Carlos Simon

(Born in Washington, D.C., in 1986)

Elegy: A Cry from the Grave

The American composer Carlos Simon, who was born in Washington, D.C., and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, is one of the most popular musicians and composers working in the United States, with a similarly growing reputation around the world. He is curretly the composer-in-residence for the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, as well as being an associate professor at Georgetown University, in Washington, D.C. Simon’s career as a composer has been boldly advancing for more than two decades, and he has accrued many awards and honors. In 2023, he received a Grammy nomination for Best Contemporary Classical Composition for his album, Requiem for the Enslaved. Simon is extremely prolific, writing in a host of genres for chamber, choral, and orchestral ensembles as well as film soundtracks, many of them on commission. His compositions are often powerful reflections on social issues, with a prominent focus on Black Americans’ struggles for equality. He told the Washington Post recently, 

My dad, he always gets on me. He wants me to be a preacher, but I always tell him, “Music is my pulpit. That’s where I preach.”

Simon’s Elegy: A Cry from the Grave was written in 2015 as a personal protest and seeks to bear witness to injustice, as Simon explains: 

This piece is an artistic reflection dedicated to those who have been murdered wrongfully by an oppressive power; namely Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, and Michael Brown. The stimulus for composing this piece came as a result of prosecuting attorney Robert McCulloch announcing that a selected jury had decided not to indict police officer, Daren Wilson after fatally shooting an unarmed teenager, Michael Brown, in Ferguson, Missouri. The evocative nature of the piece draws on strong lyricism and a lush harmonic character. A melodic idea is played in all the voices of the ensemble at some point of the piece either whole or fragmented. The recurring ominous motif represents the cry of those struck down unjustly in this country. While the predominant essence of the piece is sorrowful and contemplative, there are moments of extreme hope represented by bright consonant harmonies.

The opening bars begin with the feeling of quiet, cold winds stealing through the air, as the upper strings rustle in tremolos marked to be played Sul ponticello, a musical direction to bow very close to the bridge, creating an eerie, hollow sound. This ghostly aura becomes even more ethereal as several of the strings make portamenti (small slides) between pitches. Above that, the central melodic idea soon arises in the violas. This melodic idea is an angular motive with several wide intervallic leaps, and yet it’s darkly lyrical, evoking the feel of a wounded soul singing out with passion and representing the crying out of those unjustly killed, which will be spoken by an increasingly angered chorus. The upper strings quickly respond with this same melodic idea, while the lower strings then continue the eerie tremolos. And from this sound bed, the melodic idea finds its way into every voice in the ensemble, often moving in tandem, or in harmony, or in polyphonic complexities. And yet, in the building of this chorus, Simon creates many moments of sheer beauty that shine spotlights of hopefulness. The exquisite harmonies that the lower strings create at only 30 seconds into the work is but one of these many beauties.

Eventually and inexorably, the voices build up to an anguished climax at about four and a half minutes, when every instrument breaks into a loud, aggravated tremolo. From here, the music recedes into quieter and quieter iterations of the melodic idea, like ebbing anger faintly illuminated by hope. 

Eric Nathan

(Born in New York, New York, in 1983)

Double Concerto for Solo Violin, Solo Clarinet, and String Orchestra

The American composer Eric Nathan has received many prestigious awards and grants, including both Guggenheim and Rome Prize fellowships and a Charles Ives Scholarship, and has become a celebrated voice in the international musical scene. He is an associate professor of music at Brown University in Rhode Island and serves as artistic director of the Boston ensemble, Collage New Music.

Nathan wrote his Double Concerto for Solo Violin, Solo Clarinet and String Orchestra in 2019 at the request of both the New York Classical Players and the New England Philharmonic. And he wrote it specifically for our concert’s soloists, Stefan Jakiw and Yoonah Kim. The work is dedicated to them, and they performed its premiere in 2019 (and married each other during their preparation for the premiere).

Nathan describes this work as a “relationship” between its players that dramatizes “an emotional transformation”:

At the heart of Double Concerto is a focus on the relationships between our three main characters — the two soloists and the string orchestra. Some of my thinking on the roles these characters play grew out of early conversations I had with Stefan Jackiw and Yoonah Kim, the two soloists for which this piece was composed, and is dedicated. Jackiw described thinking of the role of the clarinet in string chamber works, such as Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet, as an invited guest. In my Double Concerto, we begin alone with our protagonist, the violin, and the string orchestra, which acts throughout like a chorus from Ancient Greek theater, standing in solidarity with the soloists and narrating and personifying the internal or external struggles they face. The solo clarinetist does not enter until almost halfway through the work, but when it does, it unexpectedly alters the course of the concerto, perhaps also instilling hope when it is most needed. The work, cast in a single movement, follows an emotional transformation.

The orchestra opens the concerto by playing long, static pitches evoking a vast and desolate landscape. The violin soloist then enters with a slowly rising passage that’s both beautiful and lamenting. As the violin weeps, a series of descending glissandi (long slides) occur in the orchestra, creating an eerie and surreal effect as though, in the inky black of the night sky, the canopy of stars begins to fall. This weeping-wandering continues until about two and a half minutes, when the soloist plays a rather resolute passage that finishes by reaching upwards with three long pitches, each just a bit higher than the last. This motive will reappear several times in the concerto, and Nathan describes it as an idée fixe — a musical phrase that reoccurs at important moments.

