Chariot of the Clouds is a tribute to the fascinating literary imagery found at the beginning of Psalm 104, particularly verse 3: God “lays the beams of His upper chambers in the waters, who makes the clouds His chariot, who walks on the wings of the wind.”Intrigued by the juxtaposition of the stable elements (beams, chariot, measured walking) and unstable ones (waters, clouds, wings, wind), Kimbley sought to capture that contrast in his inspired work. Grounded rhythms and melodies are set against unsettled gestures and harmonies, at times counteracting and at other times supporting each other.
Nature and literature are Kimbley’s two primary sources of inspiration, with the poetic writings of the Bible holding a special place in his creative imagination. Chariot of the Clouds brings these influences together through vivid combinations—rumbling chariots and majestic fanfares alongside moments of sacred peace and contemplation. Scored for chamber orchestra, the work moves fluidly between grandeur and intimacy, allowing powerful displays and quieter passages to illuminate one another.
Vibrant rhythmic motifs introduce the piece, featuring varying divisions of its 9/8 meter. The energetic opening explodes in a flourish before descending into a peaceful melody, still underpinned by the previously introduced rhythms. This cascade continues into a slower walking section with increasingly erratic harmonies, eventually returning to the spirited, regal theme. The piece concludes with the rhythms compressing and colliding, as listeners imagine the chariot ascending heavenward and disappearing into the distance.
Chariot of the Clouds was commissioned by Friends of Music/Two Rivers Chamber Orchestra, Jed Gaylin, Music Director, thanks to the generous gift of Captain J. Kimo Williams (Retired U.S. Army) and his J. Kimo Williams 2026 Music Commissioning Initiative. The concerts on October 3 and 4, 2026, are the premiere performances of this work.
(Born in West Chester, PA, in 1910; died in New York City, NY, in 1981)
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 14
1. Allegro
2. Andante
3. Presto in moto perpetuo
The American composer Samuel Barber showed a precocious musical talent by age seven. He studied voice and piano seriously at his home in West Chester, Pennsylvania, until at age 14 he was accepted into the newly formed Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. Soon after graduating from Curtis, he won the coveted Prix de Rome for composition. His reputation as one of America’s preeminent composers then steadily grew, and he was celebrated for his exquisitely tuneful works blended with distinctively modernistic twists, winning him Pulitzer Prizes for Music Composition in 1958 and 1963.
In 1936, Barber’s first great success drew worldwide attention when his masterfully beautiful Adagio for Strings was showcased by the famous conductor Arturo Toscanini. In 1939, Barber’s reputation as an up-and-coming composer won him a commission from the wealthy Philadelphia industrialist Samuel Fels to write a violin concerto on behalf of the prodigy Iso Briselli (1912 – 2005), a classmate of Barber’s at the Curtis Institute. Ultimately, following an insurmountable disagreement, Briselli never played the Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, and the work was instead premiered in 1941 by the American violinist Albert Spalding, with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. The performance launched Barber’s concerto firmly and lastingly as one of the best-loved violin concertos in the repertoire.
Barber’s exceptional gifts for melodic beauty are supremely evident in this concerto. From the outset of the first movement, Allegro (fast), the solo violin sets the tone of winsome lyricism for the entire movement. The violin solo begins the concerto virtually alone, over the barest of orchestral accompaniment, singing a rhapsodic theme, soaringly tuneful and happily meandering. This rhapsody then makes way for a jaunty and cheerful new theme about one and a half minutes later, first played in the clarinet. This clarinet theme features a frisky rhythmic device called a “Scotch snap” — a syncopated rhythm with a very short note followed by a longer one — which adds a joyful lightheartedness. These two themes dance through the rest of this movement, alternating in a number of ways between each other, with occasional tempo changes and moody dramatic climaxes. A particularly brilliant musical effect is Barber’s use of the piano in the orchestral fabric, creating crystalline punctuations in the musical lines. The movement draws serenely to a calm and pulsating close, ebbing with quiet dignity.
The second movement, Andante (slowly), begins with a haunted hush, with muted strings and whispering horns setting a backdrop over which a poignant oboe melody rises. This simple oboe theme, singularly beautiful and melancholic, is the kind of theme that only Barber seemed to be able to write, reminiscent of his 1936 Adagio for Strings (and many other gems). After two and a half minutes of this tender, searching music, the solo violin finally enters. The music then turns increasingly restless, melodically twisting from its former gracefulness to apprehensiveness, as if grappling with an inner darkness. This unrest eventually finds its way back to the original oboe theme, now played by the solo violin, arising quietly, as if it had been patiently waiting for the angst to subside. A final treatment of that theme, with remnants of the violin’s earlier passages of turmoil, builds to a grand and magisterial climax with full orchestra. The movement then wanders softly, retreating into an ethereal quietude.
In the concerto’s relatively short final movement, Presto in moto perpetuo (very fast in perpetual motion), lyricism is thrown to the wind. Beginning with the timpani’s quietly racing triplets, the solo violin takes up the breathless pacing at breakneck speed, with triplet patterns in almost every bar until the movement’s conclusion. As the violin’s virtuosic pyrotechnics rush by, almost all the instruments in the orchestra whirligig along with matching brilliance. From the first measure’s mad-dashing-ness to the ending bar, Barber’s finale is a maelstrom of perpetual motion, like a rock tumbling at full speed down the side of a mountain. The concerto culminates with syncopated exclamations in the brass, punctuating their way to this great work’s exhilarating ending.
(Born in Rohrau, Austria, in 1732; died in Vienna, Austria, in 1809)
Symphony No. 104 in D Major, H. 1/104 “London”
1. Adagio — Allegro
2. Andante
3. Menuet — Allegro
4. Finale — Allegro spiritoso
A musical pioneer and genius, the Austrian composer Franz Joseph Haydn paved the way for several classical era genres, most notably the string quartet, the concerto form, and the symphony. Indeed, he is often considered the “father” of symphonies and his last, Symphony No. 104, “London,” is arguably his crowning achievement.
As a musical employee of the very generous Esterhazy family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Haydn’s talents gained him international fame, and the Esterhazys gave him considerable freedom over what and where to compose. With their blessing, Haydn accepted invitations to London, first in 1791–92 and then in 1794–95, from the German music impresario Johann Salomon (1745 – 1815). In London, Haydn enjoyed such flattering enthusiasm from concertgoers, he was inspired to write 12 new symphonies, No. 93 through No. 104, that as a group constitute his London symphonies. Though some of these have nicknames, it is not clear why his final one, No. 104, is the only one known as the “London.” Nonetheless, it quickly became his most beloved of the complete set and has justifiably been an audience favorite for over 200 years — being filled with a grand bouquet of Haydn’s compositional gifts: pathos, bright cheer, humor, and incredible craft.
The opening sequence, Adagio (slowly, gracefully), begins a spellbinding introduction cast in the dark key of D minor (not D Major, as one might expect). The first four notes are loud and ominous, like a call to arms. This slow introduction then continues in the strings, becoming emotionally freighted, like a funeral march, periodically interrupted by those arrestingly loud opening four notes. A moment of profound silence soon saturates the air with gravity, and at this instant, following such a pathos-filled beginning, Haydn proves that he is the master of surprises. The Allegro (fast) that follows features a theme brimming with lyricism, lightness, and optimism — as though we have been dropped into an entirely different symphony. The movement mostly proceeds in this wonderfully pleasant manner, though a slightly more aggressive second theme, starting at about six and a half minutes, lightly recalls the minor mode pathos of the introduction. The two themes eventually come to complement each other, and this magnificent opening movement concludes with light-filled majesty.
