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

PROGRAM NOTES

Béla Bartók
(Born in Nagyszentmiklós, Hungary in 1881; died in New York City in 1945)

Romanian Folk Dances, Sz. 68, BB 76

(The six movements are described by their Hungarian subtitles followed by the English translation)

1. Joc cu bâtǎ (Stick Dance). Allegro moderato

2. Brâul (Sash Dance). Allegro

3. Pê-loc (In One Spot). Andante

4. Buciumeana (Dance from Bucium). Moderato

5. Poargǎ româneascǎ (Romanian Polka). Allegro

6. Mǎrunţel (Fast Dance). Allegro 

For the Hungarian composer Béla Bartók, studying traditional folk music was a passion — it was of interest to him anthropologically and nationalistically, as well as musically. But it was the musicality of folksong that was most important to him, and folksongs informed, often outright, much of his composing. When he began to discover the riches of the folksongs from Transylvania around 1903, Bartók said he had “found” his own voice as well. From that point on, his tireless love for traditional music blossomed, becoming one of his musical lodestars for the rest of his life.

The set of six folk dances featured in our concert comes from Bartók’s second collecting trip to Transylvania (then politically a part of Hungary) in 1910–12, when he was able to make field recordings using the then-new technology of wax cylinders. Bartók first reimagined these dances as a short piano suite entitled “Hungarian Folk Dances” in 1915. He kept this title when he rearranged the work for a small orchestra in 1917. The orchestrated version, however, was not published until after the restructuring of Europe that followed World War I, and by that time Transylvania had become part of Romania. Thus, the orchestra version was published as “Romanian Folk Dances,” and this is the name we continue to use today. The melodies of these dances are mostly true to the dances Bartók originally recorded, but since such dances were typically played solo on a regional fiddle or indigenous “peasant” flute, Bartók added harmonic accompaniment. The brilliant brevity of this set of dances — all six of them are typically performed in under seven minutes even with a pause between each — and the dances’ light, but deeply effective, harmonizations have made Bartók’s Romanian Folk Dances one of his most popular works.

(1) Stick Dance. Bartók reportedly heard two Romani (Gypsy) fiddlers romping with this first tune. Such Transylvanian stick dances, according to the Dutch author Martinus Nijhoff, were danced by men as “a solo dance, with various figures [dance movements] the last of which—as a consummation—consists of kicking the room’s ceiling.” The dance is as graceful as it is lively, and here, it is especially tuneful.

(2) Sash Dance. This dance has a particularly sweet and carefree melody. It likely is part of a courtship dance in which the female dancer uses a sash or a decorative belt as a prop; one can imagine her flashing flirtatious smiles over her shoulder.

(3) In One Spot. This a stamping dance, and Bartók imaginatively scored it for drone-like strings with a piccolo solo played overtop (Bartók said he first heard this song played on a peasant’s flute, an instrument akin to a penny whistle,) Transylvanian “stamping” could be as much about being seductively graceful as about athleticism. Indeed, the exotic-sounding mode (key) that Bartók exploits here reminds us of the Turkish-infused music that once was played in the area during the 16^th and 17^th centuries, when the whole region was a part of the Ottoman Empire, before it came under Hungarian rule.

(4) Dance from Bucium. There’s little documentation now of what social purpose this dance, also called the “Horn Dance,” from Bucium might have served in 1910. The area of Bucium, where Bartók collected this tune, was once a Roman military post in northeastern Transylvania, and the area likely saw quite a few travelers from foreign lands drift through. The tempo of this dance in Bartók’s original recording was much faster than it is recast here, where it is much more pensive with echoes of nostalgia permeating the beautiful tune. Again, the mode (key) sounds exotic like the preceding dance, reminding us of how musical elements likely traveled through this crossroad of Bucium.

(5) Romanian Polka. This polka was the Transylvanian version of the well-known polka that originated in what is now the Czech Republic and spread rapidly through Europe in the 1800s. Bartók captures brilliantly the rowdy and joyful character of its Transylvanian manifestation. This polka is set in three-bar phrases — two measures with three beats, ending with one measure having only two beats. The odd two-beat measure apparently allowed for a quick change of partners.

