The Vivaldi Project

From Venice to Vienna – April 3 & 5, 2022

From Venice to Vienna

April 3 & 5, 2022

Our program for this concert explores the exciting development of the Classical string trio, from its roots in the highly popular Baroque trio sonata to its expression at the height of the Classical period in Vienna. The Terzetto Op. 9, No. 2 by Beethoven, which concludes our program, counts among only a handful of string trios celebrated by today’s performers and audiences. And yet the string trio, at its compositional peak (c. 1760–1770), outpublished the string quartet by a ratio of more than five to one! Among these largely forgotten works—more than 2,000 by many of the 18th century’s most prolific and eminent composers—we find such gems as the trios of virtuoso violinist Maddalena Sirmen (composed the year Beethoven was born) and those of Beethoven’s esteemed Viennese colleague Paul Wranitzky.

The Baroque trio sonata is a trio in the sense that it is written for two melodic instruments (often two violins) and basso continuo, improvised harmonies above an independent bass line. But while the continuo counts as one voice of the trio, the number of instruments used to produce it can vary considerably: keyboard and/or the plucked lute, theorbo or guitar, and/or a variety of bowed bass instruments. The Classical string trio, on the other hand, specifies three players, eliminating the role of the chordal basso continuo in favor of a more homophonic, integrated bass line. Of course the basso continuo tradition did not suddenly one day cease to exist, and neither was the absence of a chordal realization unheard of among Baroque sonatas. We see this in the first work on our program from Antonio Vivaldi‘s set of twelve Op. 1 trio sonatas scored for due violini e violone o cembalo. The option for the bass line to be played by cello “or” harpsichord was also offered by Corelli, Tartini, and many other Baroque composers. It is rare to hear these works performed today without the texture of the improvised keyboard part but doing so reminds us of the flexibility and fluidity between genres and the way their accompanying aesthetic changes are wrought over time. The Sonata no. 5 in F major is a joyful, conversational work. It reveals the infectious zest, enthusiasm, and virtuosity that Vivaldi brought to his trio sonatas, all the hallmarks of both his playing and compositional output—a wealth of solo sonatas, concertos, sinfonias, masses, psalms and vespers music, oratorios, solo cantatas, and operas (at least 50 of them and possibly 94 if we are to believe Vivaldi’s own boasts).   

Classical string trios written by female composers are scant in number, in part at least because the violin and cello were generally considered indecorous instruments for the “fairer sex” to play. Such was not a concern among the charitable Venetian ospedali, which, perpetually short of funds, sought to cultivate the musical talent of the orphaned or abandoned girls in order to present all-female choral and instrumental performances, whose increasing fame drew ever larger crowds. The ospedali became the first music schools for women, and the best teachers (like Vivaldi at the Ospedale della Pietà) were brought in to oversee the musical education of these figlie. By 1753, seven-year-old Maddalena Lombardini would undergo a rigorous audition in order to enter the Ospedale dei Mendicanti, where she would remain until she was granted permission to leave and marry violinist and composer Lodovico Sirmen in 1767. Maddalena Sirmen (acknowledged primarily as a favored student of the great Tartini) was counted among the best virtuosi of her day as both a singer and a violinist. Her surviving compositions, all of them instrumental (concertos, duets, trios, and quartets), were widely published and reprinted during her lifetime. Very few Classical string trios were written in minor keys, so it is especially pleasing to have Sirmen’s Trio Op. 1, No. 6 (the last in the set), which makes full use of F minor’s dark and rich timbre. Sirmen’s style of varying textures and rhythmic pacing with sharp dynamic contrasts features throughout. The second movement, essentially a minuet in rondo form, begins and ends in a cheerful F major, but not without succumbing once again to the allure of F minor.  

Born in the Czech-Moravian Highlands, Paul Wranitzky (Pavel Vranický) would play an important role as a violinist, composer, and conductor in the musical life of Vienna at the height of the Classical period. Both Haydn and Beethoven preferred Wranitzky as the conductor of their works. Wranitsky’s operas and ballets were also well received, his singspiel Oberon serving as an inspiration for Mozart’s Magic Flute. His significant chamber music output includes some 25 string quintets, 56 string quartets, and at least 24 string trios. Wranitzky was often a peacemaker among the members of the Viennese musical society, including one instance involving Haydn, and acted as mediator for Mozart’s widow, Constanze, in her dealings with music publishers. Wranitsky died suddenly from what was likely typhoid fever, and his popularity (and with it his music) fell quickly into relative obscurity. The Trio Concertant No. 3 is a grand work that exploits to great advantage the warmth and openness of string instruments playing in G major. Begun by the viola, the Allegro moderato features rich, expansive melodies, followed by a C major Adagio given over primarily to eloquent solo passages exploring the upper reaches of the cello’s register. Back in G major, an amiable Menuetto and Trio leads to a rollicking Allegro in rondo form. 

All five of Ludwig van Beethoven’s string trios—the Op. 3 trio in Eb, the Op. 8 Serenade in D major, and the three Op. 9 trios—were written and published before his first set of six string quartets, Op. 18. Did Beethoven consider these trios as preparatory compositions before turning to the increasingly favored quartet? Or did he look upon the string trio as an important genre in its own right, a popular and expressive musical form engaged in by his respected colleagues and appreciated by Viennese audiences? The first question, one often answered in the affirmative (particularly with regard to the two earliest trios), would, on the face of things, seem plausible. Beethoven had already begun sketches for the Op. 18 quartets before finishing the Op. 9 trios, and indeed, would never again return to the genre. But few deny the mastery of these last three trios or contradict Beethoven’s own acknowledgment of them at the time as “the best of my work.” This he states in their dedication to Count Johann Browne, an eccentric supporter of Beethoven’s (who famously gave him a horse in exchange for the piano variations on a Russian theme by Wranitzky, WoO71).  Beethoven had his most brilliant colleagues in mind in writing the Op. 9 trios. The violinist Schuppanzigh, likely violist Franz Weiss, and cellist Niklaus Kraft or his father, Anton, gave the first performance in Vienna. The Allegretto of Op. 9 No. 2 begins somewhat elusively, with a question asked in pianissimo and answered with increasing intensity and imagination. The Andante quasi allegretto, begun in utter simplicity, soon gives way to a rhapsodic melody, the three voices taking turns as soloist and with the pizzicato and arpeggiated accompaniment. The scherzo-like Menuetto, full of dynamic contrasts, is followed by a pastoral Rondo with all the youthful exuberance so often encountered in Beethoven’s early works.  And note that the opening rondo theme is given not to the violin (as is so often the case) but to the cello!

—PROGRAM NOTES BY STEPHANIE VIAL

Mozart

Winds for Wolfgang – March 19 & 20, 2022

WINDS FOR WOLFGANG

March 19 & 20, 2022

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

(Born in Salzburg, Austria in 1756; died in Vienna, Austria in 1791)

Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), K. 620

The summer of 1791 found Mozart facing financial ruin and family heartache. His wife was sickly and pregnant, commissions for new works were disappearing for Mozart in fickle-minded Vienna, and he was forced to borrow increasing amounts from friends. What Vienna wanted, and what Mozart needed to change his fortunes, was an operatic “hit.” But there was a glint of hope: Mozart’s old friend Emmanuel Schikaneder proposed an out-of-the-ordinary project: Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). This was a new kind of operetta referred to as a Singspiel (“Singing play”) that incorporated fairy tales, comical entertainment, spoken dialogue and folk-like songs. In the fickle musical circles of Vienna, the success or failure of this operetta was a critical hope-and-gamble moment in Mozart’s career.

Mozart and Schikaneder shared a kinship through their brotherhood in the Freemasons, the secret society of enlightenment that was viewed at the time as hostile to the Roman Catholic Church and even the Austrian state. It’s no surprise, then, to find that the plot of The Magic Flute, though clothed in fairy tales, is an allegory pitting the Freemasons against the Church.

The opera premiered in September 1791 with a libretto by Schikaneder and exquisite music by Mozart. Schikaneder played a lead character (Papageno) and Mozart conducted. The performance was a great success, and The Magic Flute was the “hit” Mozart desperately needed. But he hardly enjoyed this triumph—his unexpected death claimed him only two months later.

The story of The Magic Flute takes place in Egypt (where the Freemasons are thought to have begun), around 1300 BC and revolves around a character named Prince Tamino. While hunting, the prince finds himself entangled in an odd situation: Nearly killed by a giant snake, he’s rescued by three women who are handmaidens to the Queen of the Night. Purely by operatic happenstance, he then finds himself in the company of a bird catcher named Papageno, a curious fellow dressed in feathers. The Queen of the Night asks Tamino to rescue her imprisoned daughter, Pamina, from the dreaded Sarastro, high priest of Isis and Osiris. If the rescue is successful, she says, Tamino may marry Pamina. Tamino is enchanted by this prospect: If the lovely portrait he’s shown of Pamina is accurate, then he’s already in love with her. Tamino agrees to the rescue mission, taking Papageno with him. To ward off harm during their quest, the queen gives Tamino a magic flute and Papageno a set of magic bells. The pair’s journey and friendship allow for plenty of sidebar comedy, but when they get to Sarastro’s Temple, things get serious. The high priest is indeed keeping Pamina, but only to protect her from the evilness of her mother. As surrogate father to Pamina and as Keeper of the Light, Sarastro can see the pureness of Tamino’s heart and agrees to let him wed Pamina, but Tamino and Papageno must first successfully complete a series of tests of their virtue. During these tests the two heroes have plenty of chances to use their magic instruments. When the tests are completed, Tamino and Pamina are allowed into the inner sanctum of the Temple of Isis and Osiris where they are married.  And as a finishing touch, the evil queen and her three naughty handmaidens are banished into the ether of the night.

Overture

The Magic Flute garnered extraordinary success within a few days of its premiere and has charmed audiences ever since. Mozart’s score sparkles with the magic and genius of a master at play. The music is appreciable on many levels, from giddy, simple tunes to wonderfully sophisticated moments of complex counterpoint—the whole tied together by exquisite melodies. The overture to this work is a wonderful example of Mozart’s mastery.

Beginning with three ominous chords that represent the sanctity of Sarastro’s realm (the number three also carries a mystical significance for Freemasons), the music then dashes off in a free-spirited fugue, likely representing the journey and comic entanglements of Tamino and Papageno. The chords come back in a new key, and then the fugue begins again, this time with additional counterpoint that marries the seriousness of Sarastro with the lighthearted antics of the fugue theme. On the whole, the overture uses a fairly simple structural design, but in its details, the music is stunningly intricate—here, Mozart uses the bare minimum of themes to create what is considered one of the great overtures of his career.

Der Vogelfänger (I am the bird catcher)

In Act I, Scene 1, Tamino has just been saved from the giant serpent by the Queen of the Night’s three handmaidens but has fainted. Papageno arrives to find Tamino, and begins to jabber, singing one of Mozart’s most merry tunes. “I am the Birdcatcher, indeed!” sings this curious and comical character, who, with lighthearted grousing, complains about not having a wife or even the hint of a girlfriend. Interspersed in his biographical barrage, Papageno plays his panpipe to lure birds for his catching—a simple five note refrain. The aria has always been cherished as a piece of delightful whimsy and lovely tunesmithing by Mozart, and it is a shining example of the wonderful silliness that the new Singspiel was offering to audiences.

