Gabriel Fauré (Born in Pamiers, Ariège, Midi-Pyrénées, France on May 12, 1845; died in Paris in 1924) Masques et Bergamasques Suite, Op. 112
Overture. Allegro molto vivo
Menuet. Tempo di menuetto—Allegro moderato
Gavotte. Allegro vivo
Pastorale. Andantino tranquillo
In 1918 Prince Albert of Monaco commissioned the aging Gabriel Fauré to write the music for a divertissement (a short ballet) to be performed at the Monte Carlo Theater. Fauré, age 73, was still busily directing the Paris Conservatoire and was battling a curious form of deafness that warps pitches. With little free time, instead of composing an “occasion” piece for this commission, Fauré partly expanded an earlier work, his Clair de lune from his Fêtes galantes of 1902. But at this stage in Faure’s career, the Monte Carlo piece was also intended to be a kind of musical autobiography. And so, in the end, it contained eight songs and instrumental pieces, some of them previously published as far back as 1869 and some newly composed. The work was well-received, and Fauré quickly refashioned it into a four-piece suite that had its premiere in 1919 under the title Masques et Bergamasques.
The program for the Monte Carlo event noted that the inspiration for the ballet’s characters came from the Italian commedia dell’arte:
The characters Harlequin, Gilles and Colombine, whose task is usually to amuse the aristocratic audience, take their turn at being spectators at a ‘Fêtes galantes’ on the island of Cythera. The lords and ladies, who as a rule applaud their efforts, now unwittingly provide them with entertainment by their coquettish behavior.
Fauré’s Clair de lune had been based on a poem of the same name by the French poet Paul Verlaine. And the curious title of Fauré’s 1919 suite was taken from the first stanza of Verlaine’s poem, which reads as follows:
Votre âme est un paysage choisi Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques, Jouant du luth et dansant, et quasi Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantastiques!
(Your soul is a chosen landscape charmed by masquers and revelers playing the lute and dancing, and almost sad beneath their fanciful disguises!).
Fauré’s suite may therefore be read as a kind of hidden camera on aristocratic reveling. The music strives, like Verlaine’s decadent poems, to portray a deeper pathos underneath the polished veneer of such festivities. The overture, originally from Fauré’s Fêtes galantes of 1902, begins in a sprint, with lighthearted vigor. The revelers are no doubt giddy and full of expectancy as they arrive at the grand party. But a second theme, though luxurious and soaring, seems to uncover a melancholy. All the same, it’s ignored quickly enough with the return of the energetic first theme.
The two middle dance movements, the Menuet (newly composed) and the Gavotte (from 1869), broaden the underlying dissatisfactions in the revelers, though the formal appearances are upheld. Fauré keeps the dance forms structurally accurate, but the Menuet drives through an unsettling number of key changes and introduces a sort of reveler petulance in the Trio section with plodding brass and low pitched timpani. Likewise, the Gavotte has an absolutely lovely first theme but is tinged with dark harmonic hues, suggesting an underlying melancholy. It continues with a frenetic and driving repetition of notes in the liquid-like middle section, portraying a vapid chattering. And yet, though this music flirts with shallowness and pathos, it also contains some of Fauré’s most exquisite melodies.
The suite ends with an unexpectedly placed Pastorale. Perhaps the sleepy and drunken revelers are taking a walk under the moonlight: The music is gentle and dreamy, lightly cascading in the strings and harp. The music grows and sweeps, breathes deeply and deliciously, and all are under the spell of Fauré’s musical charms. But near the Pastorale’s end a breathtaking set of harmonies stagger the melodic cadences. The harmonies shift about and don’t want to come back to the home key; although brief. These shifts cleverly create an atmosphere of surrealism à la Verlaine––though lush and sated, there is a feeling of being unsure, and alone.
Camille Saint-Saëns (Born in Paris in 1835; died in Algiers, Algeria in 1921) Cello Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Op. 33
Allegro non troppo
Allegretto con moto
Allegro non troppo (Tempo primo)
Following France’s loss to Germany in the Franco-Prussian War in 1871, Paris began calling for a new, French-minded music to reassert its national self-esteem, and Saint-Saëns was at the ready. One of his first responses was to compose a concerto for cello, an instrument that at the time was highly overshadowed by the public’s obsession with showy German piano and violin concertos. His Cello Concerto No. 1 premiered in 1873 to thunderous nationalist acclaim.
Two distinctive features of the concerto made it stand out immediately in 1870’s French music: The first and most obvious feature is the way the Concerto begins with an unaccompanied cello solo that completely skips the typical orchestra-only introduction. The second striking feature is the innovative manner in which Saint-Saëns blends all three movements into a single movement without pauses in between.
Few concerti begin as stridently as this one, as the opening cello solo immediately sweeps us up with its majestic power and rich singing ability. The delightful transition into the slower next movement is one of Saint-Saëns’ most novel techniques––the music abruptly begins slowing down, as if the engine had run out of fuel.
The Allegretto second movement is one of those wonders that take us to another realm of beauty. Saint-Saëns does this by capturing a feeling of antiquity and simplicity, filled with lyrical themes that hint of older times and offer nothing showy. A brief reprise of the main theme returns at the end, serving as a musical bridge to the next movement, again, without pause.
The finale offers both tunefulness and a certain operatic drama that trade off in turns. The cello passages both melt and burn, the themes blending melancholy, intrigue and excitement with gleeful gymnastics. The movement paces itself perfectly into a quickening of tempo and an exciting, yet stately, ending––not grandiloquent but the perfect finish to a work of such mastery. It’s hard not to marvel that Saint-Saëns, in his first attempt at a cello concerto, could have gotten it so right.
Felix Mendelssohn (Born in Hamburg, Germany in 1809; died in Leipzig, Germany in 1847) Symphony No. 4 in A major, Op 90 (Italian)
Allegro vivace
Andante con moto
Con moto moderato
Finale. Saltarello—Presto
When Mendelssohn was a young and precocious lad of 12, he met the great poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and it was then that this elder statesman of German literature encouraged the young Felix to travel and see the world and thereby learn. By the time the extraordinarily talented Mendelssohn was 21 in 1830, he had already composed two astonishingly great pieces: his octet at age 16, and his masterpiece, the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, at 17. Despite these successes, he wondered whether music was to be his true path, and so with his family’s financial backing and Goethe’s advice to inspire him, he set out into the world for what he called his “Great Trip.” His destinations were London, Paris, and key cities in Germany, Scotland and Italy. In each place, Mendelssohn gave keyboard concerts, soaked in the atmosphere, met other famous musicians, and painted. But mainly he absorbed musical inspiration. After a little more than two years on this journey Mendelssohn returned home a richer man in spirit, dedicated to music as his vocation, and having mostly completed both his Scottish Symphony No. 3 and his Italian Symphony No. 4.
The nicknames that Mendelssohn gave these symphonies tell only of his inspirations from those countries, rather than any storyline or place depiction in them. Nonetheless, judging from the copious letters he wrote during his travels, Mendelssohn was utterly in love with Italy: enchanted by its history, its congeniality, and its sun-soaked climate. There can be no better musical souvenir of his jubilant impressions than the opening of his Italian symphony (which premiered in 1833). Beginning with a grand pizzicato in the strings, the winds then race off into rapid-fire motion, underneath a wonderfully bright melody in the violins above them. Its sprightliness and vigor are infectious and clearly reflect Mendelssohn’s exuberant delight with Italy.