(6) Fast Dance. This final dance is two fast dances separated by a split-second pause. A fast dance is typically a hyperactive dance for couples arranged in columns of males and females. Fast fiddling and syncopation accompany the dancing, along with foot stamping and thigh slapping (recreated here with loud musical accents). The first dance in this pair is indeed fast and extremely brief and vibrant. The second dance is even faster and more exuberant. Together, they constitute an exhilarating ending to this wonderful early work. And as a footnote, you can detect here a precursor to the whirling, exciting final movement of Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra, which he composed three decades later in 1945, shortly before his death. 

Amanda Harberg
(Born in Philadelphia in 1973)

Elegy

Amanda Harberg is one of the most gifted and sought-after American composers right now. She has been commissioned by many of our leading orchestras as well as dozens of regional and chamber groups. She is also currently the primary film-score composer for the documentary film company Common Good Productions. Her Elegy has been played worldwide and recorded on Naxos American Classics.

Alongside her distinguished career as an award-winning composer, the Julliard-trained Harberg is also a celebrated concert pianist. She has performed with such world-class orchestras as the New York Philharmonic, the Philadelphia Orchestra, and the Baltimore Symphony, among others. 

Perhaps just as important as her composing and performing, Harberg is a deeply committed educator of composition, piano, music theory, aural skills and contemporary music history. For nearly a decade she has distinguished herself as professor of composition at Rutgers University’s Mason Gross School of the Arts in New Jersey. This dedication to teaching has likely deepened her appreciation for those who taught her. And this is what inspired her to create one of her most poignant compositions, Elegy. Ms. Harberg explains the work’s origin as follows:

Elegy began as a prayer. The initial musical ideas came to me when I found out that my beloved piano teacher, Marina Grin, was terminally ill. But the full realization of the piece only emerged spontaneously after I learned of her passing. Elegy is dedicated to the memory of Marina Grin, who first showed me how to live a life in music.

Ms. Harberg originally wrote her Elegy for violin and piano. Soon afterward, she recast it for viola solo and string orchestra, the version featured in our concert. The work unfolds in the same way that news of great sadness always tends to sink in — slowly, as the mind initially struggles to grasp the immensity of what’s happened. At the very opening, the lower strings hum and pulse, filled with grief, everything in surreal slow motion. The upper strings then speak softly in a slow-burning, descending, five-note motif, as if that grief is sinking deeply into the heart. Before the motif can end, the solo viola — as the voice of the bereaved — comes in, speaking two downward-falling notes that float above time and space, deeply sorrowed. In this vein, Elegy moves through episodes — dialogues between strings and solo viola, like dialogues between emotions and the words we strive to give them — diving often into searing sadness but mostly allowing the grief to be processed and to come out into the open air. Throughout, the viola draws us inward, with its distinctly beautiful voice, into the heart’s narrative. About midway through the work, the viola bends (portamento) its initial two-note motif upward, as if by great intentional might, as though the bereaved refuses to keep casting eyes downward. From this point on, Harberg pushes the Elegy, bit by bit, into a memorial of tonal gratitude for her departed mentor, until the strings collectively rise together higher and higher into the light of the sky, to end this extremely moving work.

As the renowned virtuoso violist Brett Deubner (for whom Harberg wrote her highly acclaimed Viola Concerto in 2012), said:

The raw sadness followed by uplifting hope as the work ascends to the heavens is the stuff of great composers such as Barber, Tchaikovsky, and Elgar.… Her Elegy is still, in my opinion, her finest work to date.

Franz Danzi
(Born in Schwetzingen [near Mannheim], Germany in 1763; died in Karlsruhe, Germany in 1826)

Sinfonia Concertante in B-flat major for Flute, Clarinet and Orchestra, Op. 41

1. Allegro moderato

2. Larghetto

3. Polonaise — Allegretto

Franz Danzi was born near Mannheim, Germany into a dedicatedly musical family. His father, a friend of Mozart, was the principal cellist in the Mannheim Orchestra (which was rapidly becoming well known in Europe at the time), and his mother was a singer. Together, both parents tutored the young Danzi in cello, voice, and piano. During this period, the city of Mannheim itself was becoming well known, too, as a place where new musical ground was being broken while baroque style evolved into the classical style.