The second movement, Andante (moderately slow, at a walking pace), begins in the strings using a small motive taken from the first movement’s dark introduction — a carryover and reweaving technique that Haydn uses for every main theme in this symphony. Here, he transforms some of that introductory material into a new theme that becomes a songlike reverie filled with charm and beauty. Then, into the midst of this reverie, a brief section intervenes in a solemn minor key, begun softly in the winds and led by the flutes. A few measures later, the energy becomes poignant with loud outbursts in the strings, brass, and timpani. Soon, however, the earlier musical reverie returns to conclude the movement, ending with the two French horns creating a glowing goldenness, as this movement comes to its gentle close.
The third movement, fashioned on a popular eighteenth century aristocratic courtly dance called a menuet, serves the purpose of variety, as a kind of confection of musical manners, and to counterbalance the weightiness of the movements that surround it. Here is where Haydn adds delicious humor with the playfulness for which he is famous. The first theme begins outright in the full orchestra, reserved and with a hint of gallantry. This theme repeats twice, and then during its third iteration, the accompanying instruments seem to get stuck in a riff that keeps tumbling over itself — first occurring in the bassoons, and then with the basses getting caught with them — throwing its dancers off-kilter. The next phrase contains some pauses that are mischievously too long for dancing. Add a few raucous timpani rumbles, and one senses Haydn poking a bit of fun at courtly dancing snobbery. As for confection, there are some delightful and prominent oboe, bassoon, and flute passages on full display in the contrasting middle section.
The finale, Allegro spiritoso (fast and spirited), opens with a quiet drone in the basses and horns that resembles the sound of a bagpipe. Over this drone, the first theme is heard immediately in the violins, and it is robust and infectiously cheerful, like a folk dance. Some musicologists consider this opening tune to be of Croatian origin (and if they are correct, Haydn would likely have heard it from immigrants who lived close to his birthplace in Rohrau, Austria); others suggest that this tune hearkens to the plaintive call of London street vendors, which may have helped the symphony get its nickname of the “London.” In any case, as a master of musical molding, Haydn shapes and reshapes this theme into some wonderful musical friskiness throughout the finale. Motives from the earlier movements arise slyly, too, blending brilliantly into the joyful musical fabric, until this finale winds itself up into a romping coda (a brief concluding section) that is surely one of the most exuberant conclusions in any of Haydn’s symphonies.
The Argentine composer Osvaldo Golijov’s Last Round is a chamber work that honors the tango, Argentina’s beloved song and dance form, and serves as an elegy for two of tango’s greatest composers. Golijov is one of the world’s most sought-after new composers. Born and raised in Argentina (now residing in Massachusetts), Golijov grew up under the influence of the “tango of the old guard,” which was lyrical, urbane, and gentlemanly, and which was exemplified by the actor, singer, and composer Carlos Gardel (1890–1935), who especially endeared the world to the beauties of tango with his famous 1930s tango song, Mi Buenos Aires Querido (“My Beloved Buenos Aires”). After Gardel came the Argentine composer Astor Piazzolla (1921–1992), whose tangos in the 1960s challenged the “old guard” tangos with a new approach that he called the Nuevo tango. As Piazzolla explained, “Nuevo tango = tango + tragedy + comedy + whorehouse.” One of Piazzolla’s most famous, early tangos, La muerte del ángel (“Death of the Angel”), with its highly syncopated rhythms and its complex harmonies, epitomized this Nuevo tango philosophy, and his highly popular approach won him national hero status in Argentina and worldwide acclaim.
At the peak of his fame, Piazzolla unexpectedly suffered a major stroke in 1991 (leading to his death the following year), and this tragic loss led Golijov to sketch a musical elegy for this great tango hero. In 1996, this elegiac sketch would become the second movement, Lentissimo, of a larger work, Last Round. Golijov described its development:
I composed Last Round in 1996, prompted by Geoff Nuttall and Barry Shiffman [two of the founding members of the celebrated St. Louis String Quartet, who]… encouraged me to finish [the Lentissimo] and write another movement to complement it. The title is borrowed from a short story on boxing by Julio Cortázar, the metaphor for an imaginary chance for Piazzolla’s spirit to fight one more time (he used to get into fistfights throughout his life).
Part of Last Round’s charm is Golijov’s unique orchestration, which tips its hat to tango’s dance hall orchestra origins — here, two small string ensembles (two string quartets) face each other on stage, moderated and anchored by a double bass in the middle. Golijov also wanted his string ensemble to mimic a bandoneón — a button accordion — which is one of the tango’s integral instruments, and the one that Piazzolla so often wrote for. Last Round’s premiere in 1996 was hugely successful and the work has remained popular.
The first movement, Movido, Urgente (restless and urgent), has as its subtitle “Macho, Cool, and Dangerous” and suggests the tangos from the rough-and-tumble musicians of Buenos Aires’s underbelly. Wheezing and snapping, Golijov’s “string-bandoneón” creates a jangled, and altogether joyful, roughneck dance. Occasional increases in tempo invite machismo from the competitive tango dancers, while the movement’s jaunty, almost chaotic, rhythms echo the same kind of rhythms that Piazzolla adored and exploited in his 300-plus tangos. The movement dances dangerously to its final, exciting bars, and then, at about six and a half minutes, a long, mournfully descending sigh transitions the music into the next movement without a pause.
The second movement, Lentissimo (very slowly), is a threnody for Argentina’s two great tango composers and is hauntingly lamenting. Its subtitle, Muertes del ángel, does not so much quote Piazzolla’s groundbreaking 1960s tango of that name as riff on his title, using the plural “deaths,” in homage to the two departed composers, Gardel and Piazzolla, who have themselves become “ángels.” Golijov begins by imagining what a bandoneón could do if it never had to change between compression and expansion, how it might sing in one gigantic, long pull. At first, melancholic and atmospheric music pervades, but then, little by little, bits of a tune float up from the musical mist. These tune-wisps finally come together, near the middle of the movement, when Golijov at last quotes outright Gardel’s chorus from his Mi Buenos Aires Querido. And then to its end, the movement rhapsodizes, grapples, and pulses on Gardel’s refrain and Golijov’s “endless pull” bandoneón, with beauty and bittersweetness.
Together, these two movements create a spiritual, earthy, sexy, and ecstatic tango which, as Golijov describes, is a
… sublimated tango dance. … The bows fly in the air as inverted legs in crisscrossed choreography, always attracting and repelling each other, always in danger of clashing, always avoiding it with the immutability that can only be acquired by transforming hot passion into pure pattern.