Bei Männern, welche die Liebe Fühlen (Those who feel the call of love)

In Scene 3 of Act I, Tamino and Papageno are approaching Sarasato’s temple. Tamino sends Papageno ahead to scope out the situation, and Papageno finds Pamina being held by Sarasato’s chief guard, Monostatos. Monostatos lusts after Pamina, and were it not for Papageno’s blundering into the situation, the guard would likely have abused her. Papageno is terrified at the sight of Monostatos, a dark-skinned Moor, and Monostatos is terrified at the sight of Papageno, a man dressed as a bird, and both run off, leaving Pamina alone.

But Papageno soon returns and tells Pamina about Tamino’s love for her and his plan to rescue and marry her. Pamina is enthralled at the prospect of the handsome prince’s affections. And, of course, Papageno has complained to her about his own pursuit for love, which prompts this lovely duet, “Those Who Feel the Call of Love.” It’s truly a thing of beauty, this duet, which allows each character a chance to discuss the benefits, the sanctity, and the duties of true love. Each stanza is followed by both Pamina and Papageno agreeing in lovely harmony with each other that “nothing is more noble than man and wife.” The tenderness and simplicity of this sweet moment make for some of the most beautiful music in the entire opera.

Le nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro), K. 492

This was the first of three operas that Mozart collaborated on with the librettist Lorenzo da Ponte, a collaboration that shines as one of the most genius moments in Western music. Through their partnership they created Le nozze di Figaro (1786), Don Giovanni (1787), and Così fan tutte (1790). These three works are regarded as the pinnacle of the Classical opera genre, and Le nozze especially is regarded as the greatest opera buffa ever written.

Da Ponte’s libretto for Le nozze de Figaro was based on the sequel to The Barber of Seville from the “Figaro trilogy” of plays by French playwright Pierre Beaumarchais (1732–1799). Le nozze takes place in Seville, Spain and cleverly casts aspersion on societal ills in a witty and fast-paced setting. In particular, it rather pointedly draws attention to the age-old (but repulsive) tradition of droit du seigneur (“the nobleman’s right”), through which the lord of the manor was allowed to take a woman servant’s virginity on the night before her marriage, as compensation for losing her services. Da Ponte’s texts are clever and often hilarious, tackling the complications created by sex that arise between masters and servants, and although the aftermaths of base behavior are treated with just the right amount of indignation, the overall comic fun of the opera is never completely derailed.

In the prequel story, The Barber of Seville, Figaro is the town barber and general “go-to” man, who paves the way for the characters Rosina and Count Almaviva to marry. Three years later in Le nozze di Figaro, Rosina is now Countess Rosina, married to Count Almaviva, and Figaro has become the count’s servant.  Figaro and the countess’s maid, Susanna, are now engaged to be married. However, when Figaro and the countess learn that the count has designs on Susanna, full-scale shenanigans ensue: revenges and counter-revenges are plotted, and characters disguise themselves as one another.  Complicating everything is the presence in the manor of a young man of noble status, Cherubino, there to learn good manners while filling the position as the count’s errand boy (his “page”), and who is of such an age of sexual awareness that the countess and Susanna must learn not to treat the lad as a pretty “young plaything” anymore.

Porgi, amor qualche ristoro (Grant [to me], O Love, some Comfort)

Early in Act II, on the eve of Figaro and Susanna’s wedding, Countess Rosina is deeply troubled by Count Almaviva’s scheming to seduce Susanna.  Susanna tries to comfort the countess by whitewashing her suspicions, but Figaro has already put a plan into place. He has been sending the count anonymous tips that adulterers are vying for the countess’s affections, and to especially beware this very evening. The hope is that the count will be too busy trying to find phantom suitors than to trouble Susanna. As a backup, Figaro instructs the countess to have Cherubino (the count’s errand boy) dress as Susanna and if necessary, divert the sexual appetites of the count, and possibly catch him red-handed in his infidelities. But alas, it’s all almost too much for the countess, and in her aria Porgi, amor, she wishes for the count’s love to return to her, or at least, for some solace. Porgi, amor is searingly poignant. The countess’s melodies are soaring and beseeching, and Mozart uncannily captures her heart’s torment and exhaustion. Notice, too, Mozart’s exquisite writing for winds in answer to the countess’s pleas, especially the writing for two clarinets, which harken back to sweeter days of the count’s affections. Though fleet, Porgi, amor captures the painful potency of helplessness.

Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor? (You ladies who know what love is…)

Just after the scene in Act II where the countess is pleading for relief (Porgi, amor), Susanna and Cherubino (the count’s errand boy) arrive in the countess’s bedroom. As they begin to prepare Cherubino’s disguise as Susanna to entrap the count, Susanna implores Cherubino to sing his song. Cherubino, a promiscuous lad with an infatuation especially for the countess, has written a tune expressly for her in the grand tradition of the medieval troubadours: Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor? (You ladies who know what love is, is it what I’m suffering from?). Though Cherubino is a young man, this character is what is known as a “breeches role”—cast for a female voice dressed as a (young) man. This is particularly, and comically, apt for this opera which delves into the dignity of gender respect, by re-dressing the woman dressed as a man into a man being dressed as a woman. Despite all the intrigue, drama and wounded feelings that shroud the scene, da Ponte’s lyrics are a superb reminder of the wonder and sweet mysteries of being in love, and Mozart’s musical accompaniment is equally delicate. The strings use only pizzicato (plucked strings) throughout the aria, giving lightness and breathiness to Cherubino’s sentiments. Alongside the strings Mozart adds more richly scored winds, again, with special attention to the clarinets (Mozart’s favorite wind instrument). And atop this tender accompaniment soars a melody of absolute charm.

Dove sono (Where are they?)

Written near the peak of his career, Le nozze di Figaro is one of Mozart’s finest scores, showing his ability to make music mirror the psychological essence of the scene. One of the opera’s most beautiful and thoughtful moments occurs in Act III with the countess’s aria Dove sono (Where are they?). Now, after all the countess’s plotting to catch her husband red-handed in faithlessness in Act II, the time has nigh arrived to see what happens. But in a moment of quiet reflection, she wonders where the sweetness of their love has gone, how she could find herself in such a terrible state of lovelessness and humiliation. And yet she still holds hope with a faintness as fragile as a spider’s web. The beauty of the music is deeply poignant, but Mozart goes a little further. He creates a magic moment out of that beauty, to capture the deep heart suffering of the countess, by repeating the first section at almost a whisper. The psychological effect is disarming: Even as the pathos of the countess’s pain deepens, hopes for reconciliation still gleam distantly.

Serenade No. 10 in B flat major (Gran partita), K. 361

Largo—Allegro molto

Minuet

Adagio

Minuet. Allegretto

Romance. Adagio—Allegretto—Adagio

Theme and Variations. Andante

Rondo. Allegro molto

In 1780s Vienna, music to accompany social engagements was wildly popular. Austria’s newly crowned emperor, Joseph II, was himself very fond of this type of music: music that provided a “background” ambience for socializing. In 1782 one of Joseph’s court musicians, Anton Stadler, the great clarinet virtuoso, encouraged his Freemason brother and friend Mozart to compose some of this music for the emperor. Mozart’s response was an ambitious seven-movement masterpiece, his Serenade No. 10, completed that same year. It’s unclear if Emperor Joseph ever heard this work, however. What is known is that only four movements of it were performed—to great delight—in 1784 under the title of Gran partita, which was added by an anonymous hand. The title has stuck as the nickname for the entire work, which has become greatly beloved.

Mozart’s Serenade uses a string bass and 12 winds: two oboes, four clarinets, two basset horns, two bassoons, and four horns. The basset horn, a popular instrument in central Europe in the 18th century., is a slightly lower-ranged sibling of the clarinet. The choice of these instruments was bold enlargement of the tradition of wind serenade ensembles, and ahead of its time in sonic scope. (In this regard, it seems perhaps that Mozart had envisioned something of a hybrid “serenade” that could also work as a concert piece). Indeed, immediately, in the very first bars of this magical work, when we hear all these instruments together, its soundscape is colossal and stunning—like a grand pipe organ—even orchestral.

The Serenade is a work that fascinates and entertains the listener at nearly every phrase. And though there is much to tell about each of its movements, here are some of its highlights:

The beginning of this masterpiece is a slow and stately introduction, with moments of surprising tenderness. The next section, the molto allegro, is lively and crisp, with some marvelous instrumental combinations and colors. Some of the unison writing, when nearly everyone is playing a propulsion of quick notes, gives a foreshadowing of virtuosic moments throughout the work but especially in one magical moment that will occur during the sixth movement.

This Menuet, a dance movement with two trio episodes, is stately and forthright. The first trio is quite gentle. The second trio, however, beginning with an oboe solo filled with light trills like rippling ribbons accompanied by running triplets in the bassoon, is music of sensuous delight.

This Adagio is one of Mozart’s most beloved musical moments. Heralded by many, and famously celebrated in a priceless scene in the movie Amadeus as the character of Salieri explains that “it seemed to me that I was hearing the voice of God,” this movement is indeed a gem of other-worldly beauty. After a simple introduction that unfolds with deliberate mystery, a solo oboe plays a long, soaring and single note that melts into the clarinet, which then becomes a love duet. It foreshadows the magical beginning of his Requiem (1791), but here in the Serenade it envelopes us in joy.

The sublime loftiness of the Adagio is followed by the next Menuet arriving noisily. Like the earlier Menuet, this one also contains two very contrasting trio episodes: The first one is almost sinister in its minor mode; the second is filled with courtly elegance.

The Romance begins with a moment of gentle sweetness which turns operatically dramatic. The quick middle section teams with intrigue, like the machinations of the count and countess in The Marriage of Figaro.

The Theme and Variations starts with a very agreeable tune. With each variation, more and more rustling occurs in the accompaniment: The same kind of quick-note motive heard in the first movement here becomes increasingly active. That motive morphs into a moment of sheer enchantment in Variation V at about seven minutes into the movement. Here, all the clarinets play similar running fast notes at the quietest of volumes, as if Mozart had transcribed the murmuring of hundreds of bees in a garden—it’s truly mesmerizing.

The Finale is a raucous clamouring of joy. Mozart keeps ramping up the energy and the occurrence of the quick-note motive, and at one point close to the end, everyone but the horns is playing unison notes that fly by at hyper speed. The entire finale is drenched in good cheer, energy and good humor.

© Max Derrickson

Heather Austin Stone & Noelle Drewes

November 20, 2021 Looking Bach-wards

Heather Austin Stone & Noelle Drewes

 

PROGRAM NOTES

Edvard Hagerup Grieg
(Born in Bergen, Norway in 1843; died in Bergen in 1907)

Holberg Suite (Fra Holbergs tid), Op. 40

Praeludium. Allegro vivace

Sarabande. Andante

Gavotte. Allegretto –– Musette. Un poco mosso

Air. Andante religioso

Rigaudon. Allegro con brio

The marvelous works of Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg seem to capture an ineffable sweetness and nostalgia as few other composers’ could. Grieg’s music somehow always satisfies the soul, and so it is with one of his most popular works, his Holberg Suite, written in 1884.