Danzi later became the teacher and close friend of Carl Maria von Weber (1786–1826), who would become famous for writing the first successful German operas in a new romantic style. Together, Danzi and Weber were best known in their lifetimes as composers of opera and for voice. But Danzi also excelled in writing for winds and almost single-handedly created the first repertoire of works in the wind quintet genre. His gifts in writing for winds became recognized only later in his life as the taste for small wind ensemble music grew dramatically around the turn of the 19th century.

Danzi also wrote numerous sinfonia concertantes. In the later decades of the 18th Century, the sinfonia concertante began to emerge from the baroque concerto grosso, which featured several solo instruments in dialogue with a small orchestra. The sinfonia concertante was, in effect, a hybrid between what would become the classical symphony as we know it today and the solo-instrument concerto. Even while Haydn and Mozart were perfecting the classical symphony, Danzi and others (including Mozart) continued to experiment with the sinfonia concertante, and the latter retained its popularity well into the classical era. One of the great joys of the sinfonia concertante form is the delicate balance the full symphony and lots of soloistic moments for several instruments. A splendid example of this is Danzi’s Sinfonia Concertante for Flute, Clarinet and Orchestra, published in 1814, which succeeds imaginatively in this balance.

In the first movement, Allegro moderato, the orchestra’s introductory themes brim with lyricism. The entrance of the soloists, first the clarinet and then the flute, continues a theme that the orchestra has just passed along to them, and the moment is expressly joyful. And thus begins this marvelous sinfonia, which includes a back-and-forth dance of solos and duets between the clarinet and flute, with chamber-like accompaniments from the orchestra, phrase-trading between the soloists and the full orchestra, and moments when the clarinet and flute delicately blend into the fabric with all the instruments. The themes are cheery and light and enriched with colorful harmonic turns, and the writing for the two soloists only gets more inventive and virtuosic as the movement progresses.

The middle movement, Larghetto, is a smilingly relaxed love duet. It begins with a harmoniously shared moment between the soloists and the orchestral winds. Then the clarinet initiates the duet over gently plucked strings, to be joined by the flute. This movement showcases Danzi’s exeptional talent for writing perfectly for the two wind instruments together. His love of opera clearly shines here, too, as everything in this movement rings of song. 

The final movement is a polonaise, a dance form from Poland that had become wildly popular throughout Europe in Danzi’s time. Danzi’s Polonaise is almost disarmingly filled with zest, delight, and magically tuneful themes. Most exceptional is the virtuosic demands the flute and clarinet must meet, both as soloists and in playing together as a duo. When the work concludes, it’s impossible not to be smiling in admiration both for the soloists’ virtuosity and for Danzi’s masterful writing.

Charles-François Gounod
(Born in Paris in 1818; died in Saint-Cloud, France in 1893)

Symphony No 1 in D major

1. Allegro molto

2. Allegretto moderato

3. Scherzo. Non troppo presto

4. Finale. Adagio — Allegro vivace

The French composer Charles Gounod is mainly remembered today as an opera composer. His great opera Faust (1859) was so popular worldwide that when New York’s Metropolitan Opera House opened its doors in 1883, Faust was its obvious inaugural choice. But, of course, Gounod wrote more than operas and in these other genres he brought his superlative operatic gifts of lyricism. His Symphony No. 1 is an excellent example of this; it is lyrical, fresh, and altogether a melodic showcase. Gounod wrote the first of his only two symphonies in 1853 and 1854. He began it as a kind of exercise to hone his composing skills in writing “absolute” music — music for its own sake untethered to a story or poem, as opera and songs demanded. In this regard, one of Gounod’s great heroes was Mozart. (Gounod once remarked that when he died, as soon as he had managed to wade through all the necessary introductions with the Holy Trinity, he would immediately ask to meet Mozart.)

Indeed, this entire symphony, and especially the first movement (Allegro molto), reflects the charm and lightness of many of Mozart’s symphonies — but with the addition of Gounod’s especially winsome singability and some more modern harmonies. The first theme includes a wonderful little hitch, like a musical hiccup, at the end of many bars that propel the pacing forward, as well as create a feeling of levity. Gounod, however, provides dramatic contrast as the movement progresses — dynamic outbursts, and beautifully crafted passages in darker keys. But another of Gounod’s great talents is also on display here, as well as in this entire symphony — his exceptional skill in writing for winds. Particularly, he focuses often on the oboe and bassoon, two instruments that we’ll hear much more of throughout the symphony. The movement ends with zest and a momentary flurry from the French horn, which will return at the conclusion of the last movement. 