Johann Sebastian Bach
(Born in Eisenach, Germany, on March 31, 1685; died in Leipzig, Germany, on July 28, 1750)
Concerto for Two Violins in D minor, BWV 1043
1. Vivace
2. Largo ma non tanto
3. Allegro
The German composer Johann Sebastian Bach’s exceptionally popular Concerto for Two Violins was most likely composed in 1730 in Leipzig, Germany, for performance by the Collegium Musicum. This extraordinary organization had been founded a few decades earlier in 1702 by Georg Philipp Telemann (1681–1767) for the purpose of training music students and to provide free public concerts. The collegium concerts were held weekly at Gottfried Zimmermann’s large and posh coffeehouse in a wealthy part of Leipzig with the music played by students, teachers, and professional musicians. The sale of coffee to the patrons during these weekly events was always more than enough to allow Zimmermann to present these concerts for free. The music series was lucrative and extremely popular, and for their programs, new works were typically created by the collegium’s director.
In 1723, Bach was hired as Leipzig’s new Tomaskantor, the music director of both Leipzig’s main music school and the city’s four main churches. Six years later, Bach also became the director of Telemann’s Collegium Musicum, which required a variety of new compositions: overtures; sinfonias; concertos for strings, winds, and keyboards; and duo and trio sonatas—many of which Bach and his children performed along with the collegium’s pupils as soloists. Tonight’s Concerto for Two Violins was very likely one of these new collegium works, as were many of Bach’s most beloved secular works, including his Concerto for Violin in A minor, BWV 1041, and one of his most humorous pieces, the cantata-like work called Be Still, Stop Chattering, BWV 211, also known as his secular Coffee Cantata.
As the title indicates, Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins is cast for two soloists, but although each soloist is treated as a virtuoso in the Baroque fashion, they are also treated as a kind of collective soloist — often playing together in harmony, or in unison, or in duet, or in tumbling imitation, as if they were a single, extended instrument. And as listeners have felt for centuries, there is magic to this concerto that makes it one of Bach’s greatest, with its impressive contrapuntal treatment and unique lyrical beauty, and perhaps above all, with its tapestry-like sophistication. It served Bach so well in his own time, too, that he recast the work in 1737 as a Concerto for Two Harpsichords in C minor, BWV 1062.
The first movement of his Concerto for Two Violins, Vivace (lively), begins with the “second” solo violin (this is a notational designation rather than a hierarchy) presenting the main ritornello theme of the movement — the Baroque ritornello was a structural form that featured a musical section that would continually return after alternating with contrasting musical “episodes.” This second solo violin’s opening ritornello theme is delightfully vivacious and carefree, dancing upward and downward and again upward. The “first” solo violin then plays this passage, too, but transposed up five steps in pitch, and soon after, the string bass enters with yet another iteration of it — everything sizing up to sound as though a great fugue is developing. But instead, inventively, Bach directs all this musical movement into constantly morphing counterpoint between the soloists and the orchestra, like a shifting kaleidoscope. What magically stands out from all this happy busy-ness, however, is how the music boils with virtuosic élan. Soon, the first episode begins with a new theme in which the two soloists dance acrobatically around each other in a duet of agile grace. The ritornello and episodes alternate quickly throughout this movement, and when the ritornello returns for the third and final time, the movement comes to a surprisingly gentle close.
The second movement, Largo ma non tanto (slowly but not too much so), is considered one of Bach’s most beautiful movements — one musicologist called it “the greatest eight minutes in music” — and it deserves its popularity. Beginning with the second solo violin, a lovely descending theme unfurls slowly as the main theme, which is soon joined by the first solo violin. From here, the two soloists play an extended love duet — tender and touchingly vulnerable — above an understated accompaniment from the orchestra. This Largo is also built as a ritornello, but in an unusual treatment of this form, the two soloists dominate the entire movement, with the alternate episodic sections evoking a kind of domestic contentedness as the two violinists dance closely, even finishing each other’s phrases, then returning to the home (ritornello) theme.
The final movement, Allegro (fast), begins with a bright and joyous sparkling of counterpoint from the entire ensemble while the string bass provides a brisk and steadfast “walking bass” beneath it all. This Allegro is also a ritornello, with its main section surprisingly brief. Throughout the movement, Bach employs lots of imitative counterpoint between the soloists (and all the orchestral instruments, too), overlapping it in such a way that even before a musical phrase from one soloist ends, the next soloist imitates it. As such, this movement is near hypnotizing in its constant melody making. Particularly fun to hear, at about one and a half minutes, is the alternating episode in which Bach gives the two soloists a long sequence of four-note chords to play as the rest of the orchestra somersaults in counterpoint beneath them. This movement demands more virtuosity from the two soloists, too, but Bach also infuses a few longer, lyrical lines for the soloists at the least expected times — in the midst of such cavorting counterpoint, these expressive moments truly soar. The movement thrums and captivates until its final bars, ending without fanfare, yet still resonating with dazzling energy.
Antonin Dvořák
(Born in Nelahozeves, Bohemia (now Czech Republic), on September 8, 1841; died in Prague on May 1, 1904)
Serenade for Strings in E major, Op. 22
1. Moderato
2. Minuet – Allegro con moto
3. Scherzo – Vivace
4. Larghetto
5. Finale – Allegro vivace
Early in his career, the Czech composer Antonin Dvořák struggled to be recognized as a composer outside of Prague, but then in 1875, he received a much-needed boost. He entered a composition competition held in Vienna that was founded to help young artists receive pay, commissions, and attention. On the panel of that Vienna competition’s three famous judges was Johannes Brahms, and each of them recognized Dvořák’s exceptional talents, granting him the top prize, and Brahms himself becoming one of Dvořák’s most important supporters from then on. To top off his musical success, Dvořák had just recently married and welcomed his first son into the world. His life in 1875, after years of professional hardship, was finally looking up and inspiring him into a period of extraordinary music writing.
With acclaim and financial breathing room provided by the competition award, Dvořák seemed to pour that good fortune into one of his next compositions, his 1875 Serenade for Strings, Op. 22. Written in only 12 days, the Serenade is a set of five short instrumental movements for string orchestra beaming with melodious beauty and good cheer, written as though it were created from the pure joy of composing. Hugely popular at its 1876 premiere in Prague, the Serenade further expanded Dvořák’s reputation and has remained one of his most beloved works. The success that Dvořák realized with this work’s neoclassical “serenade” form (a form well associated with Mozart’s famous serenades, like his Eine Kleine Nachtmusik) influenced his choice to use this serenade form again for one of the commissions that came from his Viennese competition celebrity, his hugely popular Serenade for Winds of 1879, a work that helped propel Dvořák to international fame.
The first movement of his Serenade for Strings, marked Moderato (moderately paced), begins with a bucolic gentleness that permeates the entire five movements and showcases Dvořák’s great gift for melody. The opening theme is a very singable tune, first sung in the violins, then answered by the cellos, and underpinned by steady, pulsating violas. Although this is a strings-only ensemble, we hear what sounds like a large, rich orchestra of strings, an effect achieved by dividing each of the string sections into multiple parts (a technique called divisi), thereby expanding their harmonies, registers, and harmonics. Dvořák initially keeps the ensemble in the lower registers which creates a soft, autumnal sumptuousness, but soon the softness and registers begin to soar in intensity and into higher, happier realms, ending the movement with a delicate, feathery touch.
