Henry Cowell

(Born in Menlo Park, California, in 1897; died near Woodstock, New York, in 1965)

Hymn and Fuguing Tune No. 10

For Oboe and Strings

Henry Cowell was one of the first modernist American-born composers, and his ideas and works spread their wings far across the musical landscape. Among his students, supporters, and devotees were Arnold Schoenberg, Burt Bacharach, George Gershwin, Charles Ives, and the ultramodernist John Cage (who steadfastly proclaimed Cowell as “the open sesame for new music in America”).

Born near San Francisco, Cowell was raised primarily by his mother and was largely educated at home and self-taught in music. Even at a young age, Cowell was being noticed as a musical genius, and in his late teens he studied music composition briefly with Charles Seeger (father of the famous Seeger family of folk singers) at the University of California, Berkeley, and equally briefly at the Julliard School of Music in New York.

But an academic approach did not suit the free-thinking Cowell. Instead, the young composer began a lifelong musical exploration, blending folk song and tonality with extended techniques for the piano. These techniques included nonconformist, creative ways of making music, such as playing tone clusters (chords that comprise at least three adjacent tones in a scale) with fists or forearms, hitting whatever notes they contact, and plucking strings inside the body of the piano. Some of his ultramodernist musical concerts erupted in riots.

Cowell wrote books about his ideas and methods, taught at several music schools, and influenced many classical American music composers of the 20th century. He was also a prolific composer, writing almost 1,000 works. But in the second half of his life, he became less aggressively avant-garde and looked increasingly toward tradition and tonality. Such was the case with the set of 18 works he called “Hymns and Fuguing Tunes,” composed between 1944 and 1964.

The Hymn and Fuguing Tune featured in our concert, No. 10, was completed in 1955. Cowell said the piece draws on the music “of Southern Revival meetings in which popular minstrel show rhythms were turned to religious purposes…. The tunes of course are my own.” All 18 of Cowell’s Hymns and Fuguing Tunes are gorgeous works, but No. 10 is perhaps the most popular, blending a folksong style with church hymns, yet wrapped in sophisticated compositional craft.

Hymn and Fuguing Tune No. 10 has two parts, a hymn part and a fugue part. In the hymn part, which comes first, the strings open with a lyrical hymnlike song, a singable melody laden with a folk-like feel and with tinges of Renaissance-sounding ornamentation. The solo oboist takes over from the strings, and for about four minutes, the music feels as though it is eternally blossoming. An explicit cadence (the equivalent of a musical “period”) never seems to arrive; instead, the first strain of the hymn part continuously evolves, from strings to oboe, to other soloists in the string orchestra, and back around, like an infinity loop. Some lovely chromaticism intensifies this sense of continual unfolding until, at last, the hymn part comes to its peaceful ending.

After a brief pause, the second part of the work, the fuguing tune part, begins. Before we describe it, we should note that fuguing tunes are not like fugues by Bach but rather a song genre that came to America from England in the middle of the 18th century and became extremely popular. Originally, these were sacred choral works arranged for a four-part chorus and based on Protestant hymns. They followed a pattern of first introducing a tune in all four parts, and then proceeding in a kind of canon form with the theme being sung in staggered entrances and afterward being sounded simultaneously by the various voices of the chorus or instruments — as in the children’s song, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”

In the fuguing tune part of Hymn and Fuguing Tune No. 10, the oboe starts things off with a brief melody that is liltingly light on its feet and harmonious. As expected in this genre, various sections of the strings then take up the tune in canon sequence. But soon Cowell begins to play with the norms: A second short melody — a rippling run of notes — is introduced by the oboe, and the fuguing tune then increasingly becomes more of a rhapsodic fantasy of swirling voices playing counterpoint to each other in all sorts of instrumental and melodic combinations. This part of the work radiates with the intensity of the interactions between the oboist and various sections of the orchestra, yet always retains a light touch. At about two and a half minutes, the tempo pulls back for dramatic effect and all the instruments begin to pull together to end, at last, with three glowing, unison chords.

Franz Joseph Haydn

(Born in Rohrau, Austria in 1732; died in Vienna, Austria in 1809)

Cello Concerto No. 1 in C major, Hob. VIIb:1

1. Moderato
2. Adagio
3. Finale — Allegro molto

For almost 200 years, the world thought there was only one Haydn cello concerto to be played, the lovely Concerto No. 2 in D major. Haydn’s own catalogs of his works mentioned a previous cello concerto, written in C major, but that work seemed to have been lost. Then in 1961, a fortuitous knocking-over-of-old-dusty-stuff at the Prague National Museum by a museum archivist named Oldřich Pulkert uncovered a manuscript of the C major concerto. Music historian H.C. Robbins Landon described this event as “the single greatest musicological discovery since the Second World War.”