After some darkly turbulent music, the violin climbs back up to its earlier high perch in pitch — meanwhile, the clarinet has been waiting silently for six minutes. From niente (nothingness) the clarinet enters here, joining the violin’s stratospheric pitch, and grows in volume from a tiny ray of light into pearlescent radiance. The violin responds with its idée fixe, to which the clarinet replies with growing resolve, seeming to lead the violin out of its gloom with an increasingly assured tone. As it does so, a remarkably beautiful accompaniment occurs. Here, Nathan borrows from one of Bach’s Twelve Little Preludes (1720s), a tutorial that Bach created to teach his son, Wilhelm Friedemann, how to play the keyboard. Nathan sets the basic chords of the collection’s first prelude (BWV 924 in C Major) as the orchestra’s accompaniment to the clarinet’s ruminations, and the appearance of such unexpected tonality is breathtaking. This, however, soon creates conflict with the violin, sparking a virtuosic madness of rhythms and volume.

When calm returns at about 13 minutes, the clarinet begins an unorthodox cadenza. Instructed to play “encouraging, teaching,” the clarinet sings small parts of the violin’s idée fixe. And at the end of each fragment the clarinet holds the last note, inviting the violin — “teaching” as Bach had done with his preludes for his son — to join in that note, which the violin does with touching vulnerability. The final bars are directed to be played “floating, timeless, blending,” and this fascinating, moving concerto then deliquesces into its final, healing silence.

Aaron Copland

(Born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1900; died in North Tarrytown, New York, in 1990)

Concerto for Clarinet and String Orchestra (with Harp and Piano)

1. Slowly and Expressively Cadenza

2. Rather Fast Coda

During the 1930’s America’s taste in popular music was all about “Swing” music (as Jazz was called then), which was played on the radio, on play-at-home records, and in local dance halls. One of the greatest Swing bandleaders in that era was Benny Goodman (1909–1986) who was also a phenomenal jazz clarinetist. But during World War II and later in the 1940’s, American tastes changed as Swing gave way to the “Bebop” jazz of Charlie Parker and Thelonius Monk. Goodman changed, too, and so began his second career as a classical clarinetist but with a jazz inflection. It was in this new role that in 1947 Goodman commissioned a concerto for clarinet from the greatest contemporary American classical composer, Aaron Copland.

At this time, Copland was lecturing and conducting in Brazil, where he created most of Goodman’s concerto. Copland infused the work with an ear towards Goodman’s hallmark jazz, while also weaving in aspects of popular Brazilian music — almost unconsciously, he said. The concerto was premiered to great acclaim in 1950 in New York, with Goodman as the soloist, and it quickly became a beloved fixture in the clarinet repertory.

The concerto is conceived in an unusual structure with only two movements, one slow and one fast, connected by a long clarinet cadenza. As accompaniment for the soloist, Copland relies on a sparse orchestra of strings, harp, and piano. The first movement, marked “Slowly and Expressively,” begins with the open and glowing simplicity of plucked basses and harp, and as the remainder of the strings slowly join in, the clarinet starts singing a meandering, intimate song. This first movement progresses through some exquisite harmonies under the singing clarinet as it enchants us with its exceptional lyrical abilities and extraordinary range.

At about six minutes, the music quiets considerably, and the soloist begins a two-minute cadenza. At first, the feeling is pacific, but soon the mood changes dramatically, shot through with increasingly frenetic passages. Within this lengthy cadenza, Copland shows off the clarinet’s remarkably athletic character, while also introducing many of the motives that appear in the next movement, which begins without any pause.

This second movement, marked “Rather Fast,” begins with the harp plucking, the stringed instruments playing harmonics and tapping their strings with the wooden end of their bows, and the piano playing short, soft notes, directed to be played “staccato, delicate, and wraith-like [like a ghost],” evoking a kind of mischievous, apparitional music box playing at high speed. This movement focuses on short ostinatos and riffs — little syncopated phrases that repeat –– and which are constantly changing. This is jazz in classical clothing and Copland employs ever-more jazzy elements throughout. He explained, “I used slapping basses and whacking harp sounds to simulate [jazzy percussion effects],” which you can hear at about three and a half minutes after the start of this second movement.  

Evocations of Brazilian popular music start to show up in this movement as well: the first appearing only a few bars after the “slap-bass” begins, where Copland inserts a very singable little tune in the clarinet, rising up in steps and then coming back down, and then a second one appears about 30 seconds later with a little noodling run upwards, first heard in the strings, then the piano, and followed by the clarinet. The music, however, gets increasingly intense and filled with disorienting syncopations until, at about three minutes later, a pounding, descending bass line in the piano begins, launching the Coda (ending section) and setting off a melee of excitement. This masterpiece concerto nearly hurls itself to its final bars, jubilantly ending with “a clarinet glissando — or ‘smear’ [in jazz lingo].”