The graceful second movement waltz, Minuet – Allegro con moto (fast with motion), begins in a minor key with a sweeping, twirling, yet somewhat melancholy, theme. The phrase lengths vary as the theme branches out, leaving a slight sense of imbalance, creating one of Dvořák’s most beautiful musical moments. The middle section, Trio, is equally gorgeous yet ambiguous, dancing with a lazy kind of skipping rhythm that is inflected with wistful nostalgia and accented with moments of drama. The opening music returns to finish this lovely and evocative movement.
The next movement, Scherzo – Vivace (lively), is exciting and quicksilvered. The opening theme’s imitation is canon-like between the cellos and the upper violins and creates a feeling of unbridled joy before pausing for a gentle contrasting section — a love song with several delicate refrains. The Scherzo’s concluding section is a brief and magical meld of these two musical ideas.
The fourth movement, Larghetto (rather slowly), is the Serenade’s weightiest movement, although it retains the whole work’s overarching pastoral mood. Like Mozart’s late-career slow movements, Dvořák’s Larghetto captures an ineffable heartache wrapped in otherworldly radiance. The main theme is made of a step down followed by a large descent — like a sigh and a falling tear — which then sequences through several iterations. This is a thematic technique that Dvořák would use more often in his works to come, but here, one gets the sense that this step-sigh theme reflects deep bliss rather than sorrow. A brief middle section contrasts this mood with uncertainty, but it is fleeting, as the movement returns to its main theme to close in quiet tranquility.
The Finale movement, Allegro vivace (fast and spirited), begins with a quick-paced call-and-response theme between the upper and lower strings. The theme skips in and out of minor and major modes, filling it with a sense of excitement and urgency, driven along by a motoric pulsing from the rest of the ensemble. As the music courses along, the falling-tear theme from the fourth movement unexpectedly arises (at about two minutes, in the cellos), followed then by the bucolic main theme of the first movement (at about two and a half minutes later, in the second violins), giving this bustling finale a sense of smiling reflection. But then, the final bars bolt toward the Serenade’s bright, bold, and brilliant ending.
By the American War of Independence (1775–1783), the regimental band had become a staple of European martial life.
Distinctly different than fifers and drummers who held military responsibilities, musicians who performed in bands were professionally trained instrumentalists whose first job was to entertain. Bands typically consisted of two to four clarinets or oboes, two French horns, and one or two bassoons. These musicians were also expected to double on string instruments. Their repertoire spanned marches and troops, country dances and minuets, and wind divertimenti and theatrical arrangements.
Despite the dramatic hurdles that stood between the Continental Army and American independence, certain American officers made extraordinary efforts to form bands of their own. Ultimately, four American colonels raised and sustained bands during the war. Today’s program follows the story of Colonel Christian Febiger (1749–1796) and the band of the 2nd VA Regiment.
Febiger was born in the Danish port town of Fåborg in 1749. While we don’t know much about his early childhood, we do know he was raised in a household that valued music and organization. Both his father and eldest brother were church organists and clerks, and, following his formal schooling, Febiger travelled to the Danis
Febiger immigrated to New England in 1772, and three years later took up arms for the American cause when war broke out in April 1775. He fought at Bunker Hill and then, under the command of Benedict Arnold, participated in the disastrous raid on Quebec City. He was held captive for a year, and—following his release—donned his uniform again, distinguishing himself at the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth.
On July 16, 1779, “Old Denmark” led soldiers into battle for the last time, conducting a midnight raid on the British fortification at Stony Point, NY. The battle was an overwhelming American victory and about 550 British soldiers were captured. Among the British POWs were musicians from the band of the 17th Regiment of Foot. Not only were these poor musicians taken prisoner, but their instruments were also confiscated and sold.
An addendum to the manifest of materials captured reads:
“In addition to the ordnance and military stores I am desired to appraise 2 French Horns, 2 Bassoons, 2 Clarinets… the Light Infantry have been offered one thousand dollars for them by some individuals…”
We unfortunately do not know who bought these instruments, but, in December of the same year, Febiger began raising his own band. Though completely conjecture, it is not unreasonable to imagine that being in proximity to this sale—if not a part of it—sowed a seed.
Following the engagement at Stony Point, Febiger transitioned into a more administrative role. He wasn’t officially relieved of his field command,—he had been Colonel of the 2nd Virginia Regiment for two years already—but his new duties removed him from the camp and planted him in Philadelphia. There he got to work organizing everything from recruitment to the transportation of military stores. It was during these months that he also:
“…reenlisted 7 or eight Young Fellows Natives of our State [Virginia], bought instruments and provided two Masters to teach them and they have made such progress, that without Vanity I can say that they are equal to any Band in this Country…”
These men were all serving officially as fifers in the 2nd VA Regiment. Thomas Sheldon—the regiment’s Fife Major and senior musician—was designated their leader. It is unlikely, however, that any of them actually had formal music training before December 1779. They studied with “Mr Schuetz, a German musician,” and by March the ensemble was fully double handed: four clarinets who could also play violin, two French horns, and two bassoons doubling on “bass viol.”
Febiger left Philadelphia with his band in the Spring of 1780. Over the next year, Febiger’s band “had more Influence on the minds and Motions of [Virginia’s] Militia than would the Oratory of a Cicero,” and their performing was apparently as inspiring “as a well spoken recruiting Sergeant.” Regrettably, more information concerning their specific repertoire has yet to be revealed, but today’s program serves as an homage to their sound world, with a particular nod to the British bands Febiger would have been exposed to earlier in the war and the French bands that marched through Virginia in 1781.
Those French bands—of which there were at least three—accompanied an expeditionary force led by the Comte de Rochambeau. Together, Washington and Rochambeau orchestrated the siege at Yorktown, Virginia in October 1781 that marked the official beginning of the end of the British war effort. As the surrendering British marched out of the bombarded seaside town, a Hessian soldier recalled, “the Americans were on our left… They had bandsmen making beautiful music and who presented a decent appearance.”
The question of who this band belonged to has been left open and widely ignored, but evidence from pension records along with good-old-fashioned process of elimination—three out of four of the American bands were still stationed in the north—strongly suggests that these were the musicians of Febiger’s ensemble. It would be their highest honor, and yet so many of its details are still shrouded in mystery.
The reality was that—despite that victory—the war was not yet over. The trials and tribulations of that reality remained very present in the lives of common soldiers. As tensions—and hunger—in the ranks grew, the band helped deescalate at least one mutiny in 1782. As the war wound down the next year, the band dissolved one by one as its members were discharged. This seems to be the end of these musicians’ musical careers. Most of the bandsmen were issued land warrants and disappeared into history. After the war, Febiger went back to Philadelphia and enjoyed a successful postwar career in business and government until his death in 1796.
https://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/07/FOM_2025-26-Season-Concert-Graphics4.jpg13501080Jen Rolstonhttps://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpgJen Rolston2026-04-16 12:36:262026-04-16 12:36:47Music of the Regiment – April 18 & 19, 2026
Treasures, Classic & Contemporary – Oct 3 & 4, 2026
Program NotesMatthew Kimbley
(Born in Asheville, NC, in 2003)
Chariot of the Clouds
Chariot of the Clouds is a tribute to the fascinating literary imagery found at the beginning of Psalm 104, particularly verse 3: God “lays the beams of His upper chambers in the waters, who makes the clouds His chariot, who walks on the wings of the wind.” Intrigued by the juxtaposition of the stable elements (beams, chariot, measured walking) and unstable ones (waters, clouds, wings, wind), Kimbley sought to capture that contrast in his inspired work. Grounded rhythms and melodies are set against unsettled gestures and harmonies, at times counteracting and at other times supporting each other.