The second movement, Allegretto moderato, is wonderfully inventive. It begins with a very melodic but somewhat ambiguous theme that evokes a stroll on a perfect day that is unhurried yet preoccupied by troubling thoughts. A second and very lovely theme by the flute and oboe over pizzicato (plucked) basses soon follows and feels like the easy-going counterpart to the first — as if clearing the head and enjoying the outing. Gounod begins to dress both of those themes with light touches of clever counterpoint and countermelodies in both the strings and winds, suggesting that he might launch into variations on those themes. Instead, though, he begins a light fugue. As the fugue fills up with all the voices playing in counterpoint to each other, the work coalesces into running unison notes that bring us to this movement’s final magical section. Gounod takes tiny slices of all the movement’s themes and has them flit here and there in what seem like random places and instruments (though uncannily keeping a completely coherent melodic line), and this wonderful movement comes to its close with three quietly plucked notes.

The third movement, Scherzo, is not the wild kind of scherzo-romp that Beethoven might have written. Rather, it’s easy-going, almost lazy, and harkening back to the dance minuets of the classical period, only with the added depth of the larger orchestra for which Gounod composed. The themes here are delightfully tuneful and seem almost tailor-made for singing. The Scherzo’s Trio (middle section) showcases a genteel duet between oboe and bassoon.

The Finale movement begins with a slow and serious introduction, a rather classically Mozartian approach. This prolongs the anticipation of the excitement to come and introduces the rapid, four-note motif that will permeate the rest of the Finale. Soon the Allegro vivace (fast and lively) begins, and the effect is as if we have been placed onto a galloping horse, alive with verve and excitement. Gounod also includes some brief but comical moments in this movement: Early on, several unresolved chords that linger with fermatas (markings that keep a note, or rest, held indefinitely, playing with our sense of momentum. Next, Gounod adds two trumpet solos in the vein of heralding horns, as if launching off into a hunt. Then the timpani and French horns revisit this hunting motif with vigor (and recall the end of the first movement). And just before the end, those unresolved, previously suspended chords appear again, as if trying to delay the final notes. But when they do indeed arrive, Gounod presents them resolutely to end this superb symphony with great cheer.

Program notes © Max Derrickson

PROGRAM NOTES

We open our program with a nod to the liturgical season of Lent. Venetian Baroque composer Antonio Lotti’s setting of the Crucifixus text utilizes thick eight-part choral writing, chromaticism, and suspensions depicting the death of Christ. Johann Sebastian Bach was aware of Lotti’s work, and the Venetian writing for multi-part choirs influenced his own writing. Despite composing over 300 liturgical cantatas, Bach wrote only a handful of motets; although motets were a regular part of the 18^th century Lutheran church service, Bach frequently prepared and presented works by other composers. The details surrounding the composition of his Komm, Jesu, komm are unknown, but it was most assuredly composed for a funeral. Like the Lotti, the texture of the choir is in eight parts, but here it is separated into two choirs, with significant antiphonal writing. 

The British choral tradition is central to the history of choral repertoire. The rich heritage can be traced back to Elizabethan composers such as William Byrd and Thomas Tallis. Tonight, we explore three of the greatest hits of the repertory from the 19th and early 20th centuries from very different composers. Robert Lucas Pearsall’s profession was that of a barrister—composition was merely an avocation. His Lay a Garland is a jewel of part writing, not unlike the Lotti in its use of eight-part choral writing and suspensions, and funeral imagery. Anglo-Irish composer Charles Villers Stanford was an academic composer of the highest regard, and his Beati quorum via is a study in construction and Romantic sonority. Charles Hubert Hastings Parry was a rival of Stanford’s and both are largely responsible for the 19th century British choral renaissance. Parry’s “My Soul There is a Country” is the first movement of his Songs of Farewell, written in 1916 near the end of his life. 