The suite’s inspiration and honoree, Baron Ludwig Holberg (1684–1754), was born in Bergen in 1684, but spent much of his life in Denmark following a tragic fire in his Norwegian hometown. Besides being known as a remarkable historian and scientist, Holberg also had a great talent for writing satires and comedies, so much so that he became known as “the Molière of the North.” Two hundred years after his birth, in 1884, both Norway and Denmark held bicentennial celebrations for their famous, shared native son. Several composers were commissioned to write grand cantatas for these occasions, and Grieg obliged with his Holberg Cantata. That work was swiftly forgotten, but happily for us Grieg also created a delightful piano suite that has endured: Fra Holbergs tid (“From Holberg’s time”), Op. 40. Grieg soon orchestrated and revised the piano suite for strings; this is the version most often heard today and the one performed tonight.

Grieg nicknamed his Holberg Suite his “powdered-wig piece,” and he crafted it with a surprising twist. Realizing that Holberg was a contemporary of the Baroque-era musical giants Bach, Handel and Scarlatti (all born in 1685; Holberg was born just one year prior), Grieg fashioned his homage as a Baroque dance suite to echo the music that Holberg would have heard in his era. Although Holberg and his contemporaries would have recognized Grieg’s collection of dances, Grieg’s particularly gorgeous Romantic melodies and harmonies would have been something of a shock in the early 1700s.

To our modern ears, Grieg’s Holberg Suite is not shocking at all but is instead one of his most beloved works. Beginning with the bracing Praeludium, which is like a horse race with its driving rhythms, Grieg uses the Baroque dance forms only as a launching point for his Romantic-era music-making. The Sarabande is almost Mahler-esque in its beauty and is followed by the Gavotte/Musette that gives pride of place to Grieg’s Norwegian folksong and dance. The Air is one of Grieg’s loveliest themes: its simplicity fittingly echoes the exquisite slow movements of Scarlatti and Bach, but it is infused with a beautiful Romantic melancholy. At the finale, Grieg again chooses a form, the rigaudon, that showcases his love of Norwegian dance. With a weighty and slow middle section that evokes the feeling of a soft love song, the movement is otherwise surrounded by a rustic round dance with virtual foot stomping, fancy fiddling and collective merriment.

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

Concerto for violin and oboe in D minor, BMV 1060

1. Allegro

2. Adagio

3. Allegro

It may seem inconceivable to us that many of Bach’s compositions, including this concerto, hovered on the brink of extinction. But the truth is that many works by many composers have been lost to the ages. Indeed, we may never have known of many of Bach’s early melody-instrument concertos from his days as kapellmeister for Prince Leopold of Cöthen (1717–1723) if he had not reused these works later on. In the case of the concerto for violin and oboe featured in tonight’s concert, all that remains is Bach’s transcription of it as a concerto for two harpsichords and strings from almost a decade later, and that transcription itself only survives in a manuscript copied by his students after his death. Eventually, several hundred years later, this manuscript was used as the basis for a “reverse transcription” to the presumed original for violin and oboe. Thus, it can fairly be said that although many compositions have come and gone and been lost or forgotten, true masterpieces usually find a way of weathering the ages. This concerto is one of those.

The concerto form as used by Bach grew out of the Baroque Italian “concerto grosso” that was perfected by Vivaldi (of The Four Seasons). Though Bach did not invent any new forms, he certainly set new melodic and harmonic standards for existing ones. Tonight’s concerto is a wonderful example. As in most of these concerti, the outer movements are in ritornello form, where the opening statement (the ritornello) returns in various keys and guises throughout the movement. (This is similar to the later rondo form, or ABACAB, and so on; the ritornello being, as it were, section A). In the first movement, the ritornello is heard in its full form only at the beginning and end, as its echo-like last bars lend themselves to many musical manipulations. 

The gem of this concerto, however, may well be the second movement, which is as lyrical and lovely as any music Bach wrote. Its gentle, rocking feel and movingly expressive interplay between the oboe and violin achieve a sublime tenderness that is rarely matched by composers of any era. In the spectacular last movement the ritornello gives us the impression that a mighty Bachian fugue is about to unfold. Instead, through Bach’s ingenious contrapuntal abilities, the work launches into a host of enchanting derivations, and portions of the ritornello pervade nearly every phrase. Whereas the second movement allowed the oboe to unfold its singing charms, the finale gives the violin much of the virtuoso’s spotlight.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
(Born in Kamsko-Votkinsk, near Kirov, Russia in 1840; died in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1893)

Souvenir de Florence (string sextet, arr. for string orchestra), Op. 70

1. Allegro con spirito

2. Adagio cantabile e con moto

3. Allegretto moderato

4. Allegro con brio e vivace

Tchaikovsky wrote his brilliant Souvenir de Florence in 1890, just after he returned to St. Petersburg from an intense composing “vacation” in his favorite Italian city, Florence. While in Florence, he composed Pique Dame (“Queen of Spades”), an opera based on a Russian novel. Arriving back home in Russia, he immediately threw himself into a new project: a composition written especially for the St. Petersburg Chamber Music Society, as thanks for the society having made him an honorary member. In just under a month, this work was complete; after a few revisions, Souvenir de Florence had its public premiere in 1892.

Just as Tchaikovsky had often brought Russian themes to Italy, in Souvenir he likewise brought some of his beloved Florence back home to St. Petersburg. In fact, one of the themes of his new composition was written while in Florence — a “souvenir” of sorts from that place. But that’s not all. Just before Tchaikovsky and the rest of the great 19th-century Russian composers came on the scene, Russia had imported its classical music mainly from Italy and was boastful of hosting some of the greatest Italian composers and musicians. In Souvenir de Florence, Tchaikovsky amalgamates all of this — Italianesque lyricism, Russian folksong, and high-level counterpoint — to create a masterpiece. All in all, the work is a marvel of creativity and cosmopolitanism, in which Tchaikovsky flexes his late-career compositional muscles.

Souvenir was written as a string sextet scored for two violins, two violas and two cellos, and it is one of Tchaikovsky’s finest chamber compositions. While he was working on it, however, he wrote to a friend, “I constantly feel as though … I am in fact writing for the orchestra and just rearranging it for six string instruments.” Tonight, and fittingly, the sextet is performed as later arranged for string orchestra. Immediately, one notices that Tchaikovsky had big, multilayered soundscapes in mind.

The first movement is full of verve and bravura, with a contrasting middle theme of light and warmth for balance. The opening theme delivers some exceptional interplay between the instruments—it is chamber-like in its virtuosic treatment and even more exciting with multiple strings. And then Tchaikovsky turns up the mania as the movement gains more and more momentum toward its electrifying ending. 

In the second movement, Adagio, Tchaikovsky uses his Florentine “souvenir” theme, a meltingly lyrical love duet between violins and cellos. Listen for the cello’s first, brief entrance before it takes up the main theme: This is a moment of sheer beauty, like a distant shooting star. Altogether, whether the love happened in Italy or Russia, this movement reminds us of how Tchaikovsky came to master the waltz in opera, ballet, and symphony, creating dance movements of exquisite grace and delicacy.

The Allegretto shifts radically in tone, sounding deeply Russian and folksy, and delightfully tuneful. Coupled with a middle section of quicksilver dancing strings as light as spider webs, which soon become cleverly mingled with that opening Russian folk tune, the Allegretto is a creation of a truly cosmopolitan composer at the top of his compositional and creative craft.

The last movement, Allegro con brio, also gives a strong Russian feel, like a gopak (a vigorous Russian country dance), suitable for stomping feet. But soon enough it bedazzles with contrapuntal magic, starting a fugato (like a fugue), and then brilliantly overlaying the very first theme from the first movement. It’s a grand mix of sunny Italy and rustic, vibrant Russia. The entire movement, in degrees, cartwheels into faster and faster moments, including a wondrously reckless full fugue (of which Tchaikovsky was expressly proud), until the ending, where the work concludes with a breakneck, spine-tingling finale.

© Max Derrickson

Two Rivers String Quartet

October 9, 2021 Re-Invention!

Two Rivers String Quartet

Two Rivers String Quartet

PROGRAM NOTES

Tonight’s concert presents a fascinating look at the rise of the string quartet, a genre essentially invented by Haydn and perfected by him, together with Mozart. For this reason, Haydn is deservedly considered the “father of the string quartet.” Beethoven and Schubert soon after made important contributions of their own.

The two quartets we offer tonight showcase the beginnings of this great art form with Mozart’s first explorations of it and then the extraordinary heights that it reached almost three decades later with Haydn.

In 1770, Haydn had been devoting serious attention to the string quartet for nearly 20 years. Mozart, in contrast, was just composing his first quartet that year, when he was still just a teenager. In 1772 and 1773, Mozart went on to write his first set of six string quartets (sets of six being a publishing demand at the time). Tonight’s Mozart quartet is the second of those six works (but his third quartet chronologically, since, as noted above, he wrote his first in 1770). It is generally agreed to be among his finest early quartets. Fast forward to 1797 and 1798, after Mozart’s too-short life had ended and Haydn was still going strong. In these years, Haydn wrote his last set of six quartets, of which tonight’s No. 1 in G Major is a part. Together, this last set of quartets constitute Haydn’s Op. 76; in them, the quartet as a genre reaches its ideal form, the model from which all future composers would work.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
(Born in Salzburg, Austria in 1756; died in Vienna in 1791)

String Quartet No. 3 in G major, K. 156 

1. Presto

2. Adagio

3. Tempo di Menuetto

In the early days of string quartets, the prototypes were typically light in character, and Mozart began his first forays into that genre in that general spirit. While he was writing his first set of six quartets (K. 155–160) in 1772 and 1773, he was staying in Milan and also writing an Italian-style opera, Lucio Silla. Thus, these six quartets are nicknamed the Milanese Quartets, and they reflect a typically Italian style: light, breezy and comprising only three movements (in the manner of Italian opera overtures) instead of the four-movement structure that later became standard. 

From the perspective of the history of the quartet, we should note that as Mozart was writing these early quartets Haydn had just published his exceptional “Sun” string quartets, Op. 20, the first masterpieces of the genre. It’s clear that Mozart at this point was yet to be influenced by Haydn’s trailblazing. Nevertheless, in only a year, when Mozart was back in Vienna, he had investigated Haydn’s quartets and begun his own trailblazing in earnest.

Nevertheless, Mozart’s early quartets show us solid musical craftsmanship, and they are intimate in nature and slightly exploratory. When we realize he wrote them when he was 16 and 17, they become rather extraordinary. And though the tenor of Quartet No. 3 in G major is indeed light, it has an undercurrent of solemn sentiment, and indeed, pathos, especially in the middle movement. It’s a wonderful look into the beginnings of this important genre, when this brilliant composer had essentially a blank canvas to work with, and seemingly composed simply at his pleasure.

Quartet No. 3 is foremost a work of incredible tenderness. Though fine musicianship is required to perform it, this quartet is not about bravura or virtuosity. The first movement is truly tender: a work of grace and gentle manners.

The second movement is thick with emotion. After the main theme sung by the violin, the rest of the quartet creates a gripping accompaniment with suspended chords, rich with harmonies and sonic depth. It’s clear that Mozart had a mind full of opera here: the songlike main theme, the dramatic feel of the piece, and a wonderful little duet near the movement’s center––as the violin theme yearns, the world calls back to that pining heart with little pitch turns called mordents, evoking the trills of night sounds and rustling breezes.

