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)
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.
https://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpg00Jennifer Perrottehttps://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpgJennifer Perrotte2018-10-10 13:28:362018-10-10 13:31:13Bold and Beautiful – October 6, 2018
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)
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.
https://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpg00Jennifer Perrottehttps://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpgJennifer Perrotte2018-05-30 12:04:272018-05-30 12:04:27CZECH IT OUT – May 19, 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.
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.
Bold and Beautiful – October 6, 2018
Program NotesLudwig 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
Program NotesCharles-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
Program NotesGeorge 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