The beautiful and arching second movement, Andante, captures something of the faded grandeur of a country that once ruled and cultured the Western world. The solemn main theme paints nostalgic frescos in long, cinematic sweeps, but a delicately subtle simplicity and naiveté also shines through.
The third movement, Moderato, sings with a tender touch, but it is darkened ever so skillfully with a more somber Trio in the middle section that is reminiscent of Mozart’s magical and evocative minuets that Mendelssohn so adored.
The Finale is fashioned after an old Italian dance form called a saltarello, although some musicologists insist it is a tarantella––that frantic, jumping dance prescribed as an antidote to a tarantula bite. Whichever its inspiration, after the stomping-like opening chords, the animation is set in high motion. What makes it so fantastic is the way Mendelssohn manages to continue increasing the excitement amid its unrelenting pace, leading to its final bars brimming with exhilaration.
Our program for this concert explores the exciting development of the Classical string trio, from its roots in the highly popular Baroque trio sonata to its expression at the height of the Classical period in Vienna. The Terzetto Op. 9, No. 2 by Beethoven, which concludes our program, counts among only a handful of string trios celebrated by today’s performers and audiences. And yet the string trio, at its compositional peak (c. 1760–1770), outpublished the string quartet by a ratio of more than five to one! Among these largely forgotten works—more than 2,000 by many of the 18th century’s most prolific and eminent composers—we find such gems as the trios of virtuoso violinist Maddalena Sirmen (composed the year Beethoven was born) and those of Beethoven’s esteemed Viennese colleague Paul Wranitzky.
The Baroque trio sonata is a trio in the sense that it is written for two melodic instruments (often two violins) and basso continuo, improvised harmonies above an independent bass line. But while the continuo counts as one voice of the trio, the number of instruments used to produce it can vary considerably: keyboard and/or the plucked lute, theorbo or guitar, and/or a variety of bowed bass instruments. The Classical string trio, on the other hand, specifies three players, eliminating the role of the chordal basso continuo in favor of a more homophonic, integrated bass line. Of course the basso continuo tradition did not suddenly one day cease to exist, and neither was the absence of a chordal realization unheard of among Baroque sonatas. We see this in the first work on our program from Antonio Vivaldi‘s set of twelve Op. 1 trio sonatas scored for due violini eviolone o cembalo. The option for the bass line to be played by cello “or” harpsichord was also offered by Corelli, Tartini, and many other Baroque composers. It is rare to hear these works performed today without the texture of the improvised keyboard part but doing so reminds us of the flexibility and fluidity between genres and the way their accompanying aesthetic changes are wrought over time. The Sonata no. 5 in F major is a joyful, conversational work. It reveals the infectious zest, enthusiasm, and virtuosity that Vivaldi brought to his trio sonatas, all the hallmarks of both his playing and compositional output—a wealth of solo sonatas, concertos, sinfonias, masses, psalms and vespers music, oratorios, solo cantatas, and operas (at least 50 of them and possibly 94 if we are to believe Vivaldi’s own boasts).
Classical string trios written by femalecomposers are scant in number, in part at least because the violin and cello were generally considered indecorous instruments for the “fairer sex” to play. Such was not a concern among the charitable Venetian ospedali, which, perpetually short of funds, sought to cultivate the musical talent of the orphaned or abandoned girls in order to present all-female choral and instrumental performances, whose increasing fame drew ever larger crowds. The ospedali became the first music schools for women, and the best teachers (like Vivaldi at the Ospedale della Pietà) were brought in to oversee the musical education of these figlie. By 1753, seven-year-old Maddalena Lombardini would undergo a rigorous audition in order to enter the Ospedale dei Mendicanti, where she would remain until she was granted permission to leave and marry violinist and composer Lodovico Sirmen in 1767. Maddalena Sirmen (acknowledged primarily as a favored student of the great Tartini) was counted among the best virtuosi of her day as both a singer and a violinist. Her surviving compositions, all of them instrumental (concertos, duets, trios, and quartets), were widely published and reprinted during her lifetime. Very few Classical string trios were written in minor keys, so it is especially pleasing to have Sirmen’s Trio Op. 1, No. 6 (the last in the set), which makes full use of F minor’s dark and rich timbre. Sirmen’s style of varying textures and rhythmic pacing with sharp dynamic contrasts features throughout. The second movement, essentially a minuet in rondo form, begins and ends in a cheerful F major, but not without succumbing once again to the allure of F minor.
Born in the Czech-Moravian Highlands, Paul Wranitzky (Pavel Vranický) would play an important role as a violinist, composer, and conductor in the musical life of Vienna at the height of the Classical period. Both Haydn and Beethoven preferred Wranitzky as the conductor of their works. Wranitsky’s operas and ballets were also well received, his singspiel Oberon serving as an inspiration for Mozart’s Magic Flute. His significant chamber music output includes some 25 string quintets, 56 string quartets, and at least 24 string trios. Wranitzky was often a peacemaker among the members of the Viennese musical society, including one instance involving Haydn, and acted as mediator for Mozart’s widow, Constanze, in her dealings with music publishers. Wranitsky died suddenly from what was likely typhoid fever, and his popularity (and with it his music) fell quickly into relative obscurity. The Trio Concertant No. 3 is a grand work that exploits to great advantage the warmth and openness of string instruments playing in G major. Begun by the viola, the Allegro moderato features rich, expansive melodies, followed by a C major Adagio given over primarily to eloquent solo passages exploring the upper reaches of the cello’s register. Back in G major, an amiable Menuetto and Trio leads to a rollicking Allegro in rondo form.
All five of Ludwig van Beethoven’s string trios—the Op. 3 trio in Eb, the Op. 8 Serenade in D major, and the three Op. 9 trios—were written and published before his first set of six string quartets, Op. 18. Did Beethoven consider these trios as preparatory compositions before turning to the increasingly favored quartet? Or did he look upon the string trio as an important genre in its own right, a popular and expressive musical form engaged in by his respected colleagues and appreciated by Viennese audiences? The first question, one often answered in the affirmative (particularly with regard to the two earliest trios), would, on the face of things, seem plausible. Beethoven had already begun sketches for the Op. 18 quartets before finishing the Op. 9 trios, and indeed, would never again return to the genre. But few deny the mastery of these last three trios or contradict Beethoven’s own acknowledgment of them at the time as “the best of my work.” This he states in their dedication to Count Johann Browne, an eccentric supporter of Beethoven’s (who famously gave him a horse in exchange for the piano variations on a Russian theme by Wranitzky, WoO71).Beethoven had his most brilliant colleagues in mind in writing the Op. 9 trios. The violinist Schuppanzigh, likely violist Franz Weiss, and cellist Niklaus Kraft or his father, Anton, gave the first performance in Vienna. The Allegretto of Op. 9 No. 2 begins somewhat elusively, with a question asked in pianissimo and answered with increasing intensity and imagination. The Andante quasi allegretto, begun in utter simplicity, soon gives way to a rhapsodic melody, the three voices taking turns as soloist and with the pizzicato and arpeggiated accompaniment. The scherzo-like Menuetto, full of dynamic contrasts, is followed by a pastoral Rondo with all the youthful exuberance so often encountered in Beethoven’s early works.And note that the opening rondo theme is given not to the violin (as is so often the case) but to the cello!