The manuscript that was found in Prague was signed by the C major concerto’s original soloist, Joseph Weigl. Weigl was a friend of Haydn’s and one of the musicians in Haydn’s first orchestra at the estate of his patron, Prince Nikolaus Esterházy, of Hungary. The C major concerto was composed between 1761 and 1765 and written specifically for Weigl. (This was something Haydn did; he kept good musicians in his employ by rewarding them with juicy concertos to play). Judging by the virtuosic writing of the concerto’s cello passages, Weigl was indeed a superb cellist.

Haydn’s rediscovered Cello Concerto No. 1 in C major had its 20th-century premiere on May 19,1962, when Czech virtuoso Miloš Sádlo performed it with the Czechoslovak Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Sir Charles Mackerras. Sádlo and Mackerras also made the first recording. The concerto has been beloved ever since.

This wonderful work is surely one of the loveliest things that Haydn wrote, filled with a freshness that makes each of its three movements a delight. It is among Haydn’s most inventive works, and it achieves that magical concerto balance of showing off the capabilities of the solo instrument and its performer, even as it brims with musicality, lyricism and surprises for the entire ensemble.

The first movement, Moderato (at a medium speed), is full of charm and beautiful melody. After the stately yet sunny introduction of the theme by the orchestra, the soloist jumps in happily, highlighting the luxuriance of the cello’s chocolatey low range, the richness of playing multiple strings (chords), and the cello’s musical agility. What’s most enjoyable about this movement is Haydn’s long, vocal-like lines for the soloist in a movement that truly sings throughout, reminding us that Haydn first became famous in the Esterházy Estate as an opera composer.

The middle movement, Adagio (slowly), offers the concerto’s most tender musical moments. Like the previous movement, it’s filled with lyricism, but here Haydn explores the cello’s middle and upper registers in ways that evoke the human voice. The movement begins with an introductory theme, played by the orchestral strings, that features several brief, downwardly rustling figures that create the effect of falling leaves. Then the cello enters, beginning very softly, playing a long, single note growing in gentle intensity, then continuing with the rustling figures previously played by the orchestra. In this dialogue, it feels as if we’re overhearing a love song of intimate beauty.

The third movement, Allegro molto (very fast), is brisk and bright and bouncy. It features virtuosic displays for the soloist, but all these runs and wicked-fast technical challenges create very listenable, lyrical lines. Notice, too, that throughout this movement Haydn revisits the motives from the earlier movements: the growling low notes and chords, as well as the upper-register playing. The most wonderful reprise happens when the cello first enters, at about one minute, returning with that growing-glowing note from the beginning of the previous Adagio movement but now transformed into a quicker, brilliant blaze of light. This movement’s pace is breakneck to the very end, and as the final notes are bowed, it is undeniable that this masterly concerto is indeed one of the greatest (and luckiest) musical discoveries of the 20th century.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

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

Symphony No. 40 in G minor, K. 550

1. Molto allegro
2. Andante
3. Menuetto — Allegretto — Trio
4. Allegro assai

In the summer of 1788, Mozart’s life was overwhelmed by tragedy. Having recently suffered several professional failures, Mozart’s debts had accrued beyond control, and this only doubled his grief over his infant daughter’s unexpected death earlier that spring. Yet almost miraculously, despite the weight of these events, Mozart wrote three astounding symphonies, numbered 39, 40, and 41, over a mere nine weeks hoping to perform them in some upcoming subscription concerts. These three symphonies would be his final symphonic works, and although each is an undisputed masterpiece, No. 40 in G minor has retained a special place in his oeuvre for its profoundly emotional nature. It is one of only two symphonies out of the 41 he wrote that he set in a minor key. He reserved this key for significant expressivity, and given this great symphony’s uncanny beauty, pathos, and angst, it surely seems that this work reflects the emotional trials he was undergoing when he wrote it.

The first movement, Molto allegro (very fast), is evocative, continually suggesting an anguish that is delivered with a searing lyrical beauty. The movement begins with a quietly undulating rhythm in the lower strings, a pulsing that almost never abates. In just several quick beats, the violins then enter above that agitation with one of Mozart’s most memorable themes. This theme first lifts upward with a sense of questioning and then tumbles down in small rhythmic segments as if in indignation — conveying a feeling of inner turmoil. Immediately thereafter, a small motive surges angrily from the basses with two longish, descending notes and infiltrates everything in the movement, stoking a sense of unrest. The movement agitates and questions and surges to its final bars.

The second movement, Andante (slowly, at a walking pace), begins with the strings presenting a gently throbbing theme that seems to slowly unfold with a glowing grace. Yet there is an unmistakable fragility lurking underneath in the way that Mozart fragments the theme among the string sections, beginning with violas, then the cellos and basses, and so on. This feeling of vulnerability becomes poignantly present at about three and a half minutes, when a flitting little rhythm in the winds continuously descends, like falling tears, through several sequences of richly dark harmonies from the strings. The last bars conclude quietly.