Giuseppe (Fortunino Francesco) Verdi

(Born in Roncole, near Parma, Italy, in 1813; died in Milan, Italy, in 1901)

Prelude to Act III from La Forza del Destino (“The Force of Destiny”)

In 1861, Verdi received a commission from the Imperial Theater of St. Petersburg, Russia, for a new opera. As he had with Nabucco and many of his previous operas, Verdi turned again to a loosely veiled theme of Italy’s current struggle for independence and unification that had consumed much of the 19th century. He also returned to one of the great librettists of the day, Francesco Maria Piave (1810–1876), a longtime friend and librettist for nine of Verdi’s previous operas. Piave based the text for Verdi’s commission, La Forza del Destino (“The Force of Destiny”), on an 1835 Spanish drama, Don Álvaro o la fuerza del sino (“Don Álvaro, or the Power of Fate”), by the Spanish Enlightenment author and politician, Ángel de Saavedra.

La Forza del Destino follows the plight of two ill-fated lovers, Álvaro and Leonora, set in 1740’s Naples.  The opera begins with Álvaro and Leonora being hopelessly in love, but Leonora’s father, a Spanish dignitary, cannot accept Álvaro’s “half-caste” Peruvian-Incan blood as a sufficient lineage for his daughter, and so, the two lovers attempt to elope. The father discovers their plan and confronts them, and during the heated exchange Álvaro’s gun accidentally fires and kills the father. Thus is set into motion the current of Fate — an inexorable sequence of tragedies ­— that will dog the steps of the two lovers forever. 

The opening of Act III takes place in the pitch of night, in a forest near Velletri, Italy, where, in fact, an important battle took place in 1744 between Spanish-ruled Naples and the Habsburg Empire. Álvaro has joined the Spanish-Neapolitan army and is camped with his regiment before the battle. He and Leonora have been hiding separately for some time, and without any word from her, Álvaro presumes she has died. Act III opens with martial music as soldiers rowdily play cards offstage. A forlorn Álvaro slowly and silently advances into the light, and he will soon reflect on his life that has been hounded by bad luck, crowned by the most recent tragedy of having lost his beloved Leonora. But before he sings, a musical prelude sets the tragic tone with exquisite beauty.

In the prelude, the strings shudder quietly in tremolos of tattered nerves and tension, and the clarinet begins with one of Verdi’s most famous solos for that instrument. Verdi often features the clarinet in La Forza del Destino (in fact, a former student and friend was the principal clarinetist of the St. Petersburg Opera). Considered to be an instrument that best resembles the human voice, the clarinet in this prelude creates a kind of psychological inner landscape of Álvaro’s tortured soul. Slowly at first, the clarinet sings a tune that is beautiful, but also wistful and pained. After a few bars, the horns alone softly play three ominous notes in unison, which is Verdi’s “Fate” motive that reappears throughout the opera. The clarinet sings again, but now with an even more beautiful and melancholic tune which will then become the tune of Álvaro’s subsequent aria. The clarinet’s singing soon branches out into small cadenza-like reveries, reflecting Álvaro’s tender hope that Leonora is now in the care of angels. But eventually, the lower strings begin a quietly menacing pulsing that scatters the clarinet’s ruminations, and as the clarinet plays its last, touching notes, the strings end this prelude with a series of upward steps, as though Álvaro is climbing out of his own tormented heart. Act III then moves on to feature Álvaro’s aria, but for the moment, the clarinetist has been the shining operatic star, having delivered a series of potent, heart-catching solos.

Felix Mendelssohn

(Born in Hamburg, Germany, in 1809; died in Leipzig, Germany, in 1847)

Violin Concerto in D minor, Op. posth.

1. Allegro 

2. Andante 

3. Allegro

Mendelssohn’s upbringing was filled with privilege and took place in perhaps the most artistically and intellectually stimulating environment of any musician of his time. Besides receiving near-continuous visits from many of Europe’s most influential thinkers and artists, the Mendelssohn family hosted a Sunday morning musical salon for their latest guests, featuring young Felix and his sister, Fanny, performing music and showing off their own compositions. Nevertheless, there is no argument that Felix was, on his own merits, one of the greatest musical prodigies in history. Even before composing at the age of 16 or 17 his extraordinary String Octet (1825) and his Overture to a Midsummer Night’s Dream (1826), Mendelssohn had already created 12 symphonies for strings; multiple sonatas for violin, piano, and organ; several lieder (songs); two short operas; a cantata; and in 1822, this violin concerto in D minor.

This D minor violin concerto should not be confused with Mendelssohn’s later, and hugely beloved violin concerto in E minor that he wrote near the end of his life, in 1845. This earlier Concerto was written to be performed by his violin teacher, Eduard Rietz (for whom Mendelssohn also later composed his String Octet as a birthday present), but it never made it into the family’s Sunday morning salons, and there is no record of it having been performed elsewhere during Mendelssohn’s life. In fact, the concerto was virtually forgotten until 1951, when a rare-book collector, a descendant of Mendelssohn’s, presented it to the great violin virtuoso, Yehudi Menuhin. Menuhin premiered the Concerto in 1952 at Carnegie Hall, and slowly, this lovely work has been gaining a reputation as Mendelssohn’s marvelous “other Concerto.”