—PROGRAM NOTES BY STEPHANIE VIAL
https://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/CurrentSeasonImages4.jpg400600Jen Rolstonhttps://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpgJen Rolston2022-03-24 14:54:412022-03-24 14:55:22From Venice to Vienna – April 3 & 5, 2022
(Born in Salzburg, Austria in 1756; died in Vienna, Austria in 1791)
Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), K. 620
The summer of 1791 found Mozart facing financial ruin and family heartache. His wife was sickly and pregnant, commissions for new works were disappearing for Mozart in fickle-minded Vienna, and he was forced to borrow increasing amounts from friends. What Vienna wanted, and what Mozart needed to change his fortunes, was an operatic “hit.” But there was a glint of hope: Mozart’s old friend Emmanuel Schikaneder proposed an out-of-the-ordinary project: Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). This was a new kind of operetta referred to as a Singspiel (“Singing play”) that incorporated fairy tales, comical entertainment, spoken dialogue and folk-like songs. In the fickle musical circles of Vienna, the success or failure of this operetta was a critical hope-and-gamble moment in Mozart’s career.
Mozart and Schikaneder shared a kinship through their brotherhood in the Freemasons, the secret society of enlightenment that was viewed at the time as hostile to the Roman Catholic Church and even the Austrian state. It’s no surprise, then, to find that the plot of The Magic Flute, though clothed in fairy tales, is an allegory pitting the Freemasons against the Church.
The opera premiered in September 1791 with a libretto by Schikaneder and exquisite music by Mozart. Schikaneder played a lead character (Papageno) and Mozart conducted. The performance was a great success, and The Magic Flute was the “hit” Mozart desperately needed. But he hardly enjoyed this triumph—his unexpected death claimed him only two months later.
The story of The Magic Flute takes place in Egypt (where the Freemasons are thought to have begun), around 1300 BC and revolves around a character named Prince Tamino. While hunting, the prince finds himself entangled in an odd situation: Nearly killed by a giant snake, he’s rescued by three women who are handmaidens to the Queen of the Night. Purely by operatic happenstance, he then finds himself in the company of a bird catcher named Papageno, a curious fellow dressed in feathers. The Queen of the Night asks Tamino to rescue her imprisoned daughter, Pamina, from the dreaded Sarastro, high priest of Isis and Osiris. If the rescue is successful, she says, Tamino may marry Pamina. Tamino is enchanted by this prospect: If the lovely portrait he’s shown of Pamina is accurate, then he’s already in love with her. Tamino agrees to the rescue mission, taking Papageno with him. To ward off harm during their quest, the queen gives Tamino a magic flute and Papageno a set of magic bells. The pair’s journey and friendship allow for plenty of sidebar comedy, but when they get to Sarastro’s Temple, things get serious. The high priest is indeed keeping Pamina, but only to protect her from the evilness of her mother. As surrogate father to Pamina and as Keeper of the Light, Sarastro can see the pureness of Tamino’s heart and agrees to let him wed Pamina, but Tamino and Papageno must first successfully complete a series of tests of their virtue. During these tests the two heroes have plenty of chances to use their magic instruments. When the tests are completed, Tamino and Pamina are allowed into the inner sanctum of the Temple of Isis and Osiris where they are married.And as a finishing touch, the evil queen and her three naughty handmaidens are banished into the ether of the night.
Overture
The Magic Flute garnered extraordinary success within a few days of its premiere and has charmed audiences ever since. Mozart’s score sparkles with the magic and genius of a master at play. The music is appreciable on many levels, from giddy, simple tunes to wonderfully sophisticated moments of complex counterpoint—the whole tied together by exquisite melodies. The overture to this work is a wonderful example of Mozart’s mastery.
Beginning with three ominous chords that represent the sanctity of Sarastro’s realm (the number three also carries a mystical significance for Freemasons), the music then dashes off in a free-spirited fugue, likely representing the journey and comic entanglements of Tamino and Papageno. The chords come back in a new key, and then the fugue begins again, this time with additional counterpoint that marries the seriousness of Sarastro with the lighthearted antics of the fugue theme. On the whole, the overture uses a fairly simple structural design, but in its details, the music is stunningly intricate—here, Mozart uses the bare minimum of themes to create what is considered one of the great overtures of his career.
Der Vogelfänger (I am the bird catcher)
In Act I, Scene 1, Tamino has just been saved from the giant serpent by the Queen of the Night’s three handmaidens but has fainted. Papageno arrives to find Tamino, and begins to jabber, singing one of Mozart’s most merry tunes. “I am the Birdcatcher, indeed!” sings this curious and comical character, who, with lighthearted grousing, complains about not having a wife or even the hint of a girlfriend. Interspersed in his biographical barrage, Papageno plays his panpipe to lure birds for his catching—a simple five note refrain. The aria has always been cherished as a piece of delightful whimsy and lovely tunesmithing by Mozart, and it is a shining example of the wonderful silliness that the new Singspiel was offering to audiences.
Bei Männern, welche die Liebe Fühlen (Those who feel the call of love)
In Scene 3 of Act I, Tamino and Papageno are approaching Sarasato’s temple. Tamino sends Papageno ahead to scope out the situation, and Papageno finds Pamina being held by Sarasato’s chief guard, Monostatos. Monostatos lusts after Pamina, and were it not for Papageno’s blundering into the situation, the guard would likely have abused her. Papageno is terrified at the sight of Monostatos, a dark-skinned Moor, and Monostatos is terrified at the sight of Papageno, a man dressed as a bird, and both run off, leaving Pamina alone.
But Papageno soon returns and tells Pamina about Tamino’s love for her and his plan to rescue and marry her. Pamina is enthralled at the prospect of the handsome prince’s affections. And, of course, Papageno has complained to her about his own pursuit for love, which prompts this lovely duet, “Those Who Feel the Call of Love.” It’s truly a thing of beauty, this duet, which allows each character a chance to discuss the benefits, the sanctity, and the duties of true love. Each stanza is followed by both Pamina and Papageno agreeing in lovely harmony with each other that “nothing is more noble than man and wife.” The tenderness and simplicity of this sweet moment make for some of the most beautiful music in the entire opera.
Le nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro), K. 492
This was the first of three operas that Mozart collaborated on with the librettist Lorenzo da Ponte, a collaboration that shines as one of the most genius moments in Western music. Through their partnership they created Le nozze di Figaro (1786), Don Giovanni (1787), and Così fan tutte (1790). These three works are regarded as the pinnacle of the Classical opera genre, and Le nozze especially is regarded as the greatest opera buffa ever written.
Da Ponte’s libretto for Le nozze de Figaro was based on the sequel to The Barber of Seville from the “Figaro trilogy” of plays by French playwright Pierre Beaumarchais (1732–1799). Le nozze takes place in Seville, Spain and cleverly casts aspersion on societal ills in a witty and fast-paced setting. In particular, it rather pointedly draws attention to the age-old (but repulsive) tradition of droit du seigneur (“the nobleman’s right”), through which the lord of the manor was allowed to take a woman servant’s virginity on the night before her marriage, as compensation for losing her services. Da Ponte’s texts are clever and often hilarious, tackling the complications created by sex that arise between masters and servants, and although the aftermaths of base behavior are treated with just the right amount of indignation, the overall comic fun of the opera is never completely derailed.
In the prequel story, The Barber of Seville, Figaro is the town barber and general “go-to” man, who paves the way for the characters Rosina and Count Almaviva to marry. Three years later in Le nozze di Figaro, Rosina is now Countess Rosina, married to Count Almaviva, and Figaro has become the count’s servant.Figaro and the countess’s maid, Susanna, are now engaged to be married. However, when Figaro and the countess learn that the count has designs on Susanna, full-scale shenanigans ensue: revenges and counter-revenges are plotted, and characters disguise themselves as one another.Complicating everything is the presence in the manor of a young man of noble status, Cherubino, there to learn good manners while filling the position as the count’s errand boy (his “page”), and who is of such an age of sexual awareness that the countess and Susanna must learn not to treat the lad as a pretty “young plaything” anymore.