The first part of the third movement, Menuetto — Allegretto (minuet dance, not too fast), begins with the full orchestra playing a strident, defiant-sounding theme that is almost sarcastically ill-suited for a dance like a minuet. The theme migrates into a series of repetitions, being cast about between the instruments and colliding with each other, creating a startlingly dramatic effect. The second part of the movement, Menuetto — Trio, is much more delicately dance-like, and features a delightful spotlight on the oboes and horns. The movement ends with a return of the opening section’s forcefulness.

The finale, Allegro assai (very fast), is rife with a dark and relentless energy. The opening theme begins with the violins punching out a series of ascending notes and finishes with the full orchestra playing a hyper-oscillating rhythm. Despite the uncanny tunefulness of this theme, the feeling is anxious and insistent. A brief second theme, featuring a sweet duet between the clarinet and bassoon, is much more relaxed and lyrical, but nonetheless, this finale is more overtly concerned with power and propulsion, and the symphony’s last eight bars are almost wild with excitement.

© Max Derrickson. 

Click here to download the PDF of May’s Program Notes.

György Sándor Ligeti 

(Born in Diciosânmartin (renamed Târnăveni in 1941) in Transylvania, Romania (then part of Hungary) in 1923; died in Vienna, Austria in 2006)

Sechs Bagatellen (“Six Bagatelles”)

Allegro con spirito

György Ligeti was one of the 20th century’s great composers, and one of its most innovative. Though his music was typically in the avant-garde camp, its modernism was nonetheless molded to be accessible — dissonance, in Ligeti’s hands, could be quite beautiful. His path to recognition, though, was difficult. Like most Eastern European composers, there came a time when he had to reckon with the Soviet Union. Even in Hungary, Ligeti suffered Soviet bans on his music in the early 1950s to such a degree that he reimagined his composing aesthetic entirely, partly as a renewal and partly in protest.

As a result of particularly harsh censorship in 1951, Ligeti said that he then “began to experiment with very simple structures of rhythms and sonorities — as if to build up a ‘new music’ from nothing.” One of the first results was his set of 11 bagatelles for piano, Musica ricercata, completed in 1953. Bagatelles, in a musical sense, are musical “trifles” — very short pieces with entertainment as their goal. Musica ricercata’s “new music from nothing” began with a first movement using only two pitches. Each successive movement added one pitch, until by the final movement, the entire chromatic scale was being used. In 1953, Ligeti arranged six of these bagatelles for wind quintet, featuring flute, oboe, clarinet, French horn, and bassoon. These six works are full of energy, surprises, humor, beauty, and vivid colors. Our concert tonight opens with the first of them.

This first bagatelle, Allegro con spirito (fast and in a spirited manner), is a comically manic, and ingeniously economical, little jewel. Ligeti uses only four notes for the entire, brief work: C, E, E flat, and G, spread across several octaves. The flute and oboe take the lead in the first bars with a short, rhythmic one-measure motive — a hyper-jiggling of two notes, E flat and C.  Shortly, a G is added, and the motive branches out somewhat. But rather than sounding particularly melodic, the motive sounds almost like the flute and oboe are shouting above extremely terse little punctuations by the clarinet, horn, and bassoon. Several bars later, the clarinet takes the same motive but changes one pitch (E to E flat). The movement careens across the bars, with the motive becoming more of a conversation, spreading between the upper winds, while the horn and bassoon peck away at a lengthy run of dry, repeated notes like crazed woodpeckers. This meteoric one-minute work requires an exceptional cast of virtuosic players to perform it: Ligeti demands breakneck articulation and wild leaps in intervals from the instruments. Most impressive is the way in which just five wind instruments using a mere four notes can sound like an entire orchestral wind section. The wildness of the short motive begins to stretch longer, panting, faltering, until, wryly, the last note is pecked out in a whisper by the bassoon as though everyone is exhausted.

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Darius Milhaud

(Born in Marseille, France, in 1892; died in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1974)

La Cheminée Du Roi René, Op. 205

1. Cortège (“Procession”)

2. Aubade (“Morning love song”)

3. Jongleurs (“Jugglers”)

4. La Maousinglade (Name of a village near Aix-en-Provence)

5. Joutes sur L’Arc (“Jousting on the Arc River”)

6. Chasse à Valabre (“Hunting at Valabre”)

7. Madrigal nocturne (“Night-time song”)

French composer Darius Milhaud grew up near Aix-en-Provence, where, centuries earlier, “Good King” René of Anjou (1409–1480), who was also count of Provence, retired. René’s reputation for being a chivalric “man of the people” still lingered in Provence in Milhaud’s time. In 1939, the director Raymond Bernard made a film that takes place in Provence called Cavalcade d’amour and asked Milhaud to provide some of the music. Milhaud then repurposed that film music into a suite of seven movements for wind quintet titled La Cheminée Du Roi René (“The Hearth of King René”). The title is derived from an old Provençal proverb that plays on the words “hearth,” “chimney”, and “promenade”: King René loved strolling through his lands in search of sunny spots on winter days, and La Cheminée leads us through an imagined day that includes one of those strolls. Milhaud’s seven-movement work has become one of his best-loved pieces. Including hints of late medieval music-making, it’s a lyrical and quirky kind of fantasy piece.  