Written for violin soloist with string orchestra, Mendelssohn begins the first movement, Allegro, with the full orchestra playing a theme that cavorts with quick runs and clipped rhythms dancing up and down the scale. Though the minor key adds a sinister hint to the music, the theme nonetheless wanders into a series of somewhat playful cat-and-mouse exchanges between the upper and lower strings. The violin soloist enters at about one minute and a half with a new, more lyrical and melancholic theme, which quickly demands virtuosic runs. Virtuosity and lyricism, for both the soloist and the orchestra, then alternate in delightfully inventive ways until the end of the movement.

The second movement, Andante, is filled with tenderness and lyricism that feels uncannily mature for a 13-year-old composer. The violins begin with a slow and unpretentious theme, quietly climbing up the scale and then gently tumbling down. Behind them, the basses and violas echo that theme in a sort of canon that creates a sense of yearning. When the soloist enters about two minutes later with a short little cadenza, that yearning is intensified. The soloist then moves into a new theme composed of several measures of long, lyrical notes that periodically give over to more active rhythms, like a jittery love-smitten heart.  The entire Andante explores these emotions in a number of gentle ways, until the last beautiful bars, where the soloist sings alone, quietly holding a note high in its register.

Without a pause, the fiery third movement, another Allegro, begins. The soloist and orchestra jump in together with a theme that’s free-spirited and frisky. The soloist quickly launches into virtuosic passages, which are often answered with equally virtuosic playing in the orchestra, and together they soon arrive at a series of cadenzas for the soloist that were written out by the young Mendelssohn. The rest of the movement then sprints away as if on a precipice, with an exhilarating feeling of coming dangerously close to slipping off the edge. As the soloist performs with increasing pyrotechnics, the movement comes to its exciting and wonderfully fun final bars.

© Max Derrickson

Introduction 

Some thoughts about music and the movies

Music as a counterpart to visual scenes, as is common in films, precedes cinema itself. Famously, for example, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony (1808) intentionally evoked scenes of nature and the feelings nature elicits. 

But composers were mixing the senses long before that. The French Baroque composer Marin Marais (1656–1728) often wrote music intended to portray specific images and sensations. One striking example is his 1725 work entitled The Bladder-Stone Surgery, which detailed exactly that medical procedure (the score includes notations such as “The patient is bound with silken cords” and “He screameth”)!

More familiarly (and surely more pleasingly), Antonio Vivaldi (1678–1741) at about the same time gave an exquisite musical expression of the seasonal changes of the year in his group of four violin concerti titled Four Seasons. Here, in a tour de force of Baroque complexity, each concerto is accompanied by a sonnet divided into three verses that correspond to that concerto’s three movements. Each sonnet narrates incidents and emotions appropriate to the season at hand (such as spring birdsong, the buzzing of insects in the summer, the barking of hunting dogs in the autumn, and the howling cold winds of winter), and these incidents and emotions can be heard approximated in the music. 

The Romantic Era, of course, brought musical representation of natural phenomena even more to the fore. Perhaps no one was more devoted to the creation of emotion-meets-image-meets-musical-sequence than Richard Wagner (1813–1883) and his extraordinary operas.

But to come together in their most potent combination, it almost seems as though music, emotions, and images had been waiting for the advent of cinema. From almost the very beginning of commercial moving pictures in 1895, music accompanied the visuals on the screen. But because film technology at first could only record images, this music was originally provided by live musicians—typically a pianist or a small instrumental ensemble. Later, the art-house organ and its many sound effects became hugely popular in movie houses, and the organists would improvise as they went along, playing beloved pieces of music, both popular and classical, to adorn and exaggerate the sentiments of each film’s story.

By the early years of the 20th century, the movies had become so wildly popular that great composers began to write musical scores specifically for them. The first famous composer to do this was Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921) for a 1908 film called The Assassination of the Duke of Guise. Saint-Saëns’s craftsmanship in treating this film’s music as a piece of art unto itself, yet intrinsically linking the music to the action, characters, and emotions of the storyline, changed everything in cinema. In the ensuing decades, directors and composers would come together to make some of the greatest collaborations in all of art: Think of Sergei Eisenstein and Sergei Prokofiev (Alexander Nevsky, 1938); Alfred Hitchcock and Bernard Hermann (Psycho, 1960); and Steven Spielberg and John Williams (Jaws, 1975). 

In addition to new music written specifically for films, Classical music on its own terms was also taken out of its concert hall context and used, to significant effect, in many movie soundtracks. Think especially of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and its use of Richard Strauss’s opening to Also Sprach Zarathustra. 

In this concert, you will hear both original film music (by Max Richter and Howard Shore) as well as classical blockbusters (from Schubert, Barber, Beethoven, and Dvořák) that were “repurposed” to magically enhance different films.

In short, music and movies seem to have been meant for each other, regardless of the origins of the music itself. As an anonymous film critic once said:

When watching a film, the director or actor may put the tear in your eye, but it takes music to make it spill upon your cheek.