Porgi, amor qualche ristoro (Grant [to me], O Love, some Comfort)
Early in Act II, on the eve of Figaro and Susanna’s wedding, Countess Rosina is deeply troubled by Count Almaviva’s scheming to seduce Susanna.Susanna tries to comfort the countess by whitewashing her suspicions, but Figaro has already put a plan into place. He has been sending the count anonymous tips that adulterers are vying for the countess’s affections, and to especially beware this very evening. The hope is that the count will be too busy trying to find phantom suitors than to trouble Susanna. As a backup, Figaro instructs the countess to have Cherubino (the count’s errand boy) dress as Susanna and if necessary, divert the sexual appetites of the count, and possibly catch him red-handed in his infidelities. But alas, it’s all almost too much for the countess, and in her aria Porgi, amor, she wishes for the count’s love to return to her, or at least, for some solace. Porgi, amor is searingly poignant. The countess’s melodies are soaring and beseeching, and Mozart uncannily captures her heart’s torment and exhaustion. Notice, too, Mozart’s exquisite writing for winds in answer to the countess’s pleas, especially the writing for two clarinets, which harken back to sweeter days of the count’s affections. Though fleet, Porgi, amor captures the painful potency of helplessness.
Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor? (You ladies who know what love is…)
Just after the scene in Act II where the countess is pleading for relief (Porgi, amor), Susanna and Cherubino (the count’s errand boy) arrive in the countess’s bedroom. As they begin to prepare Cherubino’s disguise as Susanna to entrap the count, Susanna implores Cherubino to sing his song. Cherubino, a promiscuous lad with an infatuation especially for the countess, has written a tune expressly for her in the grand tradition of the medieval troubadours: Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor? (You ladies who know what love is, is it what I’m suffering from?). Though Cherubino is a young man, this character is what is known as a “breeches role”—cast for a female voice dressed as a (young) man. This is particularly, and comically, apt for this opera which delves into the dignity of gender respect, by re-dressing the woman dressed as a man into a man being dressed as a woman. Despite all the intrigue, drama and wounded feelings that shroud the scene, da Ponte’s lyrics are a superb reminder of the wonder and sweet mysteries of being in love, and Mozart’s musical accompaniment is equally delicate. The strings use only pizzicato (plucked strings) throughout the aria, giving lightness and breathiness to Cherubino’s sentiments. Alongside the strings Mozart adds more richly scored winds, again, with special attention to the clarinets (Mozart’s favorite wind instrument). And atop this tender accompaniment soars a melody of absolute charm.
Dove sono (Where are they?)
Written near the peak of his career, Le nozze di Figaro is one of Mozart’s finest scores, showing his ability to make music mirror the psychological essence of the scene. One of the opera’s most beautiful and thoughtful moments occurs in Act III with the countess’s aria Dove sono (Where are they?). Now, after all the countess’s plotting to catch her husband red-handed in faithlessness in Act II, the time has nigh arrived to see what happens. But in a moment of quiet reflection, she wonders where the sweetness of their love has gone, how she could find herself in such a terrible state of lovelessness and humiliation. And yet she still holds hope with a faintness as fragile as a spider’s web. The beauty of the music is deeply poignant, but Mozart goes a little further. He creates a magic moment out of that beauty, to capture the deep heart suffering of the countess, by repeating the first section at almost a whisper. The psychological effect is disarming: Even as the pathos of the countess’s pain deepens, hopes for reconciliation still gleam distantly.
Serenade No. 10 in B flat major (Gran partita), K. 361
Largo—Allegro molto
Minuet
Adagio
Minuet. Allegretto
Romance. Adagio—Allegretto—Adagio
Theme and Variations. Andante
Rondo. Allegro molto
In 1780s Vienna, music to accompany social engagements was wildly popular. Austria’s newly crowned emperor, Joseph II, was himself very fond of this type of music: music that provided a “background” ambience for socializing. In 1782 one of Joseph’s court musicians, Anton Stadler, the great clarinet virtuoso, encouraged his Freemason brother and friend Mozart to compose some of this music for the emperor. Mozart’s response was an ambitious seven-movement masterpiece, his Serenade No. 10, completed that same year. It’s unclear if Emperor Joseph ever heard this work, however. What is known is that only four movements of it were performed—to great delight—in 1784 under the title of Gran partita, which was added by an anonymous hand. The title has stuck as the nickname for the entire work, which has become greatly beloved.
Mozart’s Serenade uses a string bass and 12 winds: two oboes, four clarinets, two basset horns, two bassoons, and four horns. The basset horn, a popular instrument in central Europe in the 18th century., is a slightly lower-ranged sibling of the clarinet. The choice of these instruments was bold enlargement of the tradition of wind serenade ensembles, and ahead of its time in sonic scope. (In this regard, it seems perhaps that Mozart had envisioned something of a hybrid “serenade” that could also work as a concert piece). Indeed, immediately, in the very first bars of this magical work, when we hear all these instruments together, its soundscape is colossal and stunning—like a grand pipe organ—even orchestral.
The Serenade is a work that fascinates and entertains the listener at nearly every phrase. And though there is much to tell about each of its movements, here are some of its highlights:
The beginning of this masterpiece is a slow and stately introduction, with moments of surprising tenderness. The next section, the molto allegro, is lively and crisp, with some marvelous instrumental combinations and colors. Some of the unison writing, when nearly everyone is playing a propulsion of quick notes, gives a foreshadowing of virtuosic moments throughout the work but especially in one magical moment that will occur during the sixth movement.
This Menuet, a dance movement with two trio episodes, is stately and forthright. The first trio is quite gentle. The second trio, however, beginning with an oboe solo filled with light trills like rippling ribbons accompanied by running triplets in the bassoon, is music of sensuous delight.
This Adagio is one of Mozart’s most beloved musical moments. Heralded by many, and famously celebrated in a priceless scene in the movie Amadeus as the character of Salieri explains that “it seemed to me that I was hearing the voice of God,” this movement is indeed a gem of other-worldly beauty. After a simple introduction that unfolds with deliberate mystery, a solo oboe plays a long, soaring and single note that melts into the clarinet, which then becomes a love duet. It foreshadows the magical beginning of his Requiem (1791), but here in the Serenade it envelopes us in joy.
The sublime loftiness of the Adagio is followed by the next Menuet arriving noisily. Like the earlier Menuet, this one also contains two very contrasting trio episodes: The first one is almost sinister in its minor mode; the second is filled with courtly elegance.
The Romance begins with a moment of gentle sweetness which turns operatically dramatic. The quick middle section teams with intrigue, like the machinations of the count and countess in The Marriage of Figaro.
The Theme and Variations starts with a very agreeable tune. With each variation, more and more rustling occurs in the accompaniment: The same kind of quick-note motive heard in the first movement here becomes increasingly active. That motive morphs into a moment of sheer enchantment in Variation V at about seven minutes into the movement. Here, all the clarinets play similar running fast notes at the quietest of volumes, as if Mozart had transcribed the murmuring of hundreds of bees in a garden—it’s truly mesmerizing.