Nature and literature are Kimbley’s two primary sources of inspiration, with the poetic writings of the Bible holding a special place in his creative imagination. Chariot of the Clouds brings these influences together through vivid combinations—rumbling chariots and majestic fanfares alongside moments of sacred peace and contemplation. Scored for chamber orchestra, the work moves fluidly between grandeur and intimacy, allowing powerful displays and quieter passages to illuminate one another.
Vibrant rhythmic motifs introduce the piece, featuring varying divisions of its 9/8 meter. The energetic opening explodes in a flourish before descending into a peaceful melody, still underpinned by the previously introduced rhythms. This cascade continues into a slower walking section with increasingly erratic harmonies, eventually returning to the spirited, regal theme. The piece concludes with the rhythms compressing and colliding, as listeners imagine the chariot ascending heavenward and disappearing into the distance.
Chariot of the Clouds was commissioned by Friends of Music/Two Rivers Chamber Orchestra, Jed Gaylin, Music Director, thanks to the generous gift of Captain J. Kimo Williams (Retired U.S. Army) and his J. Kimo Williams 2026 Music Commissioning Initiative. The concerts on October 3 and 4, 2026, are the premiere performances of this work.
© Matthew Kimbley
Samuel Barber
(Born in West Chester, PA, in 1910; died in New York City, NY, in 1981)
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 14
1. Allegro
2. Andante
3. Presto in moto perpetuo
The American composer Samuel Barber showed a precocious musical talent by age seven. He studied voice and piano seriously at his home in West Chester, Pennsylvania, until at age 14 he was accepted into the newly formed Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. Soon after graduating from Curtis, he won the coveted Prix de Rome for composition. His reputation as one of America’s preeminent composers then steadily grew, and he was celebrated for his exquisitely tuneful works blended with distinctively modernistic twists, winning him Pulitzer Prizes for Music Composition in 1958 and 1963.
In 1936, Barber’s first great success drew worldwide attention when his masterfully beautiful Adagio for Strings was showcased by the famous conductor Arturo Toscanini. In 1939, Barber’s reputation as an up-and-coming composer won him a commission from the wealthy Philadelphia industrialist Samuel Fels to write a violin concerto on behalf of the prodigy Iso Briselli (1912 – 2005), a classmate of Barber’s at the Curtis Institute. Ultimately, following an insurmountable disagreement, Briselli never played the Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, and the work was instead premiered in 1941 by the American violinist Albert Spalding, with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. The performance launched Barber’s concerto firmly and lastingly as one of the best-loved violin concertos in the repertoire.
Barber’s exceptional gifts for melodic beauty are supremely evident in this concerto. From the outset of the first movement, Allegro (fast), the solo violin sets the tone of winsome lyricism for the entire movement. The violin solo begins the concerto virtually alone, over the barest of orchestral accompaniment, singing a rhapsodic theme, soaringly tuneful and happily meandering. This rhapsody then makes way for a jaunty and cheerful new theme about one and a half minutes later, first played in the clarinet. This clarinet theme features a frisky rhythmic device called a “Scotch snap” — a syncopated rhythm with a very short note followed by a longer one — which adds a joyful lightheartedness. These two themes dance through the rest of this movement, alternating in a number of ways between each other, with occasional tempo changes and moody dramatic climaxes. A particularly brilliant musical effect is Barber’s use of the piano in the orchestral fabric, creating crystalline punctuations in the musical lines. The movement draws serenely to a calm and pulsating close, ebbing with quiet dignity.
The second movement, Andante (slowly), begins with a haunted hush, with muted strings and whispering horns setting a backdrop over which a poignant oboe melody rises. This simple oboe theme, singularly beautiful and melancholic, is the kind of theme that only Barber seemed to be able to write, reminiscent of his 1936 Adagio for Strings (and many other gems). After two and a half minutes of this tender, searching music, the solo violin finally enters. The music then turns increasingly restless, melodically twisting from its former gracefulness to apprehensiveness, as if grappling with an inner darkness. This unrest eventually finds its way back to the original oboe theme, now played by the solo violin, arising quietly, as if it had been patiently waiting for the angst to subside. A final treatment of that theme, with remnants of the violin’s earlier passages of turmoil, builds to a grand and magisterial climax with full orchestra. The movement then wanders softly, retreating into an ethereal quietude.
In the concerto’s relatively short final movement, Presto in moto perpetuo (very fast in perpetual motion), lyricism is thrown to the wind. Beginning with the timpani’s quietly racing triplets, the solo violin takes up the breathless pacing at breakneck speed, with triplet patterns in almost every bar until the movement’s conclusion. As the violin’s virtuosic pyrotechnics rush by, almost all the instruments in the orchestra whirligig along with matching brilliance. From the first measure’s mad-dashing-ness to the ending bar, Barber’s finale is a maelstrom of perpetual motion, like a rock tumbling at full speed down the side of a mountain. The concerto culminates with syncopated exclamations in the brass, punctuating their way to this great work’s exhilarating ending.
© Max Derrickson
Franz JosePH Haydn
(Born in Rohrau, Austria, in 1732; died in Vienna, Austria, in 1809)
Symphony No. 104 in D Major, H. 1/104 “London”
1. Adagio — Allegro
2. Andante
3. Menuet — Allegro
4. Finale — Allegro spiritoso
A musical pioneer and genius, the Austrian composer Franz Joseph Haydn paved the way for several classical era genres, most notably the string quartet, the concerto form, and the symphony. Indeed, he is often considered the “father” of symphonies and his last, Symphony No. 104, “London,” is arguably his crowning achievement.
As a musical employee of the very generous Esterhazy family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Haydn’s talents gained him international fame, and the Esterhazys gave him considerable freedom over what and where to compose. With their blessing, Haydn accepted invitations to London, first in 1791–92 and then in 1794–95, from the German music impresario Johann Salomon (1745 – 1815). In London, Haydn enjoyed such flattering enthusiasm from concertgoers, he was inspired to write 12 new symphonies, No. 93 through No. 104, that as a group constitute his London symphonies. Though some of these have nicknames, it is not clear why his final one, No. 104, is the only one known as the “London.” Nonetheless, it quickly became his most beloved of the complete set and has justifiably been an audience favorite for over 200 years — being filled with a grand bouquet of Haydn’s compositional gifts: pathos, bright cheer, humor, and incredible craft.