Franz Schubert

(Born in Vienna, Austria, in 1797; died in Vienna, Austria in 1828)

String Quartet No. 8 in B-flat major, D. 112 (published posthumously as Op. 168)

III. Menuetto — Allegro

The exceptional music of Franz Schubert can be heard in dozens of films, always giving added meaning — and an additional layer of excellence — to the scenes involved.  Tapping into Schubert’s genius in this way, Greta Gerwig employed no fewer than five of his dance pieces in her superb 2019 remake of the classic film and novel, Little Women. One of these dance pieces is the Dance Minuet movement from an early string quartet, No. 8 in B-flat major, written in 1814.

Schubert’s later string quartets, such as Nos. 13, 14, and 15 from 1824 and 1826, were often laden with pathos. But his earlier string quartets, including No. 8, are instead filled with light, charm, and wit. (This is not incidental: Schubert wrote these early quartets for his family to play privately at their home, with himself on the viola and his father and two brothers rounding out the family’s string quartet ensemble.)

No. 8’s very lyrical third movement, the Menuetto (the Italian version of minuet), unabashedly embraces Schubert’s lifelong love for the dance forms that were so popular in Vienna in his day, and it is absolutely danceable. The first section begins with the upper violin lilting along with a pleasantly elegant and singable melody. But notice how Schubert (the family violist) gives the viola an especially prominent part — and how this allows for the two violins to dally alongside in their own wonderful duets.

The Trio section (middle section, beginning roughly at about two and a half minutes) is a delicate surprise. As the violins play a new and gentler melody in longer notes, the viola and soon the cello pizzicato their way through the harmonies, as though tenderly tiptoeing up behind one’s beloved. The music from the first section returns for one last round of the dance, and the Menuetto ends with a smiling grace.

Samuel Barber

(Born in West Chester, Pennsylvania, in 1910; died in New York City, New York, in 1981)

String Quartet in B minor, Op. 11

II. Molto adagio

Barber wrote his only string quartet in 1936. The first and third movements are dissonant and angular but the middle movement, molto adagio, is a piece of astoundingly sonorous beauty. These contrasting approaches to composing would define Barber’s unique career: He was equally masterful at pushing harmonic boundaries and in creating some of the most lush and lyrical melodies in the 20th century.

Immediately after finishing the string quartet, Barber arranged its middle-movement Adagio as a separate piece for string orchestra and entitled it Adagio for Strings. Knowing that it was, as he said, “a knockout,” Barber sent it to the conductor Arturo Toscanini, who gave the piece its premiere in 1938. From that premiere, the Adagio’s popularity and importance in American culture has never waned. It soon became regarded as America’s semiofficial music for mourning, and it was performed often after tragic moments in American history. In 1945, it was played during the announcement of Franklin Roosevelt’s death; in 1963, it was performed to an empty hall at the Kennedy Center after the assassination of John F. Kennedy; and in 2001, it was heard prominently after the World Trade Center bombing on 9/11. The Adagio’s emergence into cinema began, most notably, in 1980 with David Lynch’s classic film, The Elephant Man. But the music’s huge popularity was forever cemented when Oliver Stone used it as the main theme for his 1986 Vietnam antiwar film, Platoon.

Adagio for Strings is at once contemplative and melancholic, and thus it is well suited to its use in films and memorial events. Nonetheless, as beautiful as this work is in its string orchestra arrangement, the Molto adagio middle movement from the original string quartet version captures an uncanny intimacy. The main theme, first played by the upper violin, is lyrical and pensive, as though lost in a circle of memories, which slowly moves upward by steps. Underneath, long chords create a darkly hued atmosphere which shifts unhurriedly. The theme’s steplike motion eventually gives way to quiet, wide melodic leaps, but rather than jangling the psyche, they murmur sentiments of hope. The music builds to an intense climax at about five and a half minutes, which is answered by a long silence. The music then recedes by ingeniously recreating the feeling of several profound sighs, and then, of quietude. The music of the beginning returns to end the work, but now, with a feeling of almost impossible tenderness, whispering of a fragile sense of promise.

Ludwig van Beethoven

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

String Quartet No. 15 in A minor, Op. 132

III. Heiliger Dankgesang (“Song of Thanksgiving “) Molto adagio

Beethoven has been a factor in films from the earliest days of cinema, perhaps beginning with a now lost French silent biopic called Beethoven produced around 1913. Since then, he and his music have figured in over 1,200 movies, television shows, and documentaries. One of the most memorable examples may well be Walt Disney’s 1940 animated film, Fantasia, which featured Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6 (“Pastoral”). 

The Beethoven music in our concert, the Molto adagio movement to his String Quartet No. 15, was used powerfully in director Joe Wright’s 2009 movie about a homeless cellist, The Soloist.  

Quartet No. 15 is one of Beethoven’s late quartets, created very near the end of his life. Beethoven used these quartets to explore new musical territory and innovative ways to convey very deep emotions. No. 15 was written in 1825 while Beethoven was battling a gravely serious gastrointestinal illness. He survived this dance with death and captured his gratitude, and the sheer joy of coming back into health, in No. 15’s third movement, Molto adagio (very slow).