The Finale is a raucous clamouring of joy. Mozart keeps ramping up the energy and the occurrence of the quick-note motive, and at one point close to the end, everyone but the horns is playing unison notes that fly by at hyper speed. The entire finale is drenched in good cheer, energy and good humor.
https://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/CurrentSeasonImages3.jpg400600Jen Rolstonhttps://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpgJen Rolston2022-03-16 17:01:052022-03-16 17:09:15Winds for Wolfgang – March 19 & 20, 2022
Secrets & Surprises – May 21 & 22, 2022
Program NotesSecrets & Surprises
May 21 & 22, 2022
Gabriel Fauré
(Born in Pamiers, Ariège, Midi-Pyrénées, France on May 12, 1845; died in Paris in 1924)
Masques et Bergamasques Suite, Op. 112
In 1918 Prince Albert of Monaco commissioned the aging Gabriel Fauré to write the music for a divertissement (a short ballet) to be performed at the Monte Carlo Theater. Fauré, age 73, was still busily directing the Paris Conservatoire and was battling a curious form of deafness that warps pitches. With little free time, instead of composing an “occasion” piece for this commission, Fauré partly expanded an earlier work, his Clair de lune from his Fêtes galantes of 1902. But at this stage in Faure’s career, the Monte Carlo piece was also intended to be a kind of musical autobiography. And so, in the end, it contained eight songs and instrumental pieces, some of them previously published as far back as 1869 and some newly composed. The work was well-received, and Fauré quickly refashioned it into a four-piece suite that had its premiere in 1919 under the title Masques et Bergamasques.
The program for the Monte Carlo event noted that the inspiration for the ballet’s characters came from the Italian commedia dell’arte:
The characters Harlequin, Gilles and Colombine, whose task is usually to amuse the aristocratic audience, take their turn at being spectators at a ‘Fêtes galantes’ on the island of Cythera. The lords and ladies, who as a rule applaud their efforts, now unwittingly provide them with entertainment by their coquettish behavior.
Fauré’s Clair de lune had been based on a poem of the same name by the French poet Paul Verlaine. And the curious title of Fauré’s 1919 suite was taken from the first stanza of Verlaine’s poem, which reads as follows:
Votre âme est un paysage choisi
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques,
Jouant du luth et dansant, et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantastiques!
(Your soul is a chosen landscape
charmed by masquers and revelers
playing the lute and dancing, and almost
sad beneath their fanciful disguises!).
Fauré’s suite may therefore be read as a kind of hidden camera on aristocratic reveling. The music strives, like Verlaine’s decadent poems, to portray a deeper pathos underneath the polished veneer of such festivities. The overture, originally from Fauré’s Fêtes galantes of 1902, begins in a sprint, with lighthearted vigor. The revelers are no doubt giddy and full of expectancy as they arrive at the grand party. But a second theme, though luxurious and soaring, seems to uncover a melancholy. All the same, it’s ignored quickly enough with the return of the energetic first theme.
The two middle dance movements, the Menuet (newly composed) and the Gavotte (from 1869), broaden the underlying dissatisfactions in the revelers, though the formal appearances are upheld. Fauré keeps the dance forms structurally accurate, but the Menuet drives through an unsettling number of key changes and introduces a sort of reveler petulance in the Trio section with plodding brass and low pitched timpani. Likewise, the Gavotte has an absolutely lovely first theme but is tinged with dark harmonic hues, suggesting an underlying melancholy. It continues with a frenetic and driving repetition of notes in the liquid-like middle section, portraying a vapid chattering. And yet, though this music flirts with shallowness and pathos, it also contains some of Fauré’s most exquisite melodies.
The suite ends with an unexpectedly placed Pastorale. Perhaps the sleepy and drunken revelers are taking a walk under the moonlight: The music is gentle and dreamy, lightly cascading in the strings and harp. The music grows and sweeps, breathes deeply and deliciously, and all are under the spell of Fauré’s musical charms. But near the Pastorale’s end a breathtaking set of harmonies stagger the melodic cadences. The harmonies shift about and don’t want to come back to the home key; although brief. These shifts cleverly create an atmosphere of surrealism à la Verlaine––though lush and sated, there is a feeling of being unsure, and alone.
Camille Saint-Saëns
(Born in Paris in 1835; died in Algiers, Algeria in 1921)
Cello Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Op. 33
Following France’s loss to Germany in the Franco-Prussian War in 1871, Paris began calling for a new, French-minded music to reassert its national self-esteem, and Saint-Saëns was at the ready. One of his first responses was to compose a concerto for cello, an instrument that at the time was highly overshadowed by the public’s obsession with showy German piano and violin concertos. His Cello Concerto No. 1 premiered in 1873 to thunderous nationalist acclaim.
Two distinctive features of the concerto made it stand out immediately in 1870’s French music: The first and most obvious feature is the way the Concerto begins with an unaccompanied cello solo that completely skips the typical orchestra-only introduction. The second striking feature is the innovative manner in which Saint-Saëns blends all three movements into a single movement without pauses in between.
Few concerti begin as stridently as this one, as the opening cello solo immediately sweeps us up with its majestic power and rich singing ability. The delightful transition into the slower next movement is one of Saint-Saëns’ most novel techniques––the music abruptly begins slowing down, as if the engine had run out of fuel.
The Allegretto second movement is one of those wonders that take us to another realm of beauty. Saint-Saëns does this by capturing a feeling of antiquity and simplicity, filled with lyrical themes that hint of older times and offer nothing showy. A brief reprise of the main theme returns at the end, serving as a musical bridge to the next movement, again, without pause.
The finale offers both tunefulness and a certain operatic drama that trade off in turns. The cello passages both melt and burn, the themes blending melancholy, intrigue and excitement with gleeful gymnastics. The movement paces itself perfectly into a quickening of tempo and an exciting, yet stately, ending––not grandiloquent but the perfect finish to a work of such mastery. It’s hard not to marvel that Saint-Saëns, in his first attempt at a cello concerto, could have gotten it so right.
Felix Mendelssohn
(Born in Hamburg, Germany in 1809; died in Leipzig, Germany in 1847)
Symphony No. 4 in A major, Op 90 (Italian)
When Mendelssohn was a young and precocious lad of 12, he met the great poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and it was then that this elder statesman of German literature encouraged the young Felix to travel and see the world and thereby learn. By the time the extraordinarily talented Mendelssohn was 21 in 1830, he had already composed two astonishingly great pieces: his octet at age 16, and his masterpiece, the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, at 17. Despite these successes, he wondered whether music was to be his true path, and so with his family’s financial backing and Goethe’s advice to inspire him, he set out into the world for what he called his “Great Trip.” His destinations were London, Paris, and key cities in Germany, Scotland and Italy. In each place, Mendelssohn gave keyboard concerts, soaked in the atmosphere, met other famous musicians, and painted. But mainly he absorbed musical inspiration. After a little more than two years on this journey Mendelssohn returned home a richer man in spirit, dedicated to music as his vocation, and having mostly completed both his Scottish Symphony No. 3 and his Italian Symphony No. 4.
The nicknames that Mendelssohn gave these symphonies tell only of his inspirations from those countries, rather than any storyline or place depiction in them. Nonetheless, judging from the copious letters he wrote during his travels, Mendelssohn was utterly in love with Italy: enchanted by its history, its congeniality, and its sun-soaked climate. There can be no better musical souvenir of his jubilant impressions than the opening of his Italian symphony (which premiered in 1833). Beginning with a grand pizzicato in the strings, the winds then race off into rapid-fire motion, underneath a wonderfully bright melody in the violins above them. Its sprightliness and vigor are infectious and clearly reflect Mendelssohn’s exuberant delight with Italy.
The beautiful and arching second movement, Andante, captures something of the faded grandeur of a country that once ruled and cultured the Western world. The solemn main theme paints nostalgic frescos in long, cinematic sweeps, but a delicately subtle simplicity and naiveté also shines through.
