
The French composer Charles Gounod is mainly remembered today as an opera composer. His great opera Faust (1859) was so popular worldwide that when New York’s Metropolitan Opera House opened its doors in 1883, Faust was its obvious inaugural choice. But, of course, Gounod wrote more than operas and in these other genres he brought his superlative operatic gifts of lyricism. His Symphony No. 1 is an excellent example of this; it is lyrical, fresh, and altogether a melodic showcase. Gounod wrote the first of his only two symphonies in 1853 and 1854. He began it as a kind of exercise to hone his composing skills in writing “absolute” music — music for its own sake untethered to a story or poem, as opera and songs demanded. In this regard, one of Gounod’s great heroes was Mozart. (Gounod once remarked that when he died, as soon as he had managed to wade through all the necessary introductions with the Holy Trinity, he would immediately ask to meet Mozart.)
Indeed, this entire symphony, and especially the first movement (Allegro molto), reflects the charm and lightness of many of Mozart’s symphonies — but with the addition of Gounod’s especially winsome singability and some more modern harmonies. The first theme includes a wonderful little hitch, like a musical hiccup, at the end of many bars that propel the pacing forward, as well as create a feeling of levity. Gounod, however, provides dramatic contrast as the movement progresses — dynamic outbursts, and beautifully crafted passages in darker keys. But another of Gounod’s great talents is also on display here, as well as in this entire symphony — his exceptional skill in writing for winds. Particularly, he focuses often on the oboe and bassoon, two instruments that we’ll hear much more of throughout the symphony. The movement ends with zest and a momentary flurry from the French horn, which will return at the conclusion of the last movement.
The second movement, Allegretto moderato, is wonderfully inventive. It begins with a very melodic but somewhat ambiguous theme that evokes a stroll on a perfect day that is unhurried yet preoccupied by troubling thoughts. A second and very lovely theme by the flute and oboe over pizzicato (plucked) basses soon follows and feels like the easy-going counterpart to the first — as if clearing the head and enjoying the outing. Gounod begins to dress both of those themes with light touches of clever counterpoint and countermelodies in both the strings and winds, suggesting that he might launch into variations on those themes. Instead, though, he begins a light fugue. As the fugue fills up with all the voices playing in counterpoint to each other, the work coalesces into running unison notes that bring us to this movement’s final magical section. Gounod takes tiny slices of all the movement’s themes and has them flit here and there in what seem like random places and instruments (though uncannily keeping a completely coherent melodic line), and this wonderful movement comes to its close with three quietly plucked notes.
The third movement, Scherzo, is not the wild kind of scherzo-romp that Beethoven might have written. Rather, it’s easy-going, almost lazy, and harkening back to the dance minuets of the classical period, only with the added depth of the larger orchestra for which Gounod composed. The themes here are delightfully tuneful and seem almost tailor-made for singing. The Scherzo’s Trio (middle section) showcases a genteel duet between oboe and bassoon.
The Finale movement begins with a slow and serious introduction, a rather classically Mozartian approach. This prolongs the anticipation of the excitement to come and introduces the rapid, four-note motif that will permeate the rest of the Finale. Soon the Allegro vivace (fast and lively) begins, and the effect is as if we have been placed onto a galloping horse, alive with verve and excitement. Gounod also includes some brief but comical moments in this movement: Early on, several unresolved chords that linger with fermatas (markings that keep a note, or rest, held indefinitely, playing with our sense of momentum. Next, Gounod adds two trumpet solos in the vein of heralding horns, as if launching off into a hunt. Then the timpani and French horns revisit this hunting motif with vigor (and recall the end of the first movement). And just before the end, those unresolved, previously suspended chords appear again, as if trying to delay the final notes. But when they do indeed arrive, Gounod presents them resolutely to end this superb symphony with great cheer.
Program notes © Max Derrickson
Hapsburg by Happenstance – April 15 & 16, 2023
Program NotesWolfgang Amadeus Mozart
(Born in Salzburg, Austria in 1756; died in Vienna in 1791)
Piano Concerto No. 12 in A major, K. 414
The fact that Mozart needed to convince the city of Vienna that he should be better regarded as both a virtuoso pianist and a composer tells us something about the world of music in that city in 1782. Vienna had an insatiable appetite for music, yet it was not easily impressed nor—ironically—especially sophisticated. That combination would set Mozart’s teeth on edge throughout his career, especially with regard to his piano concertos. But in 1782, not long after he had moved from Salzburg to settle permanently in Vienna and had married, Mozart was determined to win over the fickle Viennese with three extremely charming piano concertos: his 11th, 12th and 13th. Indeed, in a letter to his father, Mozart described these concertos as:
… a happy medium between what is too easy and too difficult; they are very brilliant, pleasing to the ear, and natural without being vapid. There are passages here and there from which the … connoisseurs alone can derive satisfaction; but these passages are written in such a way that the less learned cannot fail to be pleased, though without knowing why.
Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 12 is certainly pleasing to the ear and anything but vapid. Charming and perfectly urbane, the first movement begins with a delightfully spirited theme that is then taken up by the piano soloist. The movement is full of light and gentle wit, perfect not only for the Viennese in the late 18th century but for any concertgoer anywhere anytime. Listen here for a characteristic of Mozart’s early concertos: The piano is typically set apart from the orchestra, often playing extended solo passages or with only the lightest accompaniment. The effect is articulate and enchanting.
For the “connoisseurs,” the second movement begins with a nearly direct quote of part of a theme written by Johann Christian Bach (1735–1782, son of Johann Sebastian) in the overture to his 1763 opera La calamita de’ cuori. While on extended tour as a young piano prodigy, the eight-year-old Mozart had met Johann Christian in London and become quite fond of him and his music. When Mozart wrote his Piano Concerto No. 12, the “London Bach” had just died earlier the same year, and the beginning of the second movement pays homage to him. Regardless of this movement’s origins, however, every listener can simply luxuriate in its gorgeousness. In its beautiful Andante, sophistication is created out of simplicity and poignancy––a hallmark of Mozart’s genius.
The Allegretto completes this concerto with a wonderful rondo (a cyclical form within which sections return) which allows the orchestra and piano to trade and play with several themes, all accomplished cleverly and stylishly. Including some charming little piano cadenzas, the movement is immensely refreshing, and brings this delightful concerto to a refined yet energetic close.
A performance note: Mozart was not only the piano soloist at the premiere of his Concerto No. 12 but also the conductor. This practice of conducting from the keyboard has a long history that predates Mozart. Well before conductors came into their modern existence, players of keyboard instruments often led/conducted their ensembles; in fact, one of the Bach sons found this to be the most superlative way of keeping an orchestra together. Nonetheless, Mozart’s dual performance roles became legendary in his own day, and thus, Maestro Jed Gaylin continues a great tradition that Mozart himself made famous in Vienna.
Anton Webern
(Born in Vienna, Austria in 1883; died in Mittersill, Austria in 1945)
Langsamer Satz (“Slow Movement”)
This exquisite work was composed in 1905, early in Anton Webern’s career, when his compositions were tonal, highly chromatic, and steeped in the ethos of the Romantic era. Its title, Langsamer Satz (literally, “Slow Movement”), suggests that Webern may have intended it to be part of a full-fledged string quartet. Yet he never wrote any more movements. The short work remained unpublished and seems to have been shelved and nearly forgotten until nearly 20 years after his death, when it finally received its premiere at a concert in Seattle, Washington, in 1962. Three decades later, in 1992, the Seattle Symphony conductor Gerard Schwartz arranged the piece for string orchestra. Since its reemergence, musicians and audiences have found this brief, orphaned work, with its tenderness and rapturous beauty, to speak completely for itself—its possible place in a never-completed string quartet unnoticed.
At the time of the work’s writing, 1905, Webern had just begun studying composition with Arnold Schoenberg in Vienna. Around 1919, Schoenberg, Webern, and his fellow pupil Alban Berg would later usher in an entirely new method of composing now known as “serial,” or 12-tone, music. Webern’s serial approach was unique, however: His works were concise, given to utter clarity almost above all else, and infused with an uncanny lyricism. Because of these guiding principles, Webern’s short list of his 12-tone works are often celebrated as rarefied musical gems. And though Langsamer Satz was created long before his serial works, Webern’s guiding principles of clarity, concision and lyricism infuse this work and all his early Romantic works just as significantly.
Langsamer‘s beguilement, too, is certainly owed in part to its inspiration from a particularly wondrous time in Webern’s life. Indeed, just before this work’s creation, Webern had just taken a holiday in the Alps with his cousin, Wilhelmine Mörtl, and he was head-over-heels in love with this young woman who would later become his wife. As Webern wrote in his diary in 1905:
To walk forever like this among flowers, with my dearest one beside me, to feel oneself so entirely at one with the universe, without care, free as the lark in the sky above—O what splendor! …. When night fell (after the rain) the sky shed bitter tears, but I wandered with her along a road …. A coat protected the two of us. Our love rose to infinite heights and filled the Universe. Two souls were enraptured.