With Critters, Viva soprano and Shepherdstown resident Georgiann Toole set out to write music about the animals “no one ever sings about”. With references to newt, frog, lizard, snake, and snail these inventive new works are an important addition to the repertoire and we are pleased to be making their world premiere performance!

The basic vocabulary of the jazz world is the “standard” song, also referred to as the American musical songbook. In our final set we pose the question, “When and how does a song become a part of this songbook?” No one would dispute the place of Gershwin’s “I Got Rhythm” and Harold Arlen’s “Over the Rainbow” in that category. We suggest that more contemporary classics such as “Crazy,” made famous by Winchester’s own Patsy Cline, and “Moonshadow,” by Yusef Islam (formerly Cat Stevens), deserve consideration for entry into the canon.

Program notes by W. Bryce Hayes

Amy Beach
(Born in Henniker, New Hampshire in 1867; died in New York City in 1944)

String Quartet, Op. 89
In one movement: Grave – Più animato – Allegro molto (Grave)

Amy Beach grew up in the Boston area in a well-to-do family. Like New York City, Boston was a cultural center for the United States at the time, and a great deal of excellent music was happening there. In that environment, Beach quickly became known as an astounding prodigy. At age four, for example, she began to compose small pieces in her head, without a piano, and to play them from memory whenever a piano became available. Around age seven she was giving piano recitals featuring works of Handel and Beethoven, as well as her own compositions. Soon, she was encouraged to go on an international tour. Her parents wisely declined that advice, but young Beach was reportedly tyrannical about deciding what music could be played in the house.

As Beach matured, she became a musician of many “firsts.” As the first American woman to write an acclaimed mass (Mass in E-flat, Op. 5, in 1892), she soon followed that success as the first American woman to write a successful symphony (her well-loved Gaelic Symphony in 1896). This led to her inclusion, again a first, in the “Boston Six” circle of composers, which boasted the likes of Horatio Parker (the original “dean of American composers” before Aaron Copland) and Edward MacDowell, who created the influential MacDowell Colony, a musicians’ retreat in New Hampshire.

MacDowell began his retreat (now known simply as “MacDowell”) so American musicians and artists could work in collaboration and in a “nest of ideas.” At Beach’s first summer there, in 1921, she came across the “Indianist” movement in American music that would inform our concert’s string quartet. The Indianists championed Native American songs, in part to capture the essence of American nationalist musical expression, and its proponents often gathered at MacDowell. Specifically, too, MacDowell himself had taught at Columbia University where he collaborated with the famous anthropologist/ethnomusicologist Franz Boas, who had collected Alaskan Inuit songs in his book, The Central Eskimo.

Beach used three songs from Boas’s book for our concert’s string quartet: Summer Song, Playing at Ball, and Ititaujang’s Song. She put the final touches on the quartet in 1929 and it found almost instant acclaim, being heralded as “uniquely beautiful.” What is especially wonderful about her use of these three songs is the way she integrated them, not only as straight-out melodies but using parts of them as countermelodies and harmonies. This was an imaginatively effective method of combining folk music with art music.

The opening is slow and filled with a wandering pensiveness that seems both austere and dignified. The music is mildly dissonant, and indeed, unresolved motives and melodies play a big role throughout the work. The reason for this, likely, is that the Inuit songs themselves don’t generally adhere to the same rules of harmony as Western European music — their scales are different and the endings of their musical phrases often feel unresolved.

The first song, Summer Song, appears as a viola solo at about 1:30 minutes into the work. Contrasting with the gravitas of the introduction, this first song is pleasant and glad sounding. Boas’s translated lyrics (the only one of the songs known to be translated) describe how lovely it is to be outside in the long hours of light in summer and when the reindeer return and food is plentiful. Beach deftly captures its lilting simplicity.

The second song, Playing at Ball, appears around 30 seconds later, when the rest of the quartet joins the viola. The tune is light-hearted and filled with repeated notes. Beach then presents the two songs in such a way as to complement each other, as though they were organically related — listen for bits of them as they appear and fade into the tapestry of Beach’s musical fabric.

The third song, Ititaujang’s Song, begins with a quick introduction of loud and short unison chords. The full tune is heard soon after in the second violin. After Beach presents this song, she carries all the songs together in some impressive counterpoint, leading up to a brief and frisky fugue.