The third movement, Moderato, sings with a tender touch, but it is darkened ever so skillfully with a more somber Trio in the middle section that is reminiscent of Mozart’s magical and evocative minuets that Mendelssohn so adored.
The Finale is fashioned after an old Italian dance form called a saltarello, although some musicologists insist it is a tarantella––that frantic, jumping dance prescribed as an antidote to a tarantula bite. Whichever its inspiration, after the stomping-like opening chords, the animation is set in high motion. What makes it so fantastic is the way Mendelssohn manages to continue increasing the excitement amid its unrelenting pace, leading to its final bars brimming with exhilaration.
© Max Derrickson
From Venice to Vienna – April 3 & 5, 2022
Program NotesFrom Venice to Vienna
April 3 & 5, 2022
Our program for this concert explores the exciting development of the Classical string trio, from its roots in the highly popular Baroque trio sonata to its expression at the height of the Classical period in Vienna. The Terzetto Op. 9, No. 2 by Beethoven, which concludes our program, counts among only a handful of string trios celebrated by today’s performers and audiences. And yet the string trio, at its compositional peak (c. 1760–1770), outpublished the string quartet by a ratio of more than five to one! Among these largely forgotten works—more than 2,000 by many of the 18th century’s most prolific and eminent composers—we find such gems as the trios of virtuoso violinist Maddalena Sirmen (composed the year Beethoven was born) and those of Beethoven’s esteemed Viennese colleague Paul Wranitzky.
The Baroque trio sonata is a trio in the sense that it is written for two melodic instruments (often two violins) and basso continuo, improvised harmonies above an independent bass line. But while the continuo counts as one voice of the trio, the number of instruments used to produce it can vary considerably: keyboard and/or the plucked lute, theorbo or guitar, and/or a variety of bowed bass instruments. The Classical string trio, on the other hand, specifies three players, eliminating the role of the chordal basso continuo in favor of a more homophonic, integrated bass line. Of course the basso continuo tradition did not suddenly one day cease to exist, and neither was the absence of a chordal realization unheard of among Baroque sonatas. We see this in the first work on our program from Antonio Vivaldi‘s set of twelve Op. 1 trio sonatas scored for due violini e violone o cembalo. The option for the bass line to be played by cello “or” harpsichord was also offered by Corelli, Tartini, and many other Baroque composers. It is rare to hear these works performed today without the texture of the improvised keyboard part but doing so reminds us of the flexibility and fluidity between genres and the way their accompanying aesthetic changes are wrought over time. The Sonata no. 5 in F major is a joyful, conversational work. It reveals the infectious zest, enthusiasm, and virtuosity that Vivaldi brought to his trio sonatas, all the hallmarks of both his playing and compositional output—a wealth of solo sonatas, concertos, sinfonias, masses, psalms and vespers music, oratorios, solo cantatas, and operas (at least 50 of them and possibly 94 if we are to believe Vivaldi’s own boasts).
Classical string trios written by female composers are scant in number, in part at least because the violin and cello were generally considered indecorous instruments for the “fairer sex” to play. Such was not a concern among the charitable Venetian ospedali, which, perpetually short of funds, sought to cultivate the musical talent of the orphaned or abandoned girls in order to present all-female choral and instrumental performances, whose increasing fame drew ever larger crowds. The ospedali became the first music schools for women, and the best teachers (like Vivaldi at the Ospedale della Pietà) were brought in to oversee the musical education of these figlie. By 1753, seven-year-old Maddalena Lombardini would undergo a rigorous audition in order to enter the Ospedale dei Mendicanti, where she would remain until she was granted permission to leave and marry violinist and composer Lodovico Sirmen in 1767. Maddalena Sirmen (acknowledged primarily as a favored student of the great Tartini) was counted among the best virtuosi of her day as both a singer and a violinist. Her surviving compositions, all of them instrumental (concertos, duets, trios, and quartets), were widely published and reprinted during her lifetime. Very few Classical string trios were written in minor keys, so it is especially pleasing to have Sirmen’s Trio Op. 1, No. 6 (the last in the set), which makes full use of F minor’s dark and rich timbre. Sirmen’s style of varying textures and rhythmic pacing with sharp dynamic contrasts features throughout. The second movement, essentially a minuet in rondo form, begins and ends in a cheerful F major, but not without succumbing once again to the allure of F minor.
Born in the Czech-Moravian Highlands, Paul Wranitzky (Pavel Vranický) would play an important role as a violinist, composer, and conductor in the musical life of Vienna at the height of the Classical period. Both Haydn and Beethoven preferred Wranitzky as the conductor of their works. Wranitsky’s operas and ballets were also well received, his singspiel Oberon serving as an inspiration for Mozart’s Magic Flute. His significant chamber music output includes some 25 string quintets, 56 string quartets, and at least 24 string trios. Wranitzky was often a peacemaker among the members of the Viennese musical society, including one instance involving Haydn, and acted as mediator for Mozart’s widow, Constanze, in her dealings with music publishers. Wranitsky died suddenly from what was likely typhoid fever, and his popularity (and with it his music) fell quickly into relative obscurity. The Trio Concertant No. 3 is a grand work that exploits to great advantage the warmth and openness of string instruments playing in G major. Begun by the viola, the Allegro moderato features rich, expansive melodies, followed by a C major Adagio given over primarily to eloquent solo passages exploring the upper reaches of the cello’s register. Back in G major, an amiable Menuetto and Trio leads to a rollicking Allegro in rondo form.
All five of Ludwig van Beethoven’s string trios—the Op. 3 trio in Eb, the Op. 8 Serenade in D major, and the three Op. 9 trios—were written and published before his first set of six string quartets, Op. 18. Did Beethoven consider these trios as preparatory compositions before turning to the increasingly favored quartet? Or did he look upon the string trio as an important genre in its own right, a popular and expressive musical form engaged in by his respected colleagues and appreciated by Viennese audiences? The first question, one often answered in the affirmative (particularly with regard to the two earliest trios), would, on the face of things, seem plausible. Beethoven had already begun sketches for the Op. 18 quartets before finishing the Op. 9 trios, and indeed, would never again return to the genre. But few deny the mastery of these last three trios or contradict Beethoven’s own acknowledgment of them at the time as “the best of my work.” This he states in their dedication to Count Johann Browne, an eccentric supporter of Beethoven’s (who famously gave him a horse in exchange for the piano variations on a Russian theme by Wranitzky, WoO71). Beethoven had his most brilliant colleagues in mind in writing the Op. 9 trios. The violinist Schuppanzigh, likely violist Franz Weiss, and cellist Niklaus Kraft or his father, Anton, gave the first performance in Vienna. The Allegretto of Op. 9 No. 2 begins somewhat elusively, with a question asked in pianissimo and answered with increasing intensity and imagination. The Andante quasi allegretto, begun in utter simplicity, soon gives way to a rhapsodic melody, the three voices taking turns as soloist and with the pizzicato and arpeggiated accompaniment. The scherzo-like Menuetto, full of dynamic contrasts, is followed by a pastoral Rondo with all the youthful exuberance so often encountered in Beethoven’s early works. And note that the opening rondo theme is given not to the violin (as is so often the case) but to the cello!