In the mere 10 or so minutes of this piece, Webern seems to capture those ecstatic, joyful, contented emotions. The piece is cast in three sections, beginning with a main theme that is full-blown ecstasy. Here, the violins set out with an achingly beautiful and lyrical song that will soar into the infinite blue sky. A delightful passage that contrasts with this theme soon appears, featuring the lower strings accompanying in pizzicato (plucked strings). The music in this section is filled with sweet energy as well as vulnerability, as if Webern is evoking his fluttering heart. In the work’s short central section, a second theme is introduced, joyful and poetic, with violins and cello trading bits of this new theme back and forth, like sweethearts. These two themes come together to fill out the last section, flowing but intense and luxuriating in their harmonies. The plucked strings reappear, this time with a heart-catching tenderness, and this may be one of the loveliest moments in all of Webern’s music. After another, gentler climax, the concluding section quietly fades into a contented lovers’ twilight, which Webern has repeatedly marked zögernd—a musical direction meaning “lingeringly.”
Franz Josef Haydn
(Born in Rohrau, Austria in 1732; died in Vienna in 1809)
Symphony No. 44 in E minor (Trauersymphonie), H. I/44
Haydn created his beloved Symphony No. 44 (nicknamed the Trauersymphonie—trauer meaning “mourning”) in 1772. At that time, he was about halfway through his long journey of writing his 104 symphonies, and in true Haydn form, he was continuing to experiment with the genre. During the same period, German artists in both literary and musical circles were using the sturm und drang (“storm and stress”) technique, a proto-Romantic aesthetic. In music, the idea was to turn away from rationalism and classicism and to give more freedom to experimentation, the emotions, and disquiet. Since Haydn was “cut off from the word,” (as he humorously described it) by his role as Kapellmeister (director of music) for the Austrian Esterhazy Estate, he was able to experiment without censure. Indeed, his 104 symphonies run a most wonderful gamut of experimentation in form, humor, and emotionalism, as well as early forays into chromaticism. We see this in his Symphony No. 44, which specifically stands out for its unrelenting energy and its unique exploration of pathos.
Symphony No. 44 is one of only a few of Haydn’s symphonies written in a minor key, which in the 1770s would have been perceived as a uniquely serious tonal world. The very opening of the first movement bears this out: It is strident and edgy, as though something gravely important, even sinister, is afoot. Notice, too, how the dynamics begin loud (forte) and then immediately drop to soft (piano)—a technique used here for emotional affect, to keep listeners at the edge of their seats. These abrupt dynamic changes occur throughout the symphony, but they are especially prevalent in this first movement. With its thematic emotional gravitas and its dynamic jangling, together with a pulsing motive that permeates the entire movement, Haydn’s techniques are delightfully tense and thrilling.
The second movement is a menuetto (a stately dance) which by the late 18th Century was typically placed as the third movement in symphonies. But Haydn here is experimenting with pacing and balance: After the intense first movement, a light dance stabilizes the symphony’s weight. Nevertheless, the themes in this Menuetto’s first section also flirt with dark emotions, despite their parlor-waltz characteristics. Haydn also marks the score as canone in diapason, meaning “canon in the octave [apart].” A canon is a musical form that repeats its melody in a delayed manner, so that the two (or more) iterations soon play in harmony with each other. You can hear this canon technique immediately in this Menuetto’s very first bars, as well as throughout the movement. But where ordinarily these themes tumbling about themselves might seem jolly, in this case Haydn has created a mesmerizing feeling of the singing of repetitive sorrows. Only in this movement’s middle section, the trio, do we hear a bit of major-key sunshine, which feels all the brighter in contrast to what has come before. The beginning theme returns to close the movement somberly.
The slow third movement, “Adagio”. is one of Haydn’s loveliest creations. Musical lore tells that Haydn asked for this movement to be played at his funeral. That may be apocryphal, but we do know for certain that this adagio was played at a commemorative concert in Berlin in 1809 after Haydn died. Hence, the reference to mourning in the symphony’s nickname. In tone, this movement pulls away from the symphony’s turbulence and darkness and instead explores serenity, moving with simplicity and with few frills. The melody is gently active, its accompaniment unrushed, and its feel is calming and content. A particularly beautiful section occurs when the upper strings sing above a quietly undulating triplet figure in the lower strings.
The frenetic finale, however, leaves no prisoners. The pace is breakneck—a cyclone of driving energy. The beginning, and main, theme is played in unison in the strings, evoking a feeling of an urgent statement. From there, Haydn creates a race to the last bars with an almost inexorable relentlessness. Extraordinary, too, is how much energy comes surging out of the few instruments that Haydn scored for: only two oboes (often bassoons), two horns, and the typical strings. Listen also for the abrupt dynamic changes in this movement and more canonic writing, all of which serve to create one of the most breathlessly exciting finales in any of Haydn’s symphonies.
© Max Derrickson