Beethoven subtitled this movement Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart (“Holy song of thanksgiving of a convalescent to the Deity, in the Lydian Mode”). This movement is the centerpiece of the whole quartet, and its beautiful opening chorale is transcendent. Cast in the modal-sounding key F Lydian, this chorale is slow, somber, and vulnerable — Beethoven’s musical expression of humble thanks. Following this chorale is a quicker section, marked to be played “with renewed strength,” that is frisky and joyful. The somber chorale and its joyful counterpart alternate twice, but while the chorale’s return becomes increasingly introspective and eloquent, its quicker counterpart almost flits with dancelike ebullience: Especially jubilant is the passage at about eight minutes, with runs and embellishments twirling between the quartet’s players. The chorale returns one final time to end the movement, now deeply lyrical and intense and marked to be played “with the most intimate emotions.” It strengthens into a climax, and then retreats into quiet gratitude, like a prayer.

Antonin Dvořák

(Born near Prague, Bohemia (now Czech Republic), in 1841; died in Prague
in 1904)

String Quartet No. 12 in F major, Op. 96, B. 179, “American”

II. Lento

The music of the Czech composer Antonin Dvořák has been accompanying movies almost since the birth of the industry, beginning in 1929 with a remarkable film, called Hallelujah, that featured an all-Black cast. Indeed, his music has been so popular in cinema that it has been used in over 100 films just since the 1996 film, Kolja, which used the Dvořák music featured in our concert: the Lento movement from his String Quartet No 12. (Incidentally, Greta Gerwig’s Little Women uses another movement from this string quartet.)

No. 12 was written in 1893 while Dvořák was serving as director of the newly created National Conservatory of Music in New York City. In the summer of that year, he took a break from the frenetic New York scene to spend time in the quiet of the countryside with a diaspora of Czech immigrants in Spillville, Iowa. Within two weeks he composed his now hugely popular String Quartet No. 12, later nicknamed the “American” quartet. One of the most beloved string quartets in the repertoire, this one is beautiful and robust; folksy, yet sophisticated. Every movement shines with gorgeous melodies, but especially magical is its second movement, Lento (very slowly).

The Lento opens with the viola and second violin repeating a gentle, undulating ostinato while the cello quietly plucks below. Overtop of this sound bed, the violin enters with a song that is lyrically breathtaking and deeply melancholic — something like a slow spiritual mixed with a Czech folksong. The movement seems to search for answers to this sorrowfulness with mild climaxes and light drama. But overall, the song continues to sing, attracting ever-changing gorgeous harmonies, melting like sunsets. At about three and a half minutes, the two violins begin a dialogue that develops into one of the most beautiful moments in the entire quartet. The Lento eventually ends with the cello taking up the sad song and ending with a last, lonesome, and fading chord that uncannily evokes a feeling of uncertainty.

Max Richter

(Born in Hamelin, West Germany, on March 22, 1966)

On the Nature of Daylight (Arr. for string quartet by Alice Hong)

German-born pianist and composer Max Richter was raised in England. He studied music at the University of Edinburgh and then the Royal Academy of Music (London), finally studying composition with the modernist Luciano Berio (1925–2003). His style evolved to include post-minimalism (minimalist-like), ambient, and contemporary (modern) classical music making, creating a tonally rewarding and thoughtfully crafted mix. He has written, performed and produced 14 solo classical music albums since 2002 and has kept immensely busy with arranging, performing, and composing for stage, opera, ballet, and almost 60 films.

On the Nature of Daylight (performed in our concert in its string quartet arrangement) first appeared as a solo track on Richter’s 2004 album titled The Blue Notebooks, which was conceived as a protest album against the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Most of the album’s musical tracks have voice-over readings from Franz Kafka’s The Blue Octavo Notebooks (1917–1919) and the writings of Czesław Miłosz. With On the Nature of Daylight, however, there were no voices, just strings and electronics. Richter described his conception of the piece:  

What I wanted to try and do was … create something which had a sense of luminosity and brightness, but made from the darkest possible materials.

On the Nature of Daylight soon became extremely popular for its lyrical reflectiveness and deep sense of sadness. The piece has found its way into several films since its album release, most memorably in Denis Villeneuve’s 2016 sci-fi film Arrival. 

Like Barber’s Adagio, Richter’s On the Nature of Daylight feels as though it connects profound sadness with the stirrings of hope. In its string quartet arrangement, the work begins with three members of the quartet playing slow and lush chords, repeating four-bar phrases almost continually, very much like a Baroque chaconne. The harmonic progression is ruminative and unhurried, basking in an inner glow. At almost two minutes, the first violin then begins to gently rhapsodize in a minimalist style (a melody or phrase that repeats continuously but with gradual modifications). The second violin soon joins with its own rhapsodizing, sonically drifting high above the rest of the quartet. The music continues in this ruminative way until about five and a half minutes, when the cello finally comes to rest on a single note. And like gravity, the cello’s sound-space pulls in the rest of the quartet, slowing their rustling, until — at last — all motion concludes with a long-held chord fading into silence.