—PROGRAM NOTES BY STEPHANIE VIAL
Winds for Wolfgang – March 19 & 20, 2022
Program NotesWINDS FOR WOLFGANG
March 19 & 20, 2022
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
(Born in Salzburg, Austria in 1756; died in Vienna, Austria in 1791)
Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), K. 620
The summer of 1791 found Mozart facing financial ruin and family heartache. His wife was sickly and pregnant, commissions for new works were disappearing for Mozart in fickle-minded Vienna, and he was forced to borrow increasing amounts from friends. What Vienna wanted, and what Mozart needed to change his fortunes, was an operatic “hit.” But there was a glint of hope: Mozart’s old friend Emmanuel Schikaneder proposed an out-of-the-ordinary project: Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). This was a new kind of operetta referred to as a Singspiel (“Singing play”) that incorporated fairy tales, comical entertainment, spoken dialogue and folk-like songs. In the fickle musical circles of Vienna, the success or failure of this operetta was a critical hope-and-gamble moment in Mozart’s career.
Mozart and Schikaneder shared a kinship through their brotherhood in the Freemasons, the secret society of enlightenment that was viewed at the time as hostile to the Roman Catholic Church and even the Austrian state. It’s no surprise, then, to find that the plot of The Magic Flute, though clothed in fairy tales, is an allegory pitting the Freemasons against the Church.
The opera premiered in September 1791 with a libretto by Schikaneder and exquisite music by Mozart. Schikaneder played a lead character (Papageno) and Mozart conducted. The performance was a great success, and The Magic Flute was the “hit” Mozart desperately needed. But he hardly enjoyed this triumph—his unexpected death claimed him only two months later.
The story of The Magic Flute takes place in Egypt (where the Freemasons are thought to have begun), around 1300 BC and revolves around a character named Prince Tamino. While hunting, the prince finds himself entangled in an odd situation: Nearly killed by a giant snake, he’s rescued by three women who are handmaidens to the Queen of the Night. Purely by operatic happenstance, he then finds himself in the company of a bird catcher named Papageno, a curious fellow dressed in feathers. The Queen of the Night asks Tamino to rescue her imprisoned daughter, Pamina, from the dreaded Sarastro, high priest of Isis and Osiris. If the rescue is successful, she says, Tamino may marry Pamina. Tamino is enchanted by this prospect: If the lovely portrait he’s shown of Pamina is accurate, then he’s already in love with her. Tamino agrees to the rescue mission, taking Papageno with him. To ward off harm during their quest, the queen gives Tamino a magic flute and Papageno a set of magic bells. The pair’s journey and friendship allow for plenty of sidebar comedy, but when they get to Sarastro’s Temple, things get serious. The high priest is indeed keeping Pamina, but only to protect her from the evilness of her mother. As surrogate father to Pamina and as Keeper of the Light, Sarastro can see the pureness of Tamino’s heart and agrees to let him wed Pamina, but Tamino and Papageno must first successfully complete a series of tests of their virtue. During these tests the two heroes have plenty of chances to use their magic instruments. When the tests are completed, Tamino and Pamina are allowed into the inner sanctum of the Temple of Isis and Osiris where they are married. And as a finishing touch, the evil queen and her three naughty handmaidens are banished into the ether of the night.
Overture
The Magic Flute garnered extraordinary success within a few days of its premiere and has charmed audiences ever since. Mozart’s score sparkles with the magic and genius of a master at play. The music is appreciable on many levels, from giddy, simple tunes to wonderfully sophisticated moments of complex counterpoint—the whole tied together by exquisite melodies. The overture to this work is a wonderful example of Mozart’s mastery.
Beginning with three ominous chords that represent the sanctity of Sarastro’s realm (the number three also carries a mystical significance for Freemasons), the music then dashes off in a free-spirited fugue, likely representing the journey and comic entanglements of Tamino and Papageno. The chords come back in a new key, and then the fugue begins again, this time with additional counterpoint that marries the seriousness of Sarastro with the lighthearted antics of the fugue theme. On the whole, the overture uses a fairly simple structural design, but in its details, the music is stunningly intricate—here, Mozart uses the bare minimum of themes to create what is considered one of the great overtures of his career.
Der Vogelfänger (I am the bird catcher)
In Act I, Scene 1, Tamino has just been saved from the giant serpent by the Queen of the Night’s three handmaidens but has fainted. Papageno arrives to find Tamino, and begins to jabber, singing one of Mozart’s most merry tunes. “I am the Birdcatcher, indeed!” sings this curious and comical character, who, with lighthearted grousing, complains about not having a wife or even the hint of a girlfriend. Interspersed in his biographical barrage, Papageno plays his panpipe to lure birds for his catching—a simple five note refrain. The aria has always been cherished as a piece of delightful whimsy and lovely tunesmithing by Mozart, and it is a shining example of the wonderful silliness that the new Singspiel was offering to audiences.
Bei Männern, welche die Liebe Fühlen (Those who feel the call of love)
In Scene 3 of Act I, Tamino and Papageno are approaching Sarasato’s temple. Tamino sends Papageno ahead to scope out the situation, and Papageno finds Pamina being held by Sarasato’s chief guard, Monostatos. Monostatos lusts after Pamina, and were it not for Papageno’s blundering into the situation, the guard would likely have abused her. Papageno is terrified at the sight of Monostatos, a dark-skinned Moor, and Monostatos is terrified at the sight of Papageno, a man dressed as a bird, and both run off, leaving Pamina alone.
But Papageno soon returns and tells Pamina about Tamino’s love for her and his plan to rescue and marry her. Pamina is enthralled at the prospect of the handsome prince’s affections. And, of course, Papageno has complained to her about his own pursuit for love, which prompts this lovely duet, “Those Who Feel the Call of Love.” It’s truly a thing of beauty, this duet, which allows each character a chance to discuss the benefits, the sanctity, and the duties of true love. Each stanza is followed by both Pamina and Papageno agreeing in lovely harmony with each other that “nothing is more noble than man and wife.” The tenderness and simplicity of this sweet moment make for some of the most beautiful music in the entire opera.
Le nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro), K. 492
This was the first of three operas that Mozart collaborated on with the librettist Lorenzo da Ponte, a collaboration that shines as one of the most genius moments in Western music. Through their partnership they created Le nozze di Figaro (1786), Don Giovanni (1787), and Così fan tutte (1790). These three works are regarded as the pinnacle of the Classical opera genre, and Le nozze especially is regarded as the greatest opera buffa ever written.
Da Ponte’s libretto for Le nozze de Figaro was based on the sequel to The Barber of Seville from the “Figaro trilogy” of plays by French playwright Pierre Beaumarchais (1732–1799). Le nozze takes place in Seville, Spain and cleverly casts aspersion on societal ills in a witty and fast-paced setting. In particular, it rather pointedly draws attention to the age-old (but repulsive) tradition of droit du seigneur (“the nobleman’s right”), through which the lord of the manor was allowed to take a woman servant’s virginity on the night before her marriage, as compensation for losing her services. Da Ponte’s texts are clever and often hilarious, tackling the complications created by sex that arise between masters and servants, and although the aftermaths of base behavior are treated with just the right amount of indignation, the overall comic fun of the opera is never completely derailed.
In the prequel story, The Barber of Seville, Figaro is the town barber and general “go-to” man, who paves the way for the characters Rosina and Count Almaviva to marry. Three years later in Le nozze di Figaro, Rosina is now Countess Rosina, married to Count Almaviva, and Figaro has become the count’s servant. Figaro and the countess’s maid, Susanna, are now engaged to be married. However, when Figaro and the countess learn that the count has designs on Susanna, full-scale shenanigans ensue: revenges and counter-revenges are plotted, and characters disguise themselves as one another. Complicating everything is the presence in the manor of a young man of noble status, Cherubino, there to learn good manners while filling the position as the count’s errand boy (his “page”), and who is of such an age of sexual awareness that the countess and Susanna must learn not to treat the lad as a pretty “young plaything” anymore.