The long, final bars of Beach’s String Quartet mimic the slow opening of the work. The energy winds down, and the strings creep increasingly higher into the stratosphere. The final chord brings to us, at last, a very solid harmonic resolution and then fades into the darkness of a cold Northern night.

Franz Schubert
(Born in Vienna in 1797; died in Vienna in 1828)

String Quartet No. 14 in D minor, (Death and the Maiden), D. 810

• Allegro
• Andante con moto
• Scherzo: Allegro molto — Trio
• Presto — Prestissimo

In 1824, Franz Schubert was beginning to suffer deeply from the illness that would fell him a few years later: syphilis. He wrote an achingly depressed letter to a friend:

I find myself to be the most unhappy and wretched creature in the world. Imagine a man whose health will never be right again, … I might as well sing every day now, for upon retiring to bed each night I hope that I may not wake again, and each morning only recalls yesterday’s grief.

Death was clearly on Schubert’s mind. And yet, for the next four years until he died, Schubert had one of the most exceptionally creative periods of his life. As his letters and manuscripts from those last years show, his mind was aflame with musical inspiration. And in 1824, he wrote one of his great masterpieces, his String Quartet No. 14 in D minor, which has become a cherished cornerstone of the quartet genre. 

This string quartet’s nickname, Death and the Maiden, came from the musical introduction that begins the quartet’s second movement. Schubert took those first 24 bars from the opening to a song he had written in 1817, based on a poem by the German poet Matthias Claudius (1740–1815) also titled Death and the Maiden. The poem and Schubert’s song portray the moment when a personified Death entreats a young woman (the “Maiden”) at a ball. The Maiden bids Death to leave her at peace in life, but he cajoles her with comforting words:

Give me your hand, you fair and tender form!

I am a friend and do not come to punish.

Be of good cheer! I am not fierce,

You shall sleep softly in my arms!

Scholars debate whether Schubert intended String Quartet No. 14 as a rumination on his own death, but inspiration from this earlier song clearly informs the work. The quartet is, indeed, filled with gravitas and poignancy. The first movement begins with one of Schubert’s most memorable moments, emotionally charged, angry and pained. All four instruments begin at fortissimo, scored in double-stops (two notes played simultaneously on one instrument), with a short declamatory motive ending with a triplet figure. This immediately grabs our attention and grips us with pathos. Aurally, it approaches the sound of an entire orchestra of strings. The triplet motive will permeate almost every bar of the movement, as well as each of the quartet’s other movements. Listen especially, just after the declamatory introduction, as the instrumentalists pass the triplet around to each other like a foursome juggling flaming torches. 

The second movement begins with a searching and solemn progression of chords, a funeral march that Schubert borrowed from the opening of his Death and the Maiden song. From this statement of 24 bars (or longer, if Schubert’s section repeats are observed) spring five exceptional variations, each increasingly charged with emotion. The fifth and last variation — beginning with the cello playing octave triplets, followed by the first violin playing quick and repeated notes — especially evokes a sense of time running short; of something frightening looming.

The third movement is a scherzo, and here, too, Schubert again borrowed from himself for the first theme: a ländler (a rustic Austrian waltz), from the sixth dance of his 12 German Dances, D. 790, of 1823. This cascading theme crackles with a clear sense of urgency. Balance comes in its contrasting middle section (Trio) with a bittersweet tenderness; listen for the rhapsodic singing of the first violin here. But the “borrowed” theme returns to push the quartet toward its final movement.

The finale’s structure is a tarantella — an old Italian dance whose frenetic pace was claimed to be a folk remedy to ward off madness and death caused by a poisonous spider bite. Schubert surely captures freneticism here. Pure quicksilver, the finale begins in a hush but hurls along with fervor. True virtuosic playing is demanded in this section. Listen for the ways Schubert plays with big contrasts: loud and soft, silence and sound, pulse and stutters, and all the while, the first movement’s triplet figure is almost constantly in the musical fabric, propelling the music manically forward. And the final section of this masterful work does not disappoint — marked prestissimo (very fast), it is spectacularly exciting.

© Max Derrickson