Howard Shore

(Born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada,on October 18, 1946)

The Breaking of the Fellowship (from the final scene of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, 2001, arr. for String Quartet by Alex Philip-Yates)

The Canadian-born musician Howard Shore grew up learning how to play multiple instruments, and he began playing in several bands at age 13. He attended the Berklee College of Music in Boston, and from there, his career began to blossom, first as a jazz-fusion musician and then as a composer for musicals and films.

Shore’s first success in film scoring was in 1979 with the thriller The Brood, and since then he’s had a very distinguished career with over 80 film scores. His greatest fame has been won for his music for Peter Jackson’s 2001–2003 film trilogy, The Lord of the Rings, based on the fantasy books by J.R.R. Tolkien. Shore won his first Oscar for Best Original Score for his music to the first installment of the trilogy, The Fellowship of the Ring (2001). The music in the closing scenes, in particular (referred to as The Breaking of the Fellowship), has become extremely popular because of its great and lyrical theme. In the movie, Irish pop singer Enya sings words to this theme during the closing section of the film. This poignant music has been arranged many times for many kinds of ensembles; in our concert, we hear the string quartet arrangement.

The full quartet introduces the work with several long chords that are the basic harmonies of the main theme, and they conjure a somber and epic feeling — like an epilogue to a great adventure. The theme emerges briefly in the more rhythmically active violin but then recedes. The music then wanders through intertwining but independent parts from the quartet players, representing the group of friend-warriors (the Fellowship) each breaking out on his own journey. These independent parts, however, set the stage for the first full appearance of the main theme, also known as the song “In Dreams,” at about two minutes. This theme sounds like an old and wistful English folk tune mixed with an air of the valiant — part folk song, part anthem. The music then does what the characters do, it goes a-wandering, through key changes and sets of lush chords, with snippets of the folk tune appearing like memories, and all the while stacking up in emotion. The final section, beginning a little before eight minutes, becomes increasingly heroic, rising with hope, with the understanding that the Fellowship shall one day reunite.

© Max Derrickson

The guest artists for this concert do not use written notes; instead, they prefer to talk directly with their audiences about the works they perform as their concerts proceed so we not have written program notes for this concert. Instead, they have provided a detailed history of the instruments used in the concert:

ABOUT THE INSTRUMENTS

Bagpipe

Mindy Rosenfeld’s bagpipe is a copy of a set of German small pipes (also called a Hümmelchen, meaning “little bumblebee”) that was depicted and described in Michael Praetorius’s Syntagma Musicum of 1619. A relatively quiet-sounding instrument, it is particularly suitable for playing with quieter instruments (even the lute!) and for making music indoors (unlike the Scottish Highland pipes!). Mindy’s set of pipes is mouth-blown (differing from bellows-driven or “cold wind” pipes), has a six-holed chanter (for playing melodies), and has two C drones which sound an octave apart. It can play nine notes!

Cittern

The cittern is a wire-strung, plucked, wooden instrument—resembling a modern banjo—with a flat back and belly. Like the banjo it has a “re-entrant” tuning in which the pitches of the individual strings (nine, arranged into four courses) do not proceed strictly from low to high. Mark Cudek uses the “English” tuning, which consists of (from bass to treble) a descending major 3rd, an ascending perfect 5th, and an ascending major 2nd or whole step.

The cittern flourished throughout Europe in the 16th and 17th centuries and was especially popular in the British Isles. It was used to play folk music and accompany ballads, and it was often depicted hanging on the walls of barbershops, for the use of clients waiting to have either their hair cut or their blood drawn (barbers were also surgeons). Occasionally, it was employed in more sophisticated musical settings, especially as a member of the “broken” or “English” consort and there is a sizable solo repertoire existing in both manuscripts and publications.

The word “cittern” comes from the Greek “kithara,” which described a stringed instrument, related to the lyre, that was closely associated with the god Apollo. This is a manifestation of the Renaissance interest in drawing parallels between the culture of that time and the culture of classical antiquity.

Flute and Fife

Archaeologists have unearthed flutes that are thousands of years old. More recently—500 years ago in Renaissance Europe—flutes were made of wood and constructed in a simple manner with a cylindrical bore (internal air passage), six finger holes, and one hole for the player to blow across. Flutes of the Renaissance, like most other instruments of the time, were made in different sizes, from treble to bass.

By the year 1700, the instrument we call the “Baroque” flute (having a conical bore and one key, constructed with joints to facilitate precise tuning) had been developed. The commonly used flute of the Baroque (often called in musical sources the “traverso,” “German flute,” or “la flute d’Allemagne” to differentiate it from the recorder) evolved from the tenor-sized D flute of the Renaissance. Over 150 years this instrument became, through the addition of keys and the change of basic material, the modern concert flute (usually made of silver or other precious metals).

Although the fife looks like a flute, it has a separate identity. It is a special category of high-pitched flute that has always been associated with music needing a loud, somewhat shrill sound to be heard outdoors or in noisy situations. Accordingly, it was and still is used by the military and in traditional folkdance bands. The fife has always been made of wood and never had any keys.