The third and final movement is in the form of a minuet, a dance of refinement and charm. But Mozart makes it something more involved, allowing the four instruments to begin what will later be called a “a four-part conversation,” which is one of the great hallmarks that makes this genre so desirable and important.  Here, the melodies are lyrical and light but bear an unmistakable sobriety, a hint of sadness amidst its dancing. To balance this, the last section comes around bright and cheery, ending this early work of a master with a crystalline lightness.

In all, Mozart wrote 26 string quartets, dedicating six to Haydn. His last string quartets are regarded as masterworks of extraordinary depth and craft.

Joseph Haydn
(Born in Rohau, Austria in 1732; died in Vienna in 1809)

String Quartet No. 1 in G major, Op.76 

1. Allegro con spirito

2. Adagio sostenuto

3. Menuet. Presto

4. Finale: Allegro ma non troppo

Haydn would complete a total of 68 string quartets since beginning his long relationship with them in the 1750s. Tonight, you’ll hear one of his crowning achievements in this genre that he essentially invented: Quartet No. 1 in G major, which begins his last and inarguably finest set of six, Op. 76, written in 1797 and 1798. Filled with craft, genius, playfulness and inventiveness, Op. 76 would influence Beethoven and Schubert immediately, and many later composers.

The opening to No. 1’s first movement clearly announces Haydn’s intentions for his entire set. The first three forte chords of the introduction serve an important purpose: to call the era’s notoriously noisy audiences to sit and hear and to be prepared for the imaginative bars to come. The first theme begins with the cello, a sure mark of the progression of the quartet as “a four-part conversation.” Haydn here seems to be beginning a fugue: the next instrument to enter is the viola, imitating the cello’s theme in typical fugue style, and so on … almost. But the fugue fails to materialize, and we hear, instead, duets on the theme, then a trio, until at long last we hear all four instruments together for the first time since the introduction. We then realize that Haydn, a master of this kind of playfulness, has called us to attention for what will be many pleasant surprises. Among them, listen for a marvelous moment at about one minute in when the entire quartet begins playing wild arpeggios in unison: another surprise and another high-water mark of this genre, in which ensemble virtuosity is becoming just as necessary as individual musicianship. 

The middle movement is exceptionally lovely: melancholic, but with a soaring spirit, as though age has captured the body, but the mind is still able to frolic. It’s a hymn, in a sense, and explores the capabilities of the string quartet as an almost vocal ensemble.

The third movement’s unique treatment would make an indelible impact on the likes of Beethoven and his successors. Couched as the dance movement minuet (recall Mozart’s last movement, Tempo di Minuetto, heard earlier), Haydn makes the tempo un-danceable at breakneck speed and popping with anything-but-refined-and-charming sonic eruptions. For Beethoven, this phrasing would morph into his own wild scherzos. Haydn’s central section, however, is disarmingly dancelike and dainty––another example of Haydn’s mischievous sense of humor.

The typical finale of a string quartet, as Haydn himself had crafted the genre, is cast solidly in a major key, joyful and meant to resolve all the tensions from the previous movements. Not so here, and deliciously not. Almost the entire movement is in the minor key, and it explores some murky harmonic moments. Along the way, listen for virtuosic showcasing of the first violin and reprises of the virtuosic ensemble unison playing from the first movement. Last, and as if almost an afterthought, Haydn gives us the final bars in the major key that we had been expecting to wrap up everything, but with a theme of an unexpected kind of nonchalance. And for the sake of surprise, the final three bars are the very three forte chords that began the whole quartet. In every way, this is a masterpiece that confirms why the genre, thanks to Haydn and Mozart as its brilliant creators, became a lodestar of Western music.

–– Program notes © Max Derrickson

November 17, 2018 “Nostalgia and Longing”

PROGRAM NOTES

Edward Elgar
(Born in Lower Broadheath, England in 1857; died in Worcester, England in 1934)

Salut d’Amour, Op. 12

Elgar was the quintessential underdog, and as such, his masterpieces make us all the more glad he finally achieved his rightful praise. He was a self-taught composer, learning his craft by borrowing books on counterpoint and harmony from the library in his small hometown of Broadheath. He was an accomplished violinist but also played the organ, bassoon and viola (as well as other instruments), and he relied upon the latter to make a living for many years as a private music teacher. He also picked up conducting and freelanced as a conductor in obscure English places for many, many years. His beloved wife, Alice, was his greatest champion and brought him through some severe bouts of low self-esteem and depression. Had it not been for her constant support, Elgar almost certainly never would have persevered to write some of Western music’s most beloved pieces, such as his Enigma Variations and his fleet, tender Salut d’Amour.

Salut d’Amour was Elgar’s first published work and fittingly so. While Elgar and Alice were courting, the composer went on holiday in 1888 with an old friend. Alice bid him a happy trip with a poem that she had written called “Love’s Grace.” In short order, Elgar responded with a musical reply dedicated to her and entitled “Liebesgruss” (Love’s Greeting)—and a marriage proposal. They were soon married, and Liebesgruss was soon sold to Elgar’s publisher for virtually pennies. But it was a milestone, and it was the beginning of so many great things to come for Elgar and his soul mate, Alice. Not long after, Elgar’s publisher changed the title to something more French sounding, Salut d’Amour, and the work has been winning hearts ever since. Though the work is simple and direct, one can’t help but hear the joy and devotion for Alice that inspired the young composer. Here is Elgar at the beginning of his great career with a song-poem to his beloved.

When Alice died in Elgar’s arms in 1920, Elgar grieved to a friend:

“Bless her! You, who like some of my work, must thank her for all of it, not me. I should have destroyed it all and joined Job’s wife in the congenial task of cursing God.”

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
(Born in Salzburg, Austria in 1756; died in Vienna in 1791)

Overture to Don Giovanni

Don Giovanni is truly one of the great operas ever written, and its Overture is forever welcome in the Concert Hall. The music and libretto were instantly beloved at their premiere in Prague in October 1787. But then, unbelievably, after the opera’s ecstatic premiere there, this masterpiece found only a lukewarm reception in Mozart’s hometown of Vienna. Indeed, Vienna’s near disdain for this extraordinary opera became another tragedy compounding the difficulties Mozart was facing at this stage of his life, all of which soon led to a serious decline in his health and finances. From these hardships, he would essentially never recover.

The opera is based on the life of the fabled Don Juan (“Don Giovanni” in Italian) who was an unrepentant Spanish playboy and libertine. Don Juan’s conquests and his comical hijinks are recreated in Mozart’s opera but amidst the silliness and scandalous behaviour, Mozart’s Giovanni faces a reckoning of abject terror. As in Greek tragedy, the terror is foreshadowed early, as Mozart at the outset of the Overture deftly builds colossally foreboding chords and sinister murmurings with strings and winds. This is then followed, quite eerily, by a series of ascending and descending scales that evoke an atmosphere of extraordinary dread—presaging the last scene of the opera when one of Giovanni’s victims comes back from the grave to drag him to the fires of Hell. This is strong stuff, but the Overture does not dwell there; instead, it springs back musically into the gaiety of Giovanni’s life before its last judgment, full of his devil-may-care attitude, high society enjoyments and complicated entanglements.

That Mozart began this Overture with foreshadowing of its Opera’s ending is only half of the genius in this great work. Reportedly, the day before Don Giovanni’s premiere in Prague there was no Overture at all, much to the alarm of the opera company. Mozart calmed everyone by pointing to his head, explaining he had already mentally composed it. He committed it to paper the evening before the first performance, and astonishingly, it bore none of the themes from the opera – it was all new music. Nonetheless, it fit perfectly as an Overture to the opera even as it was—and remains—a masterpiece in its own right.

Joaquín Rodrigo (Vidre)
(Born in Sagunto, Valencia, Spain in 1901; died in Madrid in 1999)

Concierto de Aranjuez
1. Allegro con spirito
2. Adagio
3. Allegro gentile

Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez is one of the most popular works written in the 20th Century. And although its 1939 premiere in Barcelona whisked Rodrigo from virtual obscurity to international fame almost overnight, the work’s conception faced considerable challenges.

Rodrigo had been studying with Paul Dukas (the composer of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice) in Paris when the Spanish Civil War broke out. The war delayed his return to Spain, for which he was desperately homesick. However, returning to Franco’s Spain meant being very careful about the music he brought with him: any compositions had to be appealing to the ultra-conservative Franco regime. A prominent Spanish guitarist. Regino Sainz de la Maza (who wound up becoming the dedicatee and performer of the Concierto’s premiere) begged Rodrigo to revive the guitar concerto tradition, but this was problematic for two reasons. First, Rodrigo was not a guitarist, and therefore he was inexperienced in knowing how to project effectually the idiomatic beauty of that quiet instrument in front of a full orchestra. Second, the way Rodrigo composed created special difficulties: having gone almost completely blind at age three, Rodrigo composed using a Braille typewriter. The output of this machine had to be rather painstakingly transcribed, and the nuances of writing for guitar were an especially great challenge in this context. But like many great artists, Rodrigo overcame the obstacles he faced and created one of the most beloved works of the Century.

To pacify Franco’s censors, Rodrigo said his Concierto was based on material from Old Spain and revived “the essence of an 18th century court where the aristocratic blended with the popular element… an epoch at the end of which fandangos transform themselves into fandanguillos, and when the cante and the bulerias vibrate in the Spanish air.” The court to which he referred was the palatial Aranjuez outside of Madrid with its famous Moorish-style gardens (not coincidentally, it was in these gardens that Rodrigo and his wife had fallen in love).

The orchestration of the Concierto shows Rodrigo’s special brilliance. Listen to the ways he makes the solo guitar and orchestra often speak in chamber-like combinations—the Adagio’s breathtaking conversation between the English horn and the guitar is a perfect example of this.

In fact, everything seems right in Rodrigo’s Concierto. From the flamenco-style strumming of the opening, through the searingly beautiful cante hondo (“deep song”) of the Adagio, to the courtly elegance of the finale, this work’s popularity is well deserved. But there is magic in it as well. As Rodrigo put it, “…in its themes there lingers on the fragrance of magnolias, the singing of birds, and the gushing of fountains.”

Georges Bizet
(Born in Paris in 1838; died in Bougival, France in 1875)

Symphony in C
1. Allegro vivo
2. Andante – Adagio
3. Allegro vivace
4. Finale – Allegro vivace

The son of musicians, Bizet gravitated towards a career in music very early. He was a prodigy in the heritage of Mozart and Mendelssohn, and he entered the Paris Conservatoire at the age of 9. By 1855, at the age of 17, he had begun studying with Charles Gounod, France’s most eminent composer (creator of the opera Faust and St. Cecilia’s Mass). Bizet was star-struck by this teacher, it seems, saying some years later to him “You were the beginning of my life as an artist. … You are the cause, I am the consequence.” Bizet’s talents were not lost on Gounod, either. It appears that in order to prepare his talented pupil to compete for the extremely coveted Prix de Rome prize in composition, Gounod assigned Bizet the formidable task of writing a symphony. Bizet finished this work, his Symphony in C, within a month, and with it he did indeed win the Prize, two years later, in 1857.