The first movement, Cortège, introduces us to René by representing a royal procession as it makes its way through the town and its environs. The music here is calm and good-natured, as René himself was said to be. It begins with a delightfully lyrical oboe theme, replete with medieval-sounding musical ornamentations. The horn and bassoon provide the initial accompaniment and the harmonies they provide are often written in different keys (this is called bitonality — something Milhaud loved to do), making for some quirky and delightful musical moments.  

Aubade, the second movement, is the beginning of the royal court’s imagined day. An aubade is a predawn courtly love song rooted in the songs of French troubadours. Medieval courtly love emphasized nobility and chivalry, and Milhaud imbues his aubade with the dawn’s sense of gentleness and sweetness.

In the third movement, Jongleurs, the royal procession finds amusement with a quintet of jugglers. Milhaud wonderfully uses the five distinct voices of the winds to evoke the sense of things being tossed about with great skill, flipping up in the air, with the separate winds often playing in lines contrary to each other.  

The fourth movement, La Maousinglade, is a reflective movement named for the village near Aix where Milhaud still had a house. The writing is gorgeous, especially when the bassoon dives deep into its register about midway through, creating an especially rich sound for the quintet.  

The fifth movement, Joutes sur l’Arc, is a reference to René’s love for jousting; he held elaborate tournaments by the River Arc in Provence and wrote a well-known volume on the rules of the sport. But rather than trying to musically capture the sport itself, Milhaud focuses on the hubbub of the spectacle and the air of excitement and animated chatter coursing through the spectators by trading themes between the instruments.

The sixth movement, Chasse à Valabre, depicts a hunting outing in Valabre, a part of René’s estate. But the effect is comical, not noble. At the beginning, the horn is given its typical pride of place as the hunting horn, but it begins to get bogged down at about one minute into the movement. Everything seems to get off-kilter — the tempo slows down and the meter changes, and the horn and bassoon get stuck in a kind of plodding motive. To bring the hunt to a close, the flute, oboe, and clarinet take over the heralding.

The seventh movement, Madrigal nocturne, brings the day’s adventures to a close with a lovely, wistful nighttime serenade. At about one minute, some polyphony (separate melodic lines in harmony) between all the instruments creates a beautiful and spirited moment. Then, the last bars drift off into the night with tenderness.

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Franz Ignaz Danzi

(Born in Schwetzingen, Germany, in 1763; died in Karlsruhe, Germany, in 1826)

Wind Quintet in G minor, Op. 56, No. 2 

1. Allegretto

2. Andante

3. Menuetto — Trio

4. Allegro

Franz Danzi was a highly respected cellist, composer, and teacher during a long career that witnessed Mozart’s last years and all of Beethoven’s working years. He was also a mentor to the German opera composer Carl Maria von Weber. As a composer in his own right, Danzi contributed to nearly every genre of the day and often with impressive works. Perhaps most important, he was one of the first composers to take a keen interest in the wind quintet genre and was influential in getting it established in the concert hall. Danzi wrote nine excellent wind quintets between 1820 and 1824, and they have become an extremely important foundation of the repertoire. His first three quintets were published together as Opus 56 in 1821 and have remained deservedly popular. Tonight’s concert presents the second of these quintets; it is a wonderful example of lyrical beauty and classical clarity.

The opening movement, Allegretto (not too fast), begins with a kind of halting set of introductory bars, as if Danzi has abandoned the melody and left it lingering unresolved several times — the effect is catchy. After a few bars the oboe arrives with a light and airy little melody, which soon launches into some wonderfully brisk sequences of virtuosic upward runs in the clarinet and flute, and later the bassoon arrives. The entire movement features this kind of virtuosity and lightness, and displays Danzi’s uncanny craft in treating the five winds as equal voices.

The second movement, Andante (moderately slow), is flowing and gently lyrical. Especially deft is Danzi’s use of all the winds to make a cohesive melody. The beautiful songfulness of the themes become even richer as Danzi often divides the melodic line among the five instruments, but in such a seamless way that it sounds more like the melody is changing color, not instruments. An especially lovely moment occurs at about one minute into the movement, with the clarinet burbling arpeggios as the oboe sings above.