The opening sequence, Adagio (slowly, gracefully), begins a spellbinding introduction cast in the dark key of D minor (not D Major, as one might expect). The first four notes are loud and ominous, like a call to arms. This slow introduction then continues in the strings, becoming emotionally freighted, like a funeral march, periodically interrupted by those arrestingly loud opening four notes. A moment of profound silence soon saturates the air with gravity, and at this instant, following such a pathos-filled beginning, Haydn proves that he is the master of surprises. The Allegro (fast) that follows features a theme brimming with lyricism, lightness, and optimism — as though we have been dropped into an entirely different symphony. The movement mostly proceeds in this wonderfully pleasant manner, though a slightly more aggressive second theme, starting at about six and a half minutes, lightly recalls the minor mode pathos of the introduction. The two themes eventually come to complement each other, and this magnificent opening movement concludes with light-filled majesty.
The second movement, Andante (moderately slow, at a walking pace), begins in the strings using a small motive taken from the first movement’s dark introduction — a carryover and reweaving technique that Haydn uses for every main theme in this symphony. Here, he transforms some of that introductory material into a new theme that becomes a songlike reverie filled with charm and beauty. Then, into the midst of this reverie, a brief section intervenes in a solemn minor key, begun softly in the winds and led by the flutes. A few measures later, the energy becomes poignant with loud outbursts in the strings, brass, and timpani. Soon, however, the earlier musical reverie returns to conclude the movement, ending with the two French horns creating a glowing goldenness, as this movement comes to its gentle close.
The third movement, fashioned on a popular eighteenth century aristocratic courtly dance called a menuet, serves the purpose of variety, as a kind of confection of musical manners, and to counterbalance the weightiness of the movements that surround it. Here is where Haydn adds delicious humor with the playfulness for which he is famous. The first theme begins outright in the full orchestra, reserved and with a hint of gallantry. This theme repeats twice, and then during its third iteration, the accompanying instruments seem to get stuck in a riff that keeps tumbling over itself — first occurring in the bassoons, and then with the basses getting caught with them — throwing its dancers off-kilter. The next phrase contains some pauses that are mischievously too long for dancing. Add a few raucous timpani rumbles, and one senses Haydn poking a bit of fun at courtly dancing snobbery. As for confection, there are some delightful and prominent oboe, bassoon, and flute passages on full display in the contrasting middle section.
The finale, Allegro spiritoso (fast and spirited), opens with a quiet drone in the basses and horns that resembles the sound of a bagpipe. Over this drone, the first theme is heard immediately in the violins, and it is robust and infectiously cheerful, like a folk dance. Some musicologists consider this opening tune to be of Croatian origin (and if they are correct, Haydn would likely have heard it from immigrants who lived close to his birthplace in Rohrau, Austria); others suggest that this tune hearkens to the plaintive call of London street vendors, which may have helped the symphony get its nickname of the “London.” In any case, as a master of musical molding, Haydn shapes and reshapes this theme into some wonderful musical friskiness throughout the finale. Motives from the earlier movements arise slyly, too, blending brilliantly into the joyful musical fabric, until this finale winds itself up into a romping coda (a brief concluding section) that is surely one of the most exuberant conclusions in any of Haydn’s symphonies.
© Max Derrickson
Thank you to Wind Gap Music for sponsoring our program notes!
Doubles, Anyone? – May 30 & 31, 2026
Program NotesOsvaldo Golijov
(Born in La Plata, Argentina on December 5, 1960)
Last Round
1. Movido, Urgente – “Macho, Cool, and Dangerous”
2. Lentissimo – “Deaths of the Angel”
The Argentine composer Osvaldo Golijov’s Last Round is a chamber work that honors the tango, Argentina’s beloved song and dance form, and serves as an elegy for two of tango’s greatest composers. Golijov is one of the world’s most sought-after new composers. Born and raised in Argentina (now residing in Massachusetts), Golijov grew up under the influence of the “tango of the old guard,” which was lyrical, urbane, and gentlemanly, and which was exemplified by the actor, singer, and composer Carlos Gardel (1890–1935), who especially endeared the world to the beauties of tango with his famous 1930s tango song, Mi Buenos Aires Querido (“My Beloved Buenos Aires”). After Gardel came the Argentine composer Astor Piazzolla (1921–1992), whose tangos in the 1960s challenged the “old guard” tangos with a new approach that he called the Nuevo tango. As Piazzolla explained, “Nuevo tango = tango + tragedy + comedy + whorehouse.” One of Piazzolla’s most famous, early tangos, La muerte del ángel (“Death of the Angel”), with its highly syncopated rhythms and its complex harmonies, epitomized this Nuevo tango philosophy, and his highly popular approach won him national hero status in Argentina and worldwide acclaim.
At the peak of his fame, Piazzolla unexpectedly suffered a major stroke in 1991 (leading to his death the following year), and this tragic loss led Golijov to sketch a musical elegy for this great tango hero. In 1996, this elegiac sketch would become the second movement, Lentissimo, of a larger work, Last Round. Golijov described its development:
I composed Last Round in 1996, prompted by Geoff Nuttall and Barry Shiffman [two of the founding members of the celebrated St. Louis String Quartet, who]… encouraged me to finish [the Lentissimo] and write another movement to complement it. The title is borrowed from a short story on boxing by Julio Cortázar, the metaphor for an imaginary chance for Piazzolla’s spirit to fight one more time (he used to get into fistfights throughout his life).
Part of Last Round’s charm is Golijov’s unique orchestration, which tips its hat to tango’s dance hall orchestra origins — here, two small string ensembles (two string quartets) face each other on stage, moderated and anchored by a double bass in the middle. Golijov also wanted his string ensemble to mimic a bandoneón — a button accordion — which is one of the tango’s integral instruments, and the one that Piazzolla so often wrote for. Last Round’s premiere in 1996 was hugely successful and the work has remained popular.
The first movement, Movido, Urgente (restless and urgent), has as its subtitle “Macho, Cool, and Dangerous” and suggests the tangos from the rough-and-tumble musicians of Buenos Aires’s underbelly. Wheezing and snapping, Golijov’s “string-bandoneón” creates a jangled, and altogether joyful, roughneck dance. Occasional increases in tempo invite machismo from the competitive tango dancers, while the movement’s jaunty, almost chaotic, rhythms echo the same kind of rhythms that Piazzolla adored and exploited in his 300-plus tangos. The movement dances dangerously to its final, exciting bars, and then, at about six and a half minutes, a long, mournfully descending sigh transitions the music into the next movement without a pause.
The second movement, Lentissimo (very slowly), is a threnody for Argentina’s two great tango composers and is hauntingly lamenting. Its subtitle, Muertes del ángel, does not so much quote Piazzolla’s groundbreaking 1960s tango of that name as riff on his title, using the plural “deaths,” in homage to the two departed composers, Gardel and Piazzolla, who have themselves become “ángels.” Golijov begins by imagining what a bandoneón could do if it never had to change between compression and expansion, how it might sing in one gigantic, long pull. At first, melancholic and atmospheric music pervades, but then, little by little, bits of a tune float up from the musical mist. These tune-wisps finally come together, near the middle of the movement, when Golijov at last quotes outright Gardel’s chorus from his Mi Buenos Aires Querido. And then to its end, the movement rhapsodizes, grapples, and pulses on Gardel’s refrain and Golijov’s “endless pull” bandoneón, with beauty and bittersweetness.
Together, these two movements create a spiritual, earthy, sexy, and ecstatic tango which, as Golijov describes, is a
… sublimated tango dance. … The bows fly in the air as inverted legs in crisscrossed choreography, always attracting and repelling each other, always in danger of clashing, always avoiding it with the immutability that can only be acquired by transforming hot passion into pure pattern.