The Symphony’s first movement is bright and fast-paced, much like an early Mozart or Haydn symphony would have been. But what is clearly Bizet’s is the wonderful main theme featuring the oboe, and later, the flute—two instruments that will dominate Bizet’s music later in life. The movement ends with a feeling of charm and grace.

While the first movement is convincingly charming, we truly begin understanding Bizet’s musical genius in the remarkable second movement, the Adagio. The opening chords set a completely different tone from the frisky first movement, leading to the main theme that features the oboe again, show-casing Bizet’s love of exotic sounding melodies that meander and snake about, charming us into his unique musical world. This early work gives strong hints of the kind of writing that will make his great masterpiece, the opera Carmen, come to life in 1875. When we recall that Bizet was just 17 when he composed his Symphony in C, comparisons to Mozart and Mendelssohn are justified.

The third movement is vigorous yet stately, a two-step dance with some splendidly accented outbursts. The middle portion is rustic but graceful, again featuring oboe and flute, with rich harmonic moments.

The last movement is an “off-to-the-races” kind of finale, bristling with energy and joyfulness. Again, it’s a remarkable culminating movement for a 17-year old—we marvel at the ingenious way Bizet uses the whole array of orchestral colors to imbue this finale with ever-changing hues and exciting effects. It’s a bit of a devil to perform for both strings and winds, but so very delightful for the audience!

––Program notes © Max Derrickson

 

Bold and Beautiful – October 6, 2018

Ludwig van Beethoven
(Born in Bonn in 1770; died in Vienna in 1827)

String Quartet No. 1 in F major, Op. 18, No. 1
1. Allegro con brio
2. Adagio affettuoso ed appassionato
3. Scherzo: Allegro molto
4. Allegro

In 1792, when he was 22 years old, Beethoven came to Vienna to study composition with Germany’s greatest living composer, Franz Josef Haydn (Mozart had just died the year before in 1791). After roughly a year and a half, Beethoven grew impatient with the affable and conservative teaching style of Haydn, and by and large the two men parted ways. But this was not a setback for Beethoven. By this time, he had plenty of friends and opportunities for frolic (contrary to the image we now have of him, Beethoven was quite the socialite before his hearing loss made him more reclusive). And musically, he was already becoming known as one of the greatest piano virtuosos of the day and he was making excellent headway as a composer. However, to become known as a composer in his own right, rather than simply as a pianist-composer as so many other virtuosos were, Beethoven had to tackle genres beyond piano works. He did so in earnest: during the period of the 1790s, in addition to his first three piano concertos, he wrote more than a dozen important chamber works, including several violin and cello sonatas, five string trios, his important Piano Quintet (Op. 16) and his great Septet (Op. 20).

In 1798 and 1799, Haydn published his six seminal string quartets, often called the “London Quartets.” These works were so extraordinary they almost immediately set a new and lasting standard for the string quartet genre. Beethoven, his ego prodded, responded quickly: he initially composed what has become known as his First String Quartet in 1798. However, sensing that these were risky waters for a young composer to wade into, he did not publish immediately. Instead, he sent the draft to a friend, Karl Amenda, asking him to keep it under wraps. A while later, he told Amenda “… only now have I learned to write quartets.” Finally, with dramatic revisions, Beethoven published the First Quartet in 1801.

From the Quartet’s very first notes there is no doubt that Beethoven was intending to speak in big gestures. This work does not contain the kinds of themes we will hear in his later, ground-breaking symphonies, of course. Instead, it follows the impeccable models of both Haydn and Mozart (to be taken seriously as a composer at this time, Beethoven almost had to do this). In fact, the first movement’s theme is clearly a tip of the hat to Haydn’s Quartet, Op. 50, No. 1. But the urgency and drama that feed this first movement clearly reveal what Beethoven was made of, and they give us a peek at the greatness of his later works. Even more amazing, perhaps, is how mature this Quartet sounds: although this was his first attempt at this genre, the result is so natural and idiomatic it could just as easily be taken as his thirtieth quartet.

The biggest change from the first draft is the second movement, and this is the most progressive step for Beethoven. Here, he re-marked the tempo from simply “Adagio” to “Adagio affettuoso ed appassionato” (“slowly, affectionate and passionate”). This has the effect of expressing grief personally rather than in the abstract, which is a very Romantic perspective. Notice, too, the many silent pauses and tempo changes, all creating a deep, affecting pathos. The third movement’s scherzo is frisky, playful, and at times downright fiery. The finale is a fast-moving current of joyfulness.

Beethoven truly did “learn how to write a quartet” in this piece: listen for the motives passing through the four strings with fleet abandon. And above all, listen to a Beethoven who, at the beginning of a titanic career, shows himself to be full of vigor and good cheer, and taking the music world head on.

Alexander Borodin
(Born in St. Petersburg in 1833; died in St. Petersburg in 1887)

String Quartet No. 2 in D Major, Op.
1. Allegro moderato
2. Scherzo. Allegro
3. Notturno (Nocturne): Andante
4. Finale: Andante — Vivace

Borodin has written some of Western music’s most beloved pieces, including The Polovtsian Dances (from his opera Prince Igor), In the Steppes of Central Asia, Symphony No. 2, and his String Quartet No. 2. He was also one of the cherished members of the famous “Russian Five,” a group of composers that included Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, Cui, and Mussorgsky. The group’s intent was to create a purely Russian classical music inspired by that country’s land and people, part of a nationalistic trend that was sweeping 19th Century Europe.

Despite Borodin’s success as a musician, and his importance to Russian music, it is astonishing to remember that for him music was but an avocation. His full-time profession was as a research chemist, physician and professor. In fact, much of his late career was spent discovering a chemical reaction of variants of formaldehyde, a process so scientifically important that until fairly recently it was still referred to as the “Borodin reaction”. He typically could only find time to compose when he was too ill to teach or go to the lab, or otherwise able to take time away from his scientific work.

Such was the case with his masterful String Quartet No. 2. Borodin wrote this work in 1881, during a vacation to mark the 20th anniversary of his proposal to his wife, the pianist Ekaterina Protopopova. This quartet differs from Borodin’s other compositions in two important ways. First, he wrote it very quickly; usually, he worked on his compositions in snippets over long periods of time (often when he took to his sick bed). Second, the quartet contains no obvious underlying narrative; like the other members of the “Russian Five,” he normally built his compositions around nationalistic stories.

But there is good reason to think that Borodin might have indeed infused his String Quartet No. 2 with a meaning of sorts: he not only wrote it on the 20th anniversary of his proposal to his beloved Ekaterina, he also dedicated it to her. And structurally, much of the work consists of a charming conversational dialogue between the cello (Borodin was an amateur cellist) and the violin (a likely instrument to represent Ekaterina). In any case, whether this wonderful Quartet is music for music’s sake or a love letter from Borodin to his wife, it delights us to this day.

Each movement abounds with riches, but it is the third movement, Nocturne, that may indeed be Borodin’s finest tune, and his finest chamber music accomplishment. Structurally, it is a simple song, where cello and violin share and embellish a terrifically beautiful, and singable, theme between themselves. In between, the second violin and viola pulse like a heartbeat and occasionally echo the lovers’ refrain. Ethereal and tender, the ending floats into the stratosphere. So beloved is this movement that its main theme (along with other Borodin tunes) was used in the 1950s musical “Kismet,” becoming the popular hit song “And This is My Beloved.” In a wonderful quirk of fate, in 1954 near the height of the Cold War, the by-then-long-dead Borodin won a posthumous Tony Award for his contributions to Kismet. Had he still been alive, he probably would have missed the gala and stayed working in the lab.

CZECH IT OUT – May 19, 2018

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

Petite Symphony, Op. 216

1. Adagio – Allegretto
2. Andante cantabile
3. Scherzo – Allegro moderato
4. Finale – Allegretto

French composer Charles Gounod is mainly remembered today as an opera composer. Indeed, in his day (the second half of the 19th Century) he and Richard Wagner were Verdi’s chief opera rivals. For example, when Verdi was reluctant to accept the commission for Äida from the new Cairo Opera House in 1871, the producers goaded him into action by threatening to ask Gounod to write it instead. Gounod’s Faust, written in 1859, was so popular the world over that when New York’s Metropolitan Opera House opened its doors in 1883, Faust was its obvious inaugural choice.

But Gounod wrote more than operas, and he brought his superlative operatic gifts of lyricism to these other genres. These gifts are on full display in his ever-popular Petite Symphony for Winds.

The story behind this work is as follows. Wind octet music (known as Harmoniemusik) was all the rage in Europe, and especially in Paris, in the late 18th Century. Mozart’s wind serenades set the bar for this music and the taste for it remained strong for many years. So beloved was this tradition that in 1879 the famous Parisian teacher and flutist, Paul Taffanel (1844-1908), founded the Société de musique de chambre pour instruments à vent (Society of Chamber Music for Wind Instruments). For an important wind concert series coming up in 1885, Taffanel contacted his friend, Gounod, to write a wind piece for his group. Since Gounod had been bewitched into music as a career by hearing Mozart, he created a Harmoniemusik-Mozart-like work for Taffanel’s group. This was to be a wind serenade for double octet (two clarinets, two oboes, two horns, and two bassoons) with a slight twist: he gave his flutist friend Taffanel a solo flute part, fashioned the work as a kind of Flute Concertante, and called it his Petite Symphony for Winds. This work’s premiere in 1885 was extremely well received and the work has equally delighted audiences ever since.

Unlike the Mozart model, which would have been a series of generally unrelated movements meant to entertain as “background music” to outdoor social functions, Gounod crafted a miniature symphony, as his title suggests. Like Mozart, and Haydn, Gounod begins with a serious and slow symphonic introduction right away, capturing the lush sonorities of the octet’s beautiful combination of instruments. As the movement flows, the flute takes the lead role.

The very operatic-like second movement, cantabile (“singing”), is a gorgeous aria for flute, and it serves as the slow/song movement in Gounod’s little symphony. The scherzo third movement suggests it might become a Beethoven symphonic movement, but instead Gounod cleverly creates a Renaissance-like hunting romp (what was once called a chasse) led by the two horns. The finale, Allegretto, is a magical conclusion to the work. Gounod brings everyone together, giving solos to each of the instrumental pairs and especially not forgetting the flute, combining the sonorities of the ensemble into rich sounds, and driving the work to its fine, urbane finale with a gentle, rhythmic drive.

Leoš Janáček
(Born in Hukvaldy, Moravia (now Czech Republic) in 1854; died in Morava-Ostrava in 1928)

“Mládí” (Youth) Suite for Wind Instruments

1. Allegro
2. Andante sostenuto
3. Vivace
4. Allegro animato

Though his early works were deeply influenced by his colleague Dvořák’s Romantic style, Janáček’s later intensive studies of Moravian-Czech folk music resulted in a unique change to the way he composed near the middle of his life. Armed with an extraordinary ear for folksong and speech inflections, Janáček began basing his melodies not only on melodic contours, but on the Czech language’s distinct speech patterns, which Janáček called “speech tunes.” He first used these techniques in his operas, and indeed, it is in them that he first gained world fame in 1904 with his opera Jenůfa.