The Menuetto — Trio movement is a sort of hybrid of Mozart’s classical dance movements and Beethoven’s scherzos: though light-hearted like the former, it is written in a bristling fast tempo like the latter. Danzi adds his own cleverness by delaying the natural ending to the first theme of the opening Menuett, as though the quintet has decided to keep playing the last two bars of the theme several times too many. The middle Trio section features the flute flitting gracefully about like a butterfly. The return of Menuett ends the movement.

The final movement, Allegro (fast), is romping fun with more virtuosity, and includes some delightful outbursts from the horn. A particularly great display of woodwind pyrotechnics occurs at about two minutes into the movement, when all the winds except the horn launch into a daring dash of a long string of 16th notes, something like a gale wind. The closing section keeps the energy moving quickly forward, until the final five bars, when Danzi recaptures the light classical touch with a few solid, ending chords.

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Alexandra Molnar-Suhajda 

(American; born in 1975)

Three Nature Walks 

1. Autumn Woods

2. Winter Moonlight

3. Cherry Blossom Path

Raised in northern Virginia, composer Alexandra Molnar-Suhajda studied music composition at George Mason University. She received her bachelor’s degree there in 1998, after being named the music department’s Most Outstanding Musician in 1997. Since graduation, she has taught privately and performed with many professional ensembles throughout the Washington, D.C. area. Since 2014, she has been the instrumental music director at Oakcrest School,
in Vienna, Virginia.

Three Nature Walks was commissioned by the Patagonia Winds woodwind quintet and premiered at the 2015 National Flute Association convention in Washington, D.C. It consists of three movements that Ms. Molnar-Suhajda describes as “brief vignettes inspired by the countryside surrounding the DC area.”

The first movement, Autumn Woods, is marked to be played Semplice (in a simple manner). The horn begins the walk with a kind of call to nature. One imagines looking up into the splendid colors of the trees as the quintet plays motives that continually rise up. The clarinet soon initiates a repeated oscillating motive — a motive that will take several guises throughout the entire piece — which feels as though this walk has reached one of the region’s many brooks or streams. Soon after, at about one minute, the music arrives at a lovely moment as the horn sings above the other winds as they burble upward and then downward softly underneath. This burbling section trades back and forth with the calmer opening music, bringing a sense of inner jubilation and contentedness.

The second movement, Winter Moonlight, is marked Con delicatezza (with delicateness). Here, Molnar-Suhajda evokes the beauty of moonlight on snow, and the clearness of a dark sky and brilliant moon. The movement begins with a new oscillating motive in the flute, oboe, and bassoon, and then the clarinet sings a quiet serenade. All feels aglow, especially at about a half minute into the movement when the clarinet continues into a new and beautifully lyrical melody. This melody is then shared among the entire quintet. It’s a moving love song to the night.

The final movement, Cherry Blossom Path, is marked A piacere (at pleasure – meaning the performers are free to play the rhythms loosely). This movement is a fantasia of sorts, musically celebrating one of the world’s greatest shows of beauty when millions of cherry blossoms bloom around the nation’s capitol. The bassoon begins with a solo rhapsody that is indeed at pleasure. Soon the rest of the quintet joins the walk with flurries of falling cherry blossoms, represented by trills. A new oscillating motive in the oboe and clarinet is added to the bassoon, as though the walking has stepped up. Especially delightful are the extended solos played by each member of the quintet. The final bars then slow down, ending quietly, happily surrounded by a world of pink and white blossoms.

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William Grant Still  

(Born in Woodville, Missouri, in 1895; died in Los Angeles, California, in 1978)

Miniatures for Woodwind Quintet 

1. I Ride an Old Paint

2. Adolorido

3. Jesus Is a Rock in the Weary Land

4. Yaraví

5. A Frog Went a-Courtin’

In 1955, when most African American citizens in some Southern states were forbidden from even drinking out of the same water fountains as their white neighbors, composer William Grant Still achieved musical breakthroughs. He was the first African American to conduct the New Orleans Philharmonic, and indeed the first African American to conduct any major orchestra in the Deep South. He was also an important figure in the Harlem Renaissance. Still made the songs and the “blues” of African Americans the soul of much of his music, and he achieved a certain greatness in doing so. This was no small task in the pre–civil rights era in the United States. Thus, he is commonly referred to as the dean of African American music.

Still especially loved folksongs. In 1948 he wrote his delightfully popular Miniatures, a suite celebrating a spiritual and four traditional folksongs. First written as a trio for flute, oboe, and piano, Still rearranged it in 1963 for wind quintet. This is a wonderful concert piece — Still had an uncanny talent for arranging songs
and spirituals.

I Ride an Old Paint is a cowboy song from the western United States that was used to lull cattle to rest. It begins with a rapturous cadenza in the oboe. Soon the bassoon plays an ostinato that evokes the hoof steps of a Paint horse (a good-natured, speckled work horse used in cattle driving), and the flute then plays the folksong outright.