Johann Sebastian Bach
(Born in Eisenach, Germany, on March 31, 1685; died in Leipzig, Germany, on July 28, 1750)
Concerto for Two Violins in D minor, BWV 1043
1. Vivace
2. Largo ma non tanto
3. Allegro
The German composer Johann Sebastian Bach’s exceptionally popular Concerto for Two Violins was most likely composed in 1730 in Leipzig, Germany, for performance by the Collegium Musicum. This extraordinary organization had been founded a few decades earlier in 1702 by Georg Philipp Telemann (1681–1767) for the purpose of training music students and to provide free public concerts. The collegium concerts were held weekly at Gottfried Zimmermann’s large and posh coffeehouse in a wealthy part of Leipzig with the music played by students, teachers, and professional musicians. The sale of coffee to the patrons during these weekly events was always more than enough to allow Zimmermann to present these concerts for free. The music series was lucrative and extremely popular, and for their programs, new works were typically created by the collegium’s director.
In 1723, Bach was hired as Leipzig’s new Tomaskantor, the music director of both Leipzig’s main music school and the city’s four main churches. Six years later, Bach also became the director of Telemann’s Collegium Musicum, which required a variety of new compositions: overtures; sinfonias; concertos for strings, winds, and keyboards; and duo and trio sonatas—many of which Bach and his children performed along with the collegium’s pupils as soloists. Tonight’s Concerto for Two Violins was very likely one of these new collegium works, as were many of Bach’s most beloved secular works, including his Concerto for Violin in A minor, BWV 1041, and one of his most humorous pieces, the cantata-like work called Be Still, Stop Chattering, BWV 211, also known as his secular Coffee Cantata.
As the title indicates, Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins is cast for two soloists, but although each soloist is treated as a virtuoso in the Baroque fashion, they are also treated as a kind of collective soloist — often playing together in harmony, or in unison, or in duet, or in tumbling imitation, as if they were a single, extended instrument. And as listeners have felt for centuries, there is magic to this concerto that makes it one of Bach’s greatest, with its impressive contrapuntal treatment and unique lyrical beauty, and perhaps above all, with its tapestry-like sophistication. It served Bach so well in his own time, too, that he recast the work in 1737 as a Concerto for Two Harpsichords in C minor, BWV 1062.
The first movement of his Concerto for Two Violins, Vivace (lively), begins with the “second” solo violin (this is a notational designation rather than a hierarchy) presenting the main ritornello theme of the movement — the Baroque ritornello was a structural form that featured a musical section that would continually return after alternating with contrasting musical “episodes.” This second solo violin’s opening ritornello theme is delightfully vivacious and carefree, dancing upward and downward and again upward. The “first” solo violin then plays this passage, too, but transposed up five steps in pitch, and soon after, the string bass enters with yet another iteration of it — everything sizing up to sound as though a great fugue is developing. But instead, inventively, Bach directs all this musical movement into constantly morphing counterpoint between the soloists and the orchestra, like a shifting kaleidoscope. What magically stands out from all this happy busy-ness, however, is how the music boils with virtuosic élan. Soon, the first episode begins with a new theme in which the two soloists dance acrobatically around each other in a duet of agile grace. The ritornello and episodes alternate quickly throughout this movement, and when the ritornello returns for the third and final time, the movement comes to a surprisingly gentle close.
The second movement, Largo ma non tanto (slowly but not too much so), is considered one of Bach’s most beautiful movements — one musicologist called it “the greatest eight minutes in music” — and it deserves its popularity. Beginning with the second solo violin, a lovely descending theme unfurls slowly as the main theme, which is soon joined by the first solo violin. From here, the two soloists play an extended love duet — tender and touchingly vulnerable — above an understated accompaniment from the orchestra. This Largo is also built as a ritornello, but in an unusual treatment of this form, the two soloists dominate the entire movement, with the alternate episodic sections evoking a kind of domestic contentedness as the two violinists dance closely, even finishing each other’s phrases, then returning to the home (ritornello) theme.
The final movement, Allegro (fast), begins with a bright and joyous sparkling of counterpoint from the entire ensemble while the string bass provides a brisk and steadfast “walking bass” beneath it all. This Allegro is also a ritornello, with its main section surprisingly brief. Throughout the movement, Bach employs lots of imitative counterpoint between the soloists (and all the orchestral instruments, too), overlapping it in such a way that even before a musical phrase from one soloist ends, the next soloist imitates it. As such, this movement is near hypnotizing in its constant melody making. Particularly fun to hear, at about one and a half minutes, is the alternating episode in which Bach gives the two soloists a long sequence of four-note chords to play as the rest of the orchestra somersaults in counterpoint beneath them. This movement demands more virtuosity from the two soloists, too, but Bach also infuses a few longer, lyrical lines for the soloists at the least expected times — in the midst of such cavorting counterpoint, these expressive moments truly soar. The movement thrums and captivates until its final bars, ending without fanfare, yet still resonating with dazzling energy.
Antonin Dvořák
(Born in Nelahozeves, Bohemia (now Czech Republic), on September 8, 1841; died in Prague on May 1, 1904)
Serenade for Strings in E major, Op. 22
1. Moderato
2. Minuet – Allegro con moto
3. Scherzo – Vivace
4. Larghetto
5. Finale – Allegro vivace
Early in his career, the Czech composer Antonin Dvořák struggled to be recognized as a composer outside of Prague, but then in 1875, he received a much-needed boost. He entered a composition competition held in Vienna that was founded to help young artists receive pay, commissions, and attention. On the panel of that Vienna competition’s three famous judges was Johannes Brahms, and each of them recognized Dvořák’s exceptional talents, granting him the top prize, and Brahms himself becoming one of Dvořák’s most important supporters from then on. To top off his musical success, Dvořák had just recently married and welcomed his first son into the world. His life in 1875, after years of professional hardship, was finally looking up and inspiring him into a period of extraordinary music writing.
With acclaim and financial breathing room provided by the competition award, Dvořák seemed to pour that good fortune into one of his next compositions, his 1875 Serenade for Strings, Op. 22. Written in only 12 days, the Serenade is a set of five short instrumental movements for string orchestra beaming with melodious beauty and good cheer, written as though it were created from the pure joy of composing. Hugely popular at its 1876 premiere in Prague, the Serenade further expanded Dvořák’s reputation and has remained one of his most beloved works. The success that Dvořák realized with this work’s neoclassical “serenade” form (a form well associated with Mozart’s famous serenades, like his Eine Kleine Nachtmusik) influenced his choice to use this serenade form again for one of the commissions that came from his Viennese competition celebrity, his hugely popular Serenade for Winds of 1879, a work that helped propel Dvořák to international fame.
The first movement of his Serenade for Strings, marked Moderato (moderately paced), begins with a bucolic gentleness that permeates the entire five movements and showcases Dvořák’s great gift for melody. The opening theme is a very singable tune, first sung in the violins, then answered by the cellos, and underpinned by steady, pulsating violas. Although this is a strings-only ensemble, we hear what sounds like a large, rich orchestra of strings, an effect achieved by dividing each of the string sections into multiple parts (a technique called divisi), thereby expanding their harmonies, registers, and harmonics. Dvořák initially keeps the ensemble in the lower registers which creates a soft, autumnal sumptuousness, but soon the softness and registers begin to soar in intensity and into higher, happier realms, ending the movement with a delicate, feathery touch.