In the last and most prolific decade of his life Janáček wrote his most successful and iconic opera, The Cunning Little Vixen (1924). Here, he fully fleshed out his prosody-plus-folksong experiments, culminating in a uniquely tonal but modern sound that he made his own. That same year, 1924, he was turning 70. A biography was in the works and he began collecting memorabilia. In the process of this, he reflected often on his studies as a choirboy and organist at the Augustine Monastery, St. Thomas’ Abbey, in Brno (Moravia, now the Czech Republic), and he grew nostalgic for those spirited boyhood days. Influenced by Dvořák’s famous Serenade (Op. 44), he composed his Mládí (Youth) Suite for wind sextet: flute, oboe, clarinet, horn, bassoon and bass clarinet. This was a musical remembrance of a day in his young life at the Brno Monastery some five decades earlier, and again, his “speech tunes” played a prominent part in this splendid work.

The first movement Allegro features a jumpy and bustling accompaniment under a theme first played by the oboe. That theme is said to be the “speech tune” of the Czech sighing lament, “Mládí, zlaté mládí!” (“Youth, golden youth!”). The electricity that runs through this movement charmingly evokes hyper-wiggly young students. Especially entertaining is the musical grumbling of the bassoon and the bass clarinet.

The Andante alternates between a touching lament and a fracturing of short musical themes. Janáček called these bits of hurling motives “sčasovka.” This word doesn’t easily translate but Janáček scholar John Tyrrell characterizes these passages as “little musical … capsule[s], which Janáček often used in slow music as tiny swift motifs with remarkably characteristic rhythms that are supposed to pepper the musical flow.” It’s a marvelous technique singular to Janáček’s music.

The third movement, Vivace, recalls the Blue Boys of the Old Brno Monastery, a group of lads who marched through the grounds doing their various chores while merrily whistling. Janáček recreates the beloved scene with piccolo and a very sprightly accompaniment, which also suggests a bit of the Blue Boys’ mischief. A very sweet interlude graces the movement’s central portion.

The finale wraps up this delightful Suite by recalling the Mládí motif from the beginning movement, but here sung over a cleverly motoric accompaniment from the horn and bass clarinet. Janáček introduces a few new themes, with one regal theme in particular led by the horn eliciting feelings of grandness – no doubt the composer’s recollections of great musical moments as a chorister. The virtuosic elements in this movement are plenty, and the ending bars satisfyingly exciting.

Antonin Dvořák
(Born in Nelahozeves, Bohemia (now Czech Republic) in 1841; died in Prague in 1904)

Serenade for Winds in D minor, Op. 44

1. Moderato, quasi marcia
2. Menuetto
3. Andante con moto
4. Allegro molto

We have Johannes Brahms to thank for helping launch Dvořák’s career. In 1878, Brahms was a judge in a composition contest that awarded Dvořák honors as a contestant. Brahms then continued to champion the young Czech composer, and he helped him land his first publishing contract. That first contract required of Dvořák a Symphony, which we know now as No. 5, and several other works, including a Serenade for wind instruments.

It was Dvořák’s idea to add the horns and strings to the Serenade he’d been contracted to write. He completed the Serenade in 1879 and it was instantly popular, “introducing” Dvořák to the world at his best with beautiful melodies, luscious harmonies and youthful inventiveness. That he chose to write this Serenade for a specific set of winds (2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, contrabassoon, and three horns) plus a cello and a bass, while omitting the flute, reveals Dvořák’s intentions: this was to be a uniquely Czech-sounding work hued in darkly rich sonorities. Its charms have lasted more than a century, but its influence was nearly immediate, especially on his compatriot, Leoš Janáček.

The first movement “marcia” (march) begins with delightfully rustic and satirically pompous dotted rhythmic patterns that harken back to the famous European/Czech village wind bands (called Harmoniemusik), but ends with pastoral warmth. The second movement’s lovely Menuetto uses two well-loved Czech folk dances: the easy-going sousedská (or, neighbor’s dance, with a rustic melody), which is then contrasted with a high-energy and virtuosic trio section shaped after the furiant (a dance form Dvořák would return to many times throughout his career).

The third movement, Andante, is a marvel of imagination and freshness. A set of variations are fashioned upon a deeply sensuous theme, which is itself juxtaposed over a jaunty and syncopated little horn and wind rhythm. Though Dvořák uses his rich instrumental sonorities to create some tensely dark moments, the surprisingly unsullied effect is a feeling of sheer contentment. The final movement, Allegro molto, is a stout rondo with a kind of urgent glee that arrives to giftwrap this masterpiece. Dvořák delivers some of his finest romping tunes here and reintroduces themes from the first movement to give the piece an overall balance. The concluding coda is a thrilling and immensely fun dash to the finish, with whirling winds and fanfaring horns.

––Program notes © Max Derrickson

 

PIPE DREAMS – March 24, 2018

George Frideric Handel
(Born in Halle, Germany in 1685; died in London in 1759)

Handel was born in the same year as Johann Sebastian Bach and Domenico Scarlatti, and along with his friend and contemporary, Georg Philipp Telemann, the four share honors as several of the greatest of the Baroque composers. Unique among these four is Handel’s British expatriate career. Baroque musicians and composers always depended on the patronage of the wealthy. Handel, a Saxon from Germany, was no exception. After he made a name for himself as a virtuoso musician and a composer, he was asked in 1710 by German Prince George, the Elector of Hanover, to be his Kapellmeister (Court music director). But then in 1714 Prince George became King George I of Great Britain and Ireland. Handel followed his patron and made London his home for the rest of his life.

Handel had mastered every genre from opera to chamber music, but his most lasting fame came from his contributions to the English Oratorio genre. He wrote 27 oratorios in all. His Messiah of 1742 is the best known and arguably his greatest work. However, the inspired genius of the Messiah by no means eclipses the merits of his other 26 oratorios.

Overture to Theodora, HVW 68

1. Maestoso
2. Allegro
3. Trio – Larghetto e piano
4. Courante

Though Handel began his long and extremely lucrative London career writing Italian operas, he soon moved into experimenting with and perfecting the English-language Oratorio. These oratorios were essentially un-staged operas, stripped-down and simplified for the Lenten season when religious authorities frowned on elaborate theatrical spectacles. Handel chose Biblical themes for his oratorios, but exploited these stories for their drama, intrigue and emotion. Without the lavish excesses of costume, props and staging typical of operas, God-fearing Londoners could attend Biblically-based oratorios during Lent and get their quotient of great operatic-like music with a clean conscience. Handel’s Messiah of 1742, of course, was an instant success and was repeated often, but the insatiable desires of Londoners for more and different pieces of music kept him writing new oratorios every year

In 1750 he asked the great librettist, Reverend Thomas Morell, to write an Oratorio based on the life of Theodora, the Fourth Century Christian martyr. The result wasn’t an instant success for reasons unrelated to the piece’s musical worth (among other things, there was an earthquake), but it has since become “discovered” as one of Handel’s finest works. It was Handel’s favorite libretto, and he was clearly proud of his musical contributions. According to one account, when he was asked whether he considered the grand [Hallelujah] chorus of The Messiah as his masterpiece, he said: “No, I think the chorus … at the end of the second part in Theodora far beyond it.” Indeed, the final duet in Theodora, “Thither let our hearts aspire,” is surely one of Handel’s finest passages, and the Oratorio’s deeply anguished closing chorus rivals any of its peers from any era.

Theodora’s Overture is different from today’s operatic conventions. Overtures in Handel’s time were still taking shape as a genre, but in England Henry Purcell had begun using what was called the French Overture that took precisely the shape that Handel uses here for Theodora: a two-part work, comprised of a slow introduction followed by a fast fugue-like movement. As the curtain rises, the orchestra then plays two or more dance forms from the French suite style. In this form, the Theodora Overture clearly was one of the precursors to the symphonic form – indeed, it sounds much like a short symphony, and its riches run as deep as the entire cantata.

In true French Overture form, Handel begins his Overture with a slow introduction that paints a scene of earnestness and gravity, followed by a brilliant fugue that is reminiscent of his Messiah’s Hallelujah chorus (no doubt a clever marketing tactic by Handel). Then follows a graceful Trio. The Overture concludes with a bright and quick-stepped Courante (a triple-beat dance meaning “running”), which here sparkles as an exuberant, yet urgent musical offering. The entire Overture is a great work in its own right, and as Theodora gains more attention in modern times, the Overture will find its deserved a place in the repertoire.

Handel the Great Organist

Between 1735 and 1736 Handel composed four English Oratorios: Esther, Deborah, and Athalia in 1735, and Alexander’s Feast in 1736. Each of these works was given its premiere in the newly designed Covent Gardens, and each was a great success despite facing stiff competition in London. Indeed, that city’s new and wildly popular “Opera of the Nobility” theatre had been set up deliberately to steal Handel’s audiences. In addition, that theater’s company included one of the greatest singers of the age, the castrato Farinelli, whose performances created hysteria with audiences and won him the epithet “One God, One Farinelli!” For Handel and Covent Gardens, oratorios weren’t going to be enough to lure audiences back, and so Handel, widely celebrated as the greatest organist of his day, created several concertos for “Chamber Organ and Orchestra.” All of these works were to be played as interludes between various Parts (sections) of his four 1735-1736 oratorios. All were intended to show off Handel’s own prowess on the organ.

Handel’s contemporaries were awed by his skill as an organist. The most famous account reads as follows:

“… Handel had an uncommon brilliancy and command of finger; but what distinguished him from all other players who possessed these same qualities, was that amazing fullness, force and energy, which he joined with them. And this observation may be applied with as much justice to his compositions as to his playing.”
- John Mainwaring, Memoirs of the Life of the late G. F. Handel, 1760

Handel’s virtuoso talents certainly came in handy to help promote sales at Covent Gardens, but the music that Handel wrote for himself to perform has much more lasting value as some of the greatest music of the Baroque. This set of six concerti was first published for solo organ. The concerti in their original form, for the “chamber” organ (a small organ with relatively few registers) and chamber orchestra, were made available later on and are the versions heard tonight. True to Handel’s talent as an organist and composer, the solo parts are exquisite and the orchestra parts completely delightful, and as far as we know, Handel invented this pairing of organ with chamber orchestra in the concerto form.

Organ Concerto Op. 4, No. 1 in G minor, HWV 289

1. Larghetto, e staccato
2. Allegro
3. Adagio
4. Andante

Handel had few rivals for what seems to be an inexhaustible supply of beautiful themes and works of exceptional invention, and this Concerto was written to show off his abilities as both an organist and composer. It premiered in 1736 as an interlude for the Oratorio called Alexander’s Feast, which was based on a famous ode written by the British poet John Dryden in honor of St. Cecilia, the patron Saint of music (who, because of a mistaken Latin translation, was thought to be an organist). The solo organ parts were meant to show off specifically Handel’s virtuosity, but “Oratorio-concerti” like this one were nonetheless constrained by the smaller organs (with only a few registers) and smaller chamber orchestras typically used for Oratorios. As a result, these works of Handel’s are not “barn burners” like Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Nevertheless, they are testaments to a time when the organ was just beginning to become the king of instruments.

Immediately intriguing in this first organ Concerto is Handel’s atypical choice of tempo markings, which are predominately slow. The melodramatic opening of the work by the orchestra is understandable as an interlude during the larger Oratorio, as much a work for stage as it is for the concert hall, and which recalled the gruesome martyrdom of the beloved St. Cecilia. The organ’s entrance is enchanting and ethereal, and in a subtle way is set against the mood of the opening orchestral theme. This contrast between the organist and the orchestra plays out through the entire Concerto and allows for lots of lively organ virtuosity.