Adolorido originated in Mexico. Despite its upbeat feel, the title generally translates as “I’m sore,” and the lyrics belie the singer’s pain from a broken heart. Still has the quintet play the song as a kind of chorus, and treats the catchy tune with a short set of fun variations. 

Jesus Is a Rock in the Weary Land is a spiritual, possibly originating in the Sea Islands along the coast of Georgia in the southeastern United States. It’s a beautiful tune, and one that has attracted dozens of artists to sing it. Still makes it a very bluesy song, first being sung in earnest by the clarinet. A low, rocking motive in the accompanying bassoon and horn evokes a very world-weary soul.

Yaraví is a Peruvian genre of folksong, developed centuries ago by Incan natives who, after the Spanish conquests, incorporated Spanish and Moorish musical influences into their traditional songs. A yaraví, sometimes translated as “a lament,” typically evokes a sense of melancholic beauty, and Still’s arrangement is one of this work’s most beautiful movements.

A Frog Went a-Courtin’ was originally an old Scottish song, but Still would have known it as an American folksong. It’s a silly children’s tune about a frog who’s riding a horse to court his love, “with a saber and pistol by his side.” The oboe plays the tune first over a steady rhythmic accompaniment in the horn, bassoon, and clarinet. But as the tune continues, Still gives it just the right touch of exaggerated swagger and fun: The tempo picks up and the volume increases as the flute and the oboe then share the tune in a duet until the song’s comical and abrupt ending.

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Norman Hallam

(Born in Coventry, England in 1945)

Dance Suite for Wind Quintet

1. Waltz

2. Bossa Nova

3. Quickstep

4. Charleston

Norman Hallam is a celebrated English musician and composer. Although childhood polio left him wheelchair dependent, it never stopped him from becoming a great clarinetist. His performing career was spent almost entirely as a clarinetist with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, from which he retired in 1999, and as the clarinetist in the Canzona wind quintet from 1976 to 1986. He found his gift as a composer as well while studying at the Birmingham Conservatory and then the Royal Academy of Music. Among his finest works are his Clarinet Concerto (1998) and his very popular Dance Suite for Wind Quintet, composed in 1980 for Canzona to perform.

The Dance Suite for Wind Quintet revels in the joy of ballroom dance and, as Hallam said, as an “entertainment vehicle” for him and his colleagues in Canzona. For this work, Hallam wrote four original tunes set in popular styles from the 1920’s through the 1950’s — these are jazzy, ballroom-dance styles, with lots of syncopations and liveliness, making this work a great audience favorite.

The first movement, Waltz, is written in the typical three beats to a bar, but this is not the waltz of the Viennese ballrooms in Europe. Hallam’s Waltz uses a quicker set of steps, with the swinging feel of the smoky ballrooms of Harlem and Chicago in the 1920s. Featuring a happy-go-lucky melody, and bluesy riffs abounding, the quintet glides us jauntily across the dance floor.

The next dance, Bossa Nova, originated in Brazil in the 1950’s and it quickly migrated throughout the Western world. Most famous is its “bossa nova beat,” a syncopated ostinato (repeating figure); here, this figure is immediately played by the bassoon. Above this, the oboe plays a slightly lazy yet sensuous tune. A nice touch is the “stacked up” jazzy chord that ends the movement. 

The Quickstep comes next, a dance that originated in the 1920s and was specifically meant to be danced to ragtime tunes. Hallam makes this a light-hearted dance tune, with a tempo easy to sway and step to, with delicious melodies from each of the quintet winds. A comical little set of musical “hops” — a quick series of short little rhythms — occur after about two and a half minutes; these are then set aright to end the dance properly. 

The finale, Charleston, is a dance that came from Charleston, South Carolina, and has its roots in the African American juba dance. A juba is a dance that enslaved African Americans used to choreograph mock combat and to relay secret messages with hand and body slaps (a kind of Morse code). By the time it became popular as a ballroom dance in the early 1920’s, it had morphed from a simple set of steps into the dance we now know, with twisting feet and athletic kicks and hops. The movement’s opening measures, with its flurries of jazzy little riffs, bring us immediately into a ballroom filled with flappers and their gents. The melody then steps out, happy and filled with joie de vivre. A fun section arrives at about one minute, when a muted horn has a long, virtuosic solo. Soon after, the tempo picks up and the dance toe-taps its way to the final bars.