Porgi, amor qualche ristoro (Grant [to me], O Love, some Comfort)
Early in Act II, on the eve of Figaro and Susanna’s wedding, Countess Rosina is deeply troubled by Count Almaviva’s scheming to seduce Susanna. Susanna tries to comfort the countess by whitewashing her suspicions, but Figaro has already put a plan into place. He has been sending the count anonymous tips that adulterers are vying for the countess’s affections, and to especially beware this very evening. The hope is that the count will be too busy trying to find phantom suitors than to trouble Susanna. As a backup, Figaro instructs the countess to have Cherubino (the count’s errand boy) dress as Susanna and if necessary, divert the sexual appetites of the count, and possibly catch him red-handed in his infidelities. But alas, it’s all almost too much for the countess, and in her aria Porgi, amor, she wishes for the count’s love to return to her, or at least, for some solace. Porgi, amor is searingly poignant. The countess’s melodies are soaring and beseeching, and Mozart uncannily captures her heart’s torment and exhaustion. Notice, too, Mozart’s exquisite writing for winds in answer to the countess’s pleas, especially the writing for two clarinets, which harken back to sweeter days of the count’s affections. Though fleet, Porgi, amor captures the painful potency of helplessness.
Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor? (You ladies who know what love is…)
Just after the scene in Act II where the countess is pleading for relief (Porgi, amor), Susanna and Cherubino (the count’s errand boy) arrive in the countess’s bedroom. As they begin to prepare Cherubino’s disguise as Susanna to entrap the count, Susanna implores Cherubino to sing his song. Cherubino, a promiscuous lad with an infatuation especially for the countess, has written a tune expressly for her in the grand tradition of the medieval troubadours: Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor? (You ladies who know what love is, is it what I’m suffering from?). Though Cherubino is a young man, this character is what is known as a “breeches role”—cast for a female voice dressed as a (young) man. This is particularly, and comically, apt for this opera which delves into the dignity of gender respect, by re-dressing the woman dressed as a man into a man being dressed as a woman. Despite all the intrigue, drama and wounded feelings that shroud the scene, da Ponte’s lyrics are a superb reminder of the wonder and sweet mysteries of being in love, and Mozart’s musical accompaniment is equally delicate. The strings use only pizzicato (plucked strings) throughout the aria, giving lightness and breathiness to Cherubino’s sentiments. Alongside the strings Mozart adds more richly scored winds, again, with special attention to the clarinets (Mozart’s favorite wind instrument). And atop this tender accompaniment soars a melody of absolute charm.
Dove sono (Where are they?)
Written near the peak of his career, Le nozze di Figaro is one of Mozart’s finest scores, showing his ability to make music mirror the psychological essence of the scene. One of the opera’s most beautiful and thoughtful moments occurs in Act III with the countess’s aria Dove sono (Where are they?). Now, after all the countess’s plotting to catch her husband red-handed in faithlessness in Act II, the time has nigh arrived to see what happens. But in a moment of quiet reflection, she wonders where the sweetness of their love has gone, how she could find herself in such a terrible state of lovelessness and humiliation. And yet she still holds hope with a faintness as fragile as a spider’s web. The beauty of the music is deeply poignant, but Mozart goes a little further. He creates a magic moment out of that beauty, to capture the deep heart suffering of the countess, by repeating the first section at almost a whisper. The psychological effect is disarming: Even as the pathos of the countess’s pain deepens, hopes for reconciliation still gleam distantly.
Serenade No. 10 in B flat major (Gran partita), K. 361
Largo—Allegro molto
Minuet
Adagio
Minuet. Allegretto
Romance. Adagio—Allegretto—Adagio
Theme and Variations. Andante
Rondo. Allegro molto
In 1780s Vienna, music to accompany social engagements was wildly popular. Austria’s newly crowned emperor, Joseph II, was himself very fond of this type of music: music that provided a “background” ambience for socializing. In 1782 one of Joseph’s court musicians, Anton Stadler, the great clarinet virtuoso, encouraged his Freemason brother and friend Mozart to compose some of this music for the emperor. Mozart’s response was an ambitious seven-movement masterpiece, his Serenade No. 10, completed that same year. It’s unclear if Emperor Joseph ever heard this work, however. What is known is that only four movements of it were performed—to great delight—in 1784 under the title of Gran partita, which was added by an anonymous hand. The title has stuck as the nickname for the entire work, which has become greatly beloved.
Mozart’s Serenade uses a string bass and 12 winds: two oboes, four clarinets, two basset horns, two bassoons, and four horns. The basset horn, a popular instrument in central Europe in the 18th century., is a slightly lower-ranged sibling of the clarinet. The choice of these instruments was bold enlargement of the tradition of wind serenade ensembles, and ahead of its time in sonic scope. (In this regard, it seems perhaps that Mozart had envisioned something of a hybrid “serenade” that could also work as a concert piece). Indeed, immediately, in the very first bars of this magical work, when we hear all these instruments together, its soundscape is colossal and stunning—like a grand pipe organ—even orchestral.
The Serenade is a work that fascinates and entertains the listener at nearly every phrase. And though there is much to tell about each of its movements, here are some of its highlights:
The beginning of this masterpiece is a slow and stately introduction, with moments of surprising tenderness. The next section, the molto allegro, is lively and crisp, with some marvelous instrumental combinations and colors. Some of the unison writing, when nearly everyone is playing a propulsion of quick notes, gives a foreshadowing of virtuosic moments throughout the work but especially in one magical moment that will occur during the sixth movement.
This Menuet, a dance movement with two trio episodes, is stately and forthright. The first trio is quite gentle. The second trio, however, beginning with an oboe solo filled with light trills like rippling ribbons accompanied by running triplets in the bassoon, is music of sensuous delight.
This Adagio is one of Mozart’s most beloved musical moments. Heralded by many, and famously celebrated in a priceless scene in the movie Amadeus as the character of Salieri explains that “it seemed to me that I was hearing the voice of God,” this movement is indeed a gem of other-worldly beauty. After a simple introduction that unfolds with deliberate mystery, a solo oboe plays a long, soaring and single note that melts into the clarinet, which then becomes a love duet. It foreshadows the magical beginning of his Requiem (1791), but here in the Serenade it envelopes us in joy.
The sublime loftiness of the Adagio is followed by the next Menuet arriving noisily. Like the earlier Menuet, this one also contains two very contrasting trio episodes: The first one is almost sinister in its minor mode; the second is filled with courtly elegance.
The Romance begins with a moment of gentle sweetness which turns operatically dramatic. The quick middle section teams with intrigue, like the machinations of the count and countess in The Marriage of Figaro.
The Theme and Variations starts with a very agreeable tune. With each variation, more and more rustling occurs in the accompaniment: The same kind of quick-note motive heard in the first movement here becomes increasingly active. That motive morphs into a moment of sheer enchantment in Variation V at about seven minutes into the movement. Here, all the clarinets play similar running fast notes at the quietest of volumes, as if Mozart had transcribed the murmuring of hundreds of bees in a garden—it’s truly mesmerizing.
The Finale is a raucous clamouring of joy. Mozart keeps ramping up the energy and the occurrence of the quick-note motive, and at one point close to the end, everyone but the horns is playing unison notes that fly by at hyper speed. The entire finale is drenched in good cheer, energy and good humor.
© Max Derrickson