The only fast movement, Allegro, comes next and is spritely and light. The following Adagio is mostly for organ alone and brings out more of the singing beauty of the instrument rather than Handel’s virtuosic technique. All the same, it’s a sublime moment in the best Baroque tradition and demands true musical artistry from the soloist. The finale, though marked in a slow tempo (Andante), is written in such a way that it feels as though it clips briskly along. The exchanges between organ and orchestra are lively and fun and Handel’s main theme here is joyful. The organ writing, too, is extremely challenging and showy, bringing this wonderful and brief Concerto to a delightful close.

Organ Concerto Op. 4, No. 4 in F Major, HWV 292

1. Allegro
2. Andante
3. Adagio
4. Allegro

This Concerto may be one of the most exquisite pieces from Handel’s long and storied career. It was written as an interlude for his 1735 Oratorio, Athalia, which was a revision of a much earlier Oratorio that Handel had written in Italy in 1708. Athalia is based on the Biblical story of a Baal Queen (Athalia) who is hell-bent on murdering all of King David’s heirs, and the triumph of the true believers in deposing her tyranny. Interestingly, in 1730’s England, the Jacobites had championed the story’s theme to support the restoration of the Stuart monarchy; Handel clearly understood his English audience and his Athalia was a wild success.

When you listen to the organ Concerto you can hear right away how it mirrors the grandeur of the story. The first movement is majestic and brilliant and gives the organist lots of virtuosic passages that dazzle audiences. The work was well-received; one reviewer praised it thusly in the poetic and grand fashion of the day:

“When lo! the mighty man essay’d
The organ’s heavenly breathing sound,
Things that inanimate were made,
Strait mov’d, and as inform’d were found.
Thus ORPHEUS, when the numbers flow’d,
Sweetly descanting from his lyre,
Mountains and hills confess’d the God,
Nature look’d up, and did admire.”

The orchestra is mostly the accompanist in this Concerto, but Handel’s writing for it is rich and meaningful. The second movement is a true gem, beginning with a beautifully haunting theme, then gently exploring variations where the organ is allowed to express a great deal of emotional depth. The final refrain, with full orchestra and organ, is powerfully moving.

The Adagio is an evanescent introduction to the finale, but in its short bars, Handel captures a searing poignancy. And then comes the finale in a flood of light and lightness. In its context in the Oratorio, it is the exact music of a Hallelujah chorus that follows without break. Alone, it’s a flying fugue that shows off Handel as a composer and as virtuoso organist, and as one of great composers in Western music.

Ottorino Respighi
(Born in Bologna, Italy in 1879; died in Rome in 1936)

Respighi is known the world over as the composer of two gigantic orchestral tone poems, The Fountains of Rome (1916) and The Pines of Rome (1924). But few know that those amazing orchestral colors that make Respighi’s masterpieces sparkle and explode were a direct result of his time in Russia, as the principal violist of the Russian Imperial Theatre in Saint Petersburg, during their 1900 season of performing Italian opera. While there he met and studied with Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, spending five months studying composition and specifically orchestration. Equally important in his musical formation was the fact that Respighi was an avid early music scholar and published in that genre. His initial experiments in composing for early music forms, like his Suite for Strings, P. 41, are a fascinating early look into one of Italy’s greatest and most unique 20th Century composers.

By the late 19th Century, a considerable interest was directed at older music, and a fair amount of music from the Baroque and before had been rediscovered. Respighi was in the avant-garde of composers who took a keen interest in early music, and he used these discovered melodies from his ancient forbears, or made up melodies inspired by these old forms, all the while recasting them in a more modern instrumental and harmonic guise. His work came years before Stravinsky and Diaghilev began the widespread interest in Neo-Classicism with the 1920 Ballet Russe production of Pulcinella Ballet and Suite (after Pergolesi’s Baroque music).

But especially as an Italian who was born in the glowing aftermath of Italy’s Risorgimento – its birth as a unified nation – Respighi was also deeply proud of his country’s extraordinary influence in the development of modern Western music; from the plainchant of the Roman Catholic Church and Gregorian Chant of Medieval times to the exquisite music by Baroque composers Scarlatti, Corelli, and Pergolesi, Italian composers were always at the fore. Respighi’s fascination with early music, therefore, turned into a combination of Italian pride mixed with Russian influence and 20th Century orchestral techniques. The results were rich and wonderful compositions.

Suite for Strings, P. 41

1. Ciaccona
2. Siciliana
3. Giga
4. Sarabanda
5. Burlesca
6. Rigaudon

Respighi’s most popular forays into recasting “antique” music culminated in his three Ancient Airs and Dances Suites of 1917, 1923, and 1932. Our concert’s Suite for Strings was composed much earlier, in 1902. At that time. Respighi was just beginning his musical experiments, and his Suite was inspired by Edvard Grieg’s Holberg Suite of 1884. Like Grieg’s, Respighi’s Suite was based entirely on musical forms and dances from the Baroque period.

The Chaconne (Ciaconna) is a beautiful movement and may well be Respighi’s most convincing fusion of Baroque and late-Romantic music. True to Baroque form, Respighi presents a chordal bass line and then creates a set of variations over its continuing repetition. It works musically, with lush string writing and rich, dark-hued chords making it melt in the air. But most delightful is its lyricism, which is a hallmark of each of the movements.

The Siciliana was typically a pastorale-type music often used for arias in Baroque opera. Here, Respighi seems to luxuriate in the string colors he creates and his Siciliana is lyrical and graceful. The Giga (gigue) is a lively dance that derives from the English/Irish jig, and which migrated to France and Italy. Respighi’s jig is full of charm and syncopations. The Sarabanda has a Spanish/Mexican musical history and its reputation was that it should be notoriously wild and erotic. Ironically, when it became assimilated into French, German and Italian court musical making, it often became a stately and somber affair. Respighi chooses its Italian usage and creates one of his most poignant musical wonders, turning a stately dance into a pathos-laden elegy.

The Burlesca is a spritely but complicated movement. “Burlesca” derives from the Italian burlesco, which is a derivative of the Italian burla, meaning a joke or ridicule. Equally at home in all the arts, in music a Burlesca typically creates comedic effects or exaggerates serious music to the point of mockery and buffoonery. Respighi appears to be doing this to himself in this movement, by mashing up bits of the somber themes of his previous movements with exaggerated syncopation and juxtaposed techniques – such as bowing and plucking.

And finally, the Rigaudon is a spirited two-step dance of French folk origin. Assimilated into the courtly suite of Baroque dances, it becomes an affable couples’ dance. Respighi uses it here to morph many of the previous themes into a delightful musical pageant to end one of his finest forays into “antique” music.

––Program notes © Max Derrickson

 

Two Rivers String Quartet “Contrasting Passions” Jan.13, 2108

Bedřich Smetana
(Born near Prague in 1824; died in Prague (Czech Republic) in 1884)

String Quartet No. 1 in E-minor, “Z mého, zivota” (“From My Life”), JB 1:105
1. Allegro vivo appassionato
2. Allegro moderato à la Polka
3. Largo sostenuto
4. Vivace

Smetana is revered as the Father of Nationalist Czech music (or Bohemian music, as it was called in his day). He dedicated his life to creating such music, beginning with operas whose themes were conspicuously nationalistic, and branching out into purely instrumental works with Bohemian folk roots.

Smetana’s life was filled with sadness and disappointments: his first wife died of tuberculosis, several of his children died in infancy, and his work was constantly harangued and harshly judged. But probably the cruelest blow of all came in 1874 when he began to lose his hearing because of syphilis and became completely deaf within just a few months.

Though he continued to compose after that – his later works included his seminal “Má Vlast” (“My Homeland”) with its wildly popular movement The Moldau – Smetana began turning inward in 1876 to fashion what was initially a purely private piece of music. This was his groundbreaking String Quartet No. 1, subtitled “From My Life.” It was eventually premiered in 1879 and published soon after.

Part of what was groundbreaking about this Quartet was Smetana’s autobiographical approach. This kind of approach was not only novel for the time but also highly influential on composers who followed. And because the Quartet gleams so brightly with Bohemian character and loveable melodies – the opening theme alone is one of the most dramatic musical sequences in the quartet genre – the work is a genuine masterpiece.

Smetana later wrote a description of this Quartet for a friend, describing its autobiographical background and its musical details as follows. The description is infused with a profound sense of sadness:

My intention was to paint a tone picture of my life. The first movement depicts my youthful leanings toward art, the Romantic atmosphere, the inexpressible yearning for something I could neither express nor define, and also a kind of warning of my future misfortune . . . The long insistent note in the finale owes its origin to this. It is the fateful ringing in my ears of the high-pitched tones which in 1874 announced the beginning of my deafness. I permitted myself this little joke, because it was so disastrous to me. The second movement, a quasi- polka, brings to mind the joyful days of youth when I composed dance tunes and was known everywhere as a passionate lover of dancing. The third movement . . . reminds me of the happiness of my first love, the girl who later became my wife. The fourth movement describes the discovery that I could treat national elements in music and my joy in following this path until it was checked by the catastrophe of the onset of my deafness, the outlook into the sad future, the tiny rays of hope of recovery, but remembering all the promise of my early career, a feeling of painful regret.

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

String Quartet No 4 in E-minor, Op. 44, No. 2
1. Allegro assai appassionato
2. Scherzo: Allegro di molto
3. Andante
4. Presto agitato

Between 1837 and 1838 Mendelssohn wrote a set of three string quartets which he grouped as Opus 44 and then slightly revised in 1839. Only 28 years old when he began these works, Mendelssohn was already regarded as a great composer and virtuoso pianist and he was beginning to achieve further fame as a conductor and music historian. He had also just married Cécile Charlotte Sophie Jeanrenaud, a charming French woman who delighted him. This was a period of great stability and happiness for Mendelssohn and these three string quartets eloquently reflect those grand and sweet times. The second of the three quartets (the E-minor quartet featured in tonight’s concert) pays particular homage to Mendelssohn’s love for Cécile as he wrote it during their honeymoon.

The E-minor quartet is also a magical testament to Mendelssohn’s unique ability to blend the Classical sensibilities of Mozart with the stormy undercurrents of the Romantic period. Combining fleet terseness and tenderness, the first movement’s initial theme is one of Mendelssohn’s finest achievements in this regard. It opens with a pulsing syncopation in the two middle strings, creating a disturbance of energy and furtiveness. The first violin then soars upwards in a simultaneously confident yet aching theme, the tempo continually pushing forward, setting the stage for the great music-making that follows.

The second movement is a scherzo, quick-silvered to the extreme and absolutely crackling with electricity. The third movement is Mendelssohn’s love song to Cécile, with a gorgeous and simple tune in Mendelssohn’s beloved “song without words” style. But importantly, the theme’s accompaniment is continually undulating, creating a kind of lazy perpetual motion that never allows for full contentment (and Mendelssohn’s directions to the performers asks that they “never allow the tempo to drag”). The final movement is a remarkable musical reckoning of the former three movements, blending beautiful, romantic themes with forward thrust. Midway through the movement, in an unexpected bow to one of his musical heroes, J.S. Bach, Mendelssohn gives a lovely hymn tune to the first violin while the rest of the quartet’s players hand off restless musical fragments to each other. The finale then turns urgent as the quartet races toward its bracing, final chords, bringing one of Mendelssohn’s great works to a close.