Program notes © Max Derrickson

Jean Françaix
(Born in Le Mans, France in 1912; died in Paris in 1997)

Trio for Oboe, Bassoon and Piano (1994)

1. Adagio — Allegro molto
2. Andante
3. Finale

Jean Françaix was a modern French composer very much in the neoclassical tradition of Poulenc. He eschewed the trends of atonality and the rejection of traditional form, choosing wit, color, and a supple lightness in service of producing musical “pleasure.” Prolific throughout his life, Françaix was a piano virtuoso, an active performer, a skilled orchestrator and a composer in myriad forms and ensembles. Like great French composers, Françaix had a skillful penchant for the wind instruments.

The Trio for Oboe, Bassoon and Piano was commissioned by the International Double Reed Society for their 24th Festival in 1994. The Trio is astonishing for its modernity and its accessibility. In the tradition of neoclassicism, the music is simultaneously familiar from the past, yet new and different, undeniably of the present. But where the original neoclassicists looked to the 18th century and earlier for their inspiration, Françaix, in this work, seems to look back within his own lifespan. In a new loop of neoclassical spirit, the music evokes the popular sounds of a young modernism in the early 20th century: syncopated urban rhythms, musical theatre, the exuberance, and occasional plaintive nostalgia of contemporary man. The strengths of the composition are its exquisite detail and complexity, the virtuosic demands placed on the performer, and the expert use of the idiomatic qualities of the instruments.

Françaix’s thoughts are as refreshing as his music:

It’s difficult for a composer to talk about his own works. If he praises them, he is accused of boasting; if he disparages them, he is considered guilty of false modesty. If he dissects them into theme A and theme B, musicologists will applaud, but musicians will find him boring. If the work is of any value, it will need no explanation; if it is of no value, no esoteric commentary will render it any better . . . . All I ask my listeners is to open their ears and be brave enough to decide whether they like my music or not. I don’t want any intermediary between me and my listeners trying to sway their judgment one way or the other. They should remember they are free human beings, not obedient automata. I want them to crush snobbery, fashion, and envy with the power of common sense and to enjoy my music if it gives them pleasure, which of course I hope it does. (Adapted from a text by Kai Christensen, Earsense.org.)

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Francis Poulenc
(Born in Paris, France, in 1899; died in Paris in 1963)

Selected Songs (arr. Dietrich Zöllner and Poulenc Trio)

Les chemins de l’amour (1940) 

C (from 1944)

Toréador (1918; rev. 1932)

These three enchanting compositions by Poulenc, orchestrated beautifully for oboe, bassoon, and piano by German arranger Dietrich Zöllner, each portray a distinctive chapter of French history, colored by Poulenc’s extraordinary abilities as a storyteller.

Les Chemins de l’amour, or The Pathways of Love, a melodious creation composed in 1940, is based on lyrics by Jean Anouilh, from his play Léocadia. The creation of this piece provided Poulenc a respite from the shadow of Nazi occupation looming over his residence, as he disclosed in a 1941 New Year’s letter. He mused on the melancholic era in which they were living and wondered about its impending conclusion.

The song title, C, or Cé, originates from a French commune called Les Ponts de Cé or The Bridges of Cé, a site known for its historical significance. This commune, entrenched in numerous decisive battles, finds a mention in the song’s opening verse. The song’s text is from the Deux Poèmes by Louis Aragon, published in 1944 during the Nazi occupation, one of the most devastating periods of French history.

The lyrics encapsulate the poet’s somber memories of the fateful days of May 1940, when a substantial part of France was on the run from invading armies. Amid the disarray, the poet crossed the bridges of Cé, amid abandoned weaponry and overturned vehicles — a poignant memory of a beleaguered nation.

The deeply sentimental tone of the narrative, akin to an old ballad, compelled Poulenc to create this song, which stands today as one of his most emotionally profound works.

Toréador, one of Poulenc’s first forays into song composition, came into existence under the guidance of Jean Cocteau. Poulenc, who used to delight his friends by singing this piece, was eventually convinced to make it public in 1932. The lyrics tell a whimsical tale of unrequited love a toreador harbors for Pépita, the so-called queen of Venice. The narrative humorously transposes the bullring to Venice’s Piazza San Marco, gondoliers are fancifully portrayed as Spanish galleons, and the oldest doge of the city becomes the lucky recipient of Pépita’s affections. This light-hearted, almost surrealist composition perfectly captures the spirit of Poulenc’s musical creativity.

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Viet Cuong
(Born in Los Angeles, California, in 1990) 

Explain Yourself! (2019)

Explain Yourself! was commissioned by the Barlow Endowment for Music Composition at Brigham Young University for the Poulenc Trio. Here are notes from the composer:

As a clarinetist and admirer of twentieth century French music, I’ve always loved the music of Francis Poulenc. I’m particularly drawn to the joyous, witty nature of many of his pieces, and, with this piece being for the Poulenc Trio, I wanted to pay homage to Poulenc and his sense of humor. As such, the piece begins with a direct quote of his chamber piano concert, Aubade. This quote serves a few purposes: it acts as a marker for when the first section “repeats” itself, and, perhaps more importantly, the main melody of the entire piece uses the same pitches as the opening of Aubade.