Lute

In the Renaissance era, the lute was the most popular instrument in the Western world, the symbol of the magic and power of music. At one level, it was the instrument of kings and queens, playing the sublime music of great composers. But it was also heard in the theatre in the incidental music of Shakespeare’s plays. And it was heard by common people, playing the popular tunes of the day in pubs and on street corners.

The lute is a descendant of the Arabic oud, which traveled into Europe during the time of the Crusades. From the beginning, the lute had a pear-shaped body, a rounded back made of separate strips of wood, and a bent-back pegbox.

By the 15th century a fifth course was added to the lute, and by the end of that century, six courses were common. They were tuned to the intervals 4th, 4th, major 3rd, 4th, 4th. But the actual pitch would vary depending on the size of the lute. A common tuning instruction of the time was “tune the treble string as high as it will go without breaking, then tune the remaining strings in accordance with the first.”

Around the end of the 15th century, lute players began to abandon the plectrum (a small, flat tool for plucking the strings) and pluck with their fingertips. This made it possible to play two, three, or even four lines of music simultaneously. With this revolution in playing technique, the lute’s potential for expressivity and shading with delicate nuances of color were revealed, and its popularity increased dramatically. The lute became the perfect solo instrument for that age, as well as an ideal accompaniment for the voice and a regular member of ensembles.

Along with the new fingertip style of playing, a new form of notation for the lute began to appear. This “lute tablature” was ideally suited for the technique of the instrument. Rather than representing the pitches to be played, lute tablature shows the lute player where to place the fingers on the fingerboard to produce those pitches.

Thousands of lute solos and lute songs were published or copied into manuscripts during the 16th century. Many of these were intended for the blossoming numbers of amateur lutenists, who learned to play, and often sing, to the lute. Great composers such as Francesco da Milano and John Dowland amazed, moved, and transported their listeners with virtuoso playing and profound compositions.

By the end of the 16th century additional bass courses had become common. Lutes with seven or eight courses became the norm. And early in the 17th century, the 10-course lute was established.

France took the lead in the lute’s development in the 17th century. French lutenists established a repertory of lute solos based on stylized dances. They experimented with a variety of alternate tunings to create new sonorities, and by midcentury they had settled on a new lute tuning of 11 courses. This new “D minor tuning” was the basis for all the French and German lute music that followed in the 17th and 18th centuries.

By the 18th century the lute’s greatest popularity and place of development had shifted to Germany. Silvius Leopold Weiss (1687–1750) towered over all other lutenists of the Baroque with his virtuoso playing and sublime compositions. He developed creative, idiomatic ways of using the lute’s fingerboard and left the largest body of lute music of any composer in history. His compositions are some of the most deeply beautiful of any music written for this instrument. Weiss added two more courses to the bass register of the lute, creating a 13-course lute. He also straightened the bent back pegbox to create a “swan neck” design for the bass strings. This gave the bass more power and resonance.

In the 19th century, the lute dropped completely out of use. It was eventually resurrected by an interest in music of earlier times that began to blossom in the late 19th and 20th centuries. The virtuoso guitarist and lutenist Julian Bream (1933–2023) did much to enlighten listeners about the emotional depth and dazzling fireworks of Elizabethan lute music.

The Early Music movement of the late 20th century saw a new generation of lutenists dedicated to rediscovering the old performance practices. The tremendous beauty, variety, and color of Renaissance and Baroque lute music can now be heard in their performances. And the amazing musical flexibility of the lute is revealed through new compositions, written in a variety of styles. After 200 years of neglect, the future of the lute once again looks bright.

Viol

Also known by its Italian name, viola da gamba (da gamba means “played on the leg”), this type of bowed instrument flourished between 1500 and 1750. It evolved in Spain as a hybrid of the vihuela, a native plucked string instrument shaped like a guitar but tuned like a lute, and the rebab, a Moorish bowed instrument played in the vertical position. It normally had six gut strings. 

From Spain, the viol migrated to Italy and thence spread to Northern Europe in the early 16th century. It experienced a golden age in both consort and solo music in England between about 1540 and 1690 and was also extremely popular in France in the 17th and 18th centuries. 

The instrument fell from use in the late 18th century, partly because of the French Revolution (it was associated with the salons of aristocracy and royalty), and partly because of the ascendancy of the violin family, whose instruments had greater carrying power in the larger public concert halls that were then becoming common.

Johann Sebastian Bach

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

Bach’s Time in Cöthen, Germany

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

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

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

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

Bach

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

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

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

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

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

Bach

Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G major

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

2. Adagio

3. Allegro

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

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

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

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

Mark Janello

Free Improvisation on the harpsicord

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

Bach

Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G major

1. Allegro

2. Andante

3. Presto

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

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

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

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

Bach

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

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

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

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

Bach

Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D major, BWV 1050

1. Allegro

2. Affettuoso

3. Allegro

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

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

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

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

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

Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges

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

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

• Allegro presto
• Andante
• Presto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ciprian Porumbescu 

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

Balada for Violin and Orchestra

• Molto cantabile e espressivo (Very songlike and expressive)

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

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

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

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

Camille Saint-Saëns 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ludwig van Beethoven

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

Symphony No. 4 in B Major, Op. 60

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Program notes © Max Derrickson