––Program notes © Max Derrickson

Two Rivers Chamber Orchestra, Joyful Noise, Nov. 18, 2017

Robert Schumann
(Born in Zwickau, Germany in 1810; died in Endenich, Germany in 1856)

Traümerai, No. 7 from Kinderszenen, Op. 15 (Arranged for String Orchestra)

During Schumann’s life, the Romantic period in music was just coming into its own, creating music that favored expressiveness and emotion as the essence of Art. Schumann sometimes described it as making music out of pictures, by which he meant the pictures made by words as much as by paint. Indeed, those whom Schumann considered his artistic heroes included Lord Byron along with Beethoven. The son of a bookseller who had fostered a love of literature in his children, the young Schumann was as well versed in prose as he was music, and his love for words and thoughts deeply informed his composing.

Schumann began his musical career hoping to become a piano virtuoso, and thus much of his early works were composed for piano. This is also how he met the love of his life, Clara Wieck, whose father was Schumann’s renowned piano teacher. A virtuoso’s career never materialized for Schumann, but Clara became his artistic muse, and then in 1840, his wife.

The year 1838 was a particularly wonderful year for Schumann’s piano compositions and Kinderszenen (“Scenes from Childhood”), in particular, was inspired by Clara. Kinderszenen’s set of 13 pieces were meant to evoke the magic of childhood as remembered by an adult—a sublimely sophisticated approach—and each scene in the set bore a very deliberately chosen title. The intimacy of emotion that Schumann captures in these vignettes was something that he had an uncanny talent for and which can be found in much of his work. The scene titled “Traümerai” may be his greatest achievement in this regard, and it serves as the emotional anchor of the whole set of Kinderszenen.

Typically translated as “Dreaming” or “Reverie,” Traümerai captures a child’s dreaming with its innocence and naiveté, tinged with that bittersweetness of an adult reverie on a childhood long past. The work is in the form of a simple song, but what makes it uniquely beautiful is how Schumann manipulates the harmonies below its repeating, lovely melody. By simply changing a few notes, Schumann transforms sweet contentment into wistful yearning, shifting between innocent childhood and nostalgic adulthood. And like many masterpieces, Traümerai is as meltingly beautiful arranged for strings, or any instrument, as it is on piano.

The great pianist Vladimir Horowitz, later in his rich and long concertizing life, became extremely fond of playing Traümerai as one of his encores. Hardly a typical encore piece, Horowitz simply adored Traümerai and played it anyway—and it never failed to please. Probably no performer ever gave it more publicity than Horowitz, especially in what was likely one of the most famous recitals in modern times. After decades of being an ex-patriot in America during the Cold War, the native-Russian-turned-American-citizen Horowitz went back to Moscow in 1986 to give several recitals and “see his homeland one last time,” and to be, as he described it, an “ambassador of beauty.” Welcomed like a heroic Prodigal son, Horowitz was received with wide-open arms by his Soviet audience. His recital in Moscow was televised, of course, and received top billing in both Russia and the United States. Horowitz played Schumann’s lovely Traümerai as one of this recital’s encores, because, as he said, “It may look simple on the page, but it is a masterpiece.” The work’s simplicity and deep beauty spoke volumes on the world stage then, just as it does now, and just as it always has since Schumann first wrote it almost two-centuries ago.

Sergei Prokofiev
(Born in Sontskova, Ukraine in 1891; died in Moscow in 1953)

Violin Concerto No. 2 in G-minor, Op. 63
1. Allegro moderato
2. Andante assai
3. Allegro ben marcato

Prokofiev’s marvelous, somewhat quixotic, Violin Concerto No. 2 bears the tell-tale signs of a composer in transition, both ideologically and geographically. It was commissioned for the Belgian violin virtuoso Robert Soetens (1897-1997) by a group of the violinist’s admirers and the work was completed and premiered in 1935. At the time, Prokofiev had been gradually repatriating himself back to Moscow after more than two decades of building his career in the West as a composer, conductor and pianist. He was also evolving musically, shedding some of the ferocious modernism of his former years and actively embracing the new Soviet musical aesthetic of simplicity and lyricism. The Second Violin Concerto was composed in many places while Prokofiev wrapped up his touring life. As he recalled in his autobiography, the first theme of the first movement was written in Paris, the main theme of the second in Voronezh, the orchestration was completed in Baku, and then the premiere took place in Madrid. And the music itself is equally peripatetic, harboring multiple personalities: lyricism, anxiety, sarcasm, naiveté, and wildness, all alongside a hint that, given the right nudge, all hell might just break loose.

The Concerto is also incredibly important in Prokofiev’s evolution as a composer. Immediately after this piece was completed he set to work on two of his greatest achievements: the ballet Romeo and Juliet, and Symphony No. 5, which are also two of the 20th Century’s masterpieces. The lyricisms found in the ballet—those exotic, charming melodies—appear to have had the Violin Concerto as their drawing board. Certainly, the beautiful theme in the Concerto’s second movement Andante foretells those splendid love moments between the two star-cross’d lovers. Likewise, the massive sonic canvases that occasionally take over the Concerto seem to have gotten fully worked out in the Fifth Symphony. The percussive color that is so richly displayed in the Symphony is so indulged in the Concerto that the latter might rightly be considered a Concerto for Violin, Bass Drum and Orchestra during its first and third movements. In addition, the castanets that accompany the main violin theme in the Concerto’s third movement seem to have set the stage for the Fifth Symphony’s delicious percussion extravagance in its scherzo movement.

There are many curious and exciting moments in this Concerto, from the Concerto’s dark and longing opening theme, through the soaring and pure melody of the second movement, to the witty and sarcastically jangled dance-like third movement. It is the violinist who must give the Concerto’s many personalities their fair voice, and whose virtuosity must shine through in its splendidly challenging technical passages. We, as an audience, get to enjoy thereby one of the most original and fun masterpieces of Prokofiev’s great career.

Ludwig van Beethoven
(Born in Bonn in 1770; died in Vienna in 1827)

Symphony No. 7 in A, Op. 92
1. Poco sostenuto – Vivace
2. Allegretto
3. Presto – Assai meno Presto
4. Allegro con brio

Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 is undeniably one of the most beloved symphonies ever written, and its famous second movement is one of those rare creations that seem to appear once a century. That it is arguably Beethoven’s most skillfully realized symphony and composed at the height of his melodic abilities only partially explain what is so inspiring about this extraordinary work. What has truly enraptured listeners throughout two centuries is its infectious exuberance and joyful intensity.

The slow Introduction to the first movement, with its broad swashes of colorful chords and its strident woodwind lines descending between them, may seem to be a lovely reverie in luxuriant sonority. But in fact this Introduction establishes two important parameters that will define the entire symphony: mood and rhythm. While we are basking in a feeling of regality and gladness, the Introduction’s scalar patterns and lengthy sets of repeated notes are laying the groundwork for an extraordinary moment which will define the symphony’s rhythm. At the bridge between the Introduction and the Exposition (the fast, main section of the movement), harmony and melody quickly evaporate, leaving the winds and the strings trading notes. This leaves us in an absolutely static moment of simple rhythm, but one which inventively morphs into the new, delightful skipping rhythm of the Exposition’s first main theme. Though the rest of the movement spans a fairly vast amount of melodic and harmonic ground, this new morphed rhythm remains persistent throughout nearly every measure. Uninhibited by Beethoven’s usual struggle between Fate and triumph, this movement and its persistent, carefree rhythm evoke a mood of genuine ebullience. It allows, as well, for the energy to steadily intensify until the ending coda arrives, where, as the basses start welling up like sea surges, the horns proclaim the theme for the last time in a manner so glorious it sets nerves of joy ablaze.

The second movement Allegretto is a work of such otherworldly mastery and beauty, it is impossible not to be swept into its realms. This movement, too, revolves much around a persistent and simple rhythmic motif: a two-bar phrase of a quarter note, followed by two eighth notes and then two quarter notes. But where the first movement’s rhythm acted as an engine, the rhythm here in the Allegretto performs as an emotional transporter. The effect is ingenious. The movement starts with a solitary, solemn chord which is then followed by a rather skeletal melody upon the simple rhythmic motif. From here, an extraordinary set of variations begin: the rhythm gently propelling us through increasingly more beautiful and mysterious layers, absorbing us into haunting contours of sublime beauty. And then, the rhythm calmly brings us back. As the musical layers peel away, the rhythm also begins to falter, until we find ourselves back to the solemn chord with which the movement began.

The third movement scherzo, Presto, begins in a blaze of animation and with a rhythmical pattern taken from the static metamorphosis in the first movement. The energetic intensity of this music is greater than most of Beethoven’s former scherzos, and its contrasting middle section, the Trio, also builds into a more powerful air than its usual relaxed role. Although the Trio’s theme is believed to be based on an old Austrian hymn, it is hardly treated as such. For example, the famous and powerful moment near the middle of the Trio when the horns begin a syncopated, half-step warbling, building up incredible tension, until the exalted phrase of the hymn is joyfully released by the strings, trumpets and timpani. The movement ends with the Presto firmly reestablishing its quick-stepped pace.

The Finale continues the breezy and frenetic nature of the Scherzo but at an astonishingly higher intensity and with extraordinary vitality. The first two short phrases provide much of what, again, will be a persistent rhythm throughout the movement, and then the first theme essentially begins a rollicking and steady descent into joyful lunacy. In a sense, the entire Finale serves as a coda to the entire symphony, finalizing the work’s joyful theme with a nearly uncontrollable elation. The conductor and musicologist Donald Francis Tovey called it a “triumph of bacchic fury,” and it is indeed one of the most wonderfully energetic utterances ever created, steeped in joyous vigor and triumphal gladness.

As enshrined as one of Western music’s greatest masterpieces as Beethoven’s Seventh has become, the circumstances of its first public performance makes for a wonderfully ironic historical footnote. The Seventh was premiered in December 1813, along with Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony and his curious “Wellington’s Victory” (“Battle Symphony”). The concert was held to benefit Austrian and Bavarian soldiers disabled at the Battle of Hanau against Napoleon. The affair was organized by Johannes Maelzel, inventor of the metronome and (among other peculiar devices) the panharmonicon, a humongous mechanical orchestra. Maelzel persuaded Beethoven to compose a symphonic work for his contraption for the concert, which resulted in “Wellington’s Victory” (which commemorated a recent Napoleonic defeat in Vitoria, Spain). Once the contraption inevitably broke, Beethoven hurriedly wrote the parts out for a real orchestra. Even more unique about the work, however, is that it also employed live cannon and musket fire in time with the music (long before Tchaikovsky’s own “1812 Overture”). Even more extraordinary, was that participating in its performance were such luminaries as the composers Hummel, Meyerbeer, Spohr, Moscheles and Salieri. The “Battle Symphony” was hands-down the unabashed hit of the evening, leaving the two other symphonies in the shadows. However, even in 1813, the Seventh’s ethereal Allegretto movement made an impression, as the audience demanded that it be encored.