The graceful second movement waltz, Minuet – Allegro con moto (fast with motion), begins in a minor key with a sweeping, twirling, yet somewhat melancholy, theme. The phrase lengths vary as the theme branches out, leaving a slight sense of imbalance, creating one of Dvořák’s most beautiful musical moments. The middle section, Trio, is equally gorgeous yet ambiguous, dancing with a lazy kind of skipping rhythm that is inflected with wistful nostalgia and accented with moments of drama. The opening music returns to finish this lovely and evocative movement.
The next movement, Scherzo – Vivace (lively), is exciting and quicksilvered. The opening theme’s imitation is canon-like between the cellos and the upper violins and creates a feeling of unbridled joy before pausing for a gentle contrasting section — a love song with several delicate refrains. The Scherzo’s concluding section is a brief and magical meld of these two musical ideas.
The fourth movement, Larghetto (rather slowly), is the Serenade’s weightiest movement, although it retains the whole work’s overarching pastoral mood. Like Mozart’s late-career slow movements, Dvořák’s Larghetto captures an ineffable heartache wrapped in otherworldly radiance. The main theme is made of a step down followed by a large descent — like a sigh and a falling tear — which then sequences through several iterations. This is a thematic technique that Dvořák would use more often in his works to come, but here, one gets the sense that this step-sigh theme reflects deep bliss rather than sorrow. A brief middle section contrasts this mood with uncertainty, but it is fleeting, as the movement returns to its main theme to close in quiet tranquility.
The Finale movement, Allegro vivace (fast and spirited), begins with a quick-paced call-and-response theme between the upper and lower strings. The theme skips in and out of minor and major modes, filling it with a sense of excitement and urgency, driven along by a motoric pulsing from the rest of the ensemble. As the music courses along, the falling-tear theme from the fourth movement unexpectedly arises (at about two minutes, in the cellos), followed then by the bucolic main theme of the first movement (at about two and a half minutes later, in the second violins), giving this bustling finale a sense of smiling reflection. But then, the final bars bolt toward the Serenade’s bright, bold, and brilliant ending.
© Max Derrickson
Music of the Regiment – April 18 & 19, 2026
Program NotesBy the American War of Independence (1775–1783), the regimental band had become a staple of European martial life.
Distinctly different than fifers and drummers who held military responsibilities, musicians who performed in bands were professionally trained instrumentalists whose first job was to entertain. Bands typically consisted of two to four clarinets or oboes, two French horns, and one or two bassoons. These musicians were also expected to double on string instruments. Their repertoire spanned marches and troops, country dances and minuets, and wind divertimenti and theatrical arrangements.
Despite the dramatic hurdles that stood between the Continental Army and American independence, certain American officers made extraordinary efforts to form bands of their own. Ultimately, four American colonels raised and sustained bands during the war. Today’s program follows the story of Colonel Christian Febiger (1749–1796) and the band of the 2nd VA Regiment.
Febiger was born in the Danish port town of Fåborg in 1749. While we don’t know much about his early childhood, we do know he was raised in a household that valued music and organization. Both his father and eldest brother were church organists and clerks, and, following his formal schooling, Febiger travelled to the Danis
Febiger immigrated to New England in 1772, and three years later took up arms for the American cause when war broke out in April 1775. He fought at Bunker Hill and then, under the command of Benedict Arnold, participated in the disastrous raid on Quebec City. He was held captive for a year, and—following his release—donned his uniform again, distinguishing himself at the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth.
On July 16, 1779, “Old Denmark” led soldiers into battle for the last time, conducting a midnight raid on the British fortification at Stony Point, NY. The battle was an overwhelming American victory and about 550 British soldiers were captured. Among the British POWs were musicians from the band of the 17th Regiment of Foot. Not only were these poor musicians taken prisoner, but their instruments were also confiscated and sold.
An addendum to the manifest of materials captured reads:
“In addition to the ordnance and military stores I am desired to appraise 2 French Horns, 2 Bassoons, 2 Clarinets… the Light Infantry have been offered one thousand dollars for them by some individuals…”
We unfortunately do not know who bought these instruments, but, in December of the same year, Febiger began raising his own band. Though completely conjecture, it is not unreasonable to imagine that being in proximity to this sale—if not a part of it—sowed a seed.
Following the engagement at Stony Point, Febiger transitioned into a more administrative role. He wasn’t officially relieved of his field command,—he had been Colonel of the 2nd Virginia Regiment for two years already—but his new duties removed him from the camp and planted him in Philadelphia. There he got to work organizing everything from recruitment to the transportation of military stores. It was during these months that he also:
“…reenlisted 7 or eight Young Fellows Natives of our State [Virginia], bought instruments and provided two Masters to teach them and they have made such progress, that without Vanity I can say that they are equal to any Band in this Country…”
These men were all serving officially as fifers in the 2nd VA Regiment. Thomas Sheldon—the regiment’s Fife Major and senior musician—was designated their leader. It is unlikely, however, that any of them actually had formal music training before December 1779. They studied with “Mr Schuetz, a German musician,” and by March the ensemble was fully double handed: four clarinets who could also play violin, two French horns, and two bassoons doubling on “bass viol.”
Febiger left Philadelphia with his band in the Spring of 1780. Over the next year, Febiger’s band “had more Influence on the minds and Motions of [Virginia’s] Militia than would the Oratory of a Cicero,” and their performing was apparently as inspiring “as a well spoken recruiting Sergeant.” Regrettably, more information concerning their specific repertoire has yet to be revealed, but today’s program serves as an homage to their sound world, with a particular nod to the British bands Febiger would have been exposed to earlier in the war and the French bands that marched through Virginia in 1781.
Those French bands—of which there were at least three—accompanied an expeditionary force led by the Comte de Rochambeau. Together, Washington and Rochambeau orchestrated the siege at Yorktown, Virginia in October 1781 that marked the official beginning of the end of the British war effort. As the surrendering British marched out of the bombarded seaside town, a Hessian soldier recalled, “the Americans were on our left… They had bandsmen making beautiful music and who presented a decent appearance.”
The question of who this band belonged to has been left open and widely ignored, but evidence from pension records along with good-old-fashioned process of elimination—three out of four of the American bands were still stationed in the north—strongly suggests that these were the musicians of Febiger’s ensemble. It would be their highest honor, and yet so many of its details are still shrouded in mystery.
The reality was that—despite that victory—the war was not yet over. The trials and tribulations of that reality remained very present in the lives of common soldiers. As tensions—and hunger—in the ranks grew, the band helped deescalate at least one mutiny in 1782. As the war wound down the next year, the band dissolved one by one as its members were discharged. This seems to be the end of these musicians’ musical careers. Most of the bandsmen were issued land warrants and disappeared into history. After the war, Febiger went back to Philadelphia and enjoyed a successful postwar career in business and government until his death in 1796.
© Music of the Regiment