After the Poulenc quote, the piece jolts into a tango-like romp with a baroque flair. The instruments all play an equal role in this music and, all things considered, it’s mild mannered. After a few minutes, the Aubade quote signifies a trip back to the beginning after the first climax concludes— much like a repeat in a classical symphony’s first movement. However, this repeat goes awry as the oboist begins to act out by replacing regular notes with raucous multiphonics. The other wind instruments begin to pick up on this mischievous behavior, and all three of them start to interrupt, mock, and distort the phrases. The pianist notices and isn’t pleased. Much like a frustrated parent or teacher, the pianist hammers out dense chords, essentially scolding the winds to get back on track.

Things nearly fall apart as the winds continue to misbehave. Eventually it all comes to a head when the pianist and oboist perform an imitative duet. In doing this, the oboist has a chance to explain himself and prove that, while these multiphonics can be funny, they can also be played melodically and provide structure to a phrase. Won over, the pianist joins in on the fun and the piece concludes in a place where functional classical harmonies and multiphonics can coexist.

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André Previn
(Born in Berlin, Germany, in 1929; died in New York City, 2019)

Trio for Oboe, Bassoon, and Piano

1. Lively

2. Slow 

3. Jaunty

André Previn was born to a Jewish family in Berlin and emigrated with them to the United States in 1939 to escape the Nazis. He became a naturalized citizen of the United States in 1943 and grew up in Los Angeles. An Oscar winner, Previn toured and recorded as a jazz pianist and was conductor of the Los Angeles Philharmonic from 1985-89. In the UK, where he was knighted in 1996, Previn is particularly remembered for his performance on the Morecambe and Wise comedy show in 1971, which involved his conducting a spoof performance of the Grieg Piano Concerto. At a concert in Britain afterwards, Previn had to interrupt the concerto to allow the audience time to stop giggling as they remembered the sketch. It is still considered one of the funniest comedy moments of all time.

Andre Previn composed his Trio for Piano, Oboe and Bassoon in 1994 on a joint commission from the Orchestra of St. Luke’s, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Mary Flagler Cary Charitable Trust. Music for this combination of instruments is unusual but by no means unique; French composers loved the sound of woodwinds, and in some ways Previn’s Trio shows virtues that might be thought typically French: clarity, careful attention to the character of the individual instruments, and a sense of play and fun. Yet if the impulse behind this music might be thought French, here it has an American accent: Previn’s Trio is full of energy, jazz rhythms, and the open harmonies that have, since the time of Copland and Harris, distinguished American music.

The piece is in three movements. The opening, marked “lively,” moves from a spiky beginning through a flowing second theme-group introduced by the bassoon and marked espressivo. The basic metric markings in this movement are 2/4 and 4/4, but Previn frequently interrupts this even pulse with individual measures in such subdivisions as 7/8, 5/8 3/4, 7/16, and others. It is indeed a “lively” movement precisely for the vitality of its rhythms, and a brief coda drives to an emphatic close on a unison B-flat.

In the second movement, Slow, a piano prelude leads to the entrance of the solo oboe; this entrance is marked “lonely”, a marking that might apply to the entire movement, where long chromatic woodwind lines wind their way above chordal accompaniment. The music rises to a climax, then falls away to conclude on its opening material, now varied.

The last movement, Jaunty, changes meter almost by measure. Previn treats the two wind instruments as a group and sets them in contrast to the piano, which has extended solo passages. The leaping opening idea reappears in many forms, including inversion and near the end the tempo speeds ahead as Previn specifies that the music should be played with “jazz phrasing”; these riffs alternate with brief piano interludes marked “simply.” Gradually the movement’s opening theme reasserts itself, and the Trio rushes to its blistering close, once again on a unison B-flat. — Program notes for this work by Eric Bromberger

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Dmitri Shostakovich
(Born in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1906; died in Moscow in 1975) 

Romance, Op. 97a (from the film score of The Gadfly, arr. Anatoly Trofimov.)

A Spin Through Moscow (from the operetta Moscow, Cheryomushki, arr. Anatoly Trofimov.)

In a musical career spanning half a century, Shostakovich engrossed himself with a staggeringly diverse range of genres and styles. Beyond his 15 symphonies and 15 string quartets, his lesser-known works offer intrigue and interest likewise. With the reappraisal of Shostakovich in recent times, his light music is beginning to enjoy unprecedented popularity in concert halls and record catalogues.

The Gadfly (1955) is probably Shostakovich’s best-known film score. It is an orchestral suite of incidental music from the film, which was based on the novel of the same name by Ethel Lilian Voynich. Set in Italy in the tumultuous 1840s, when that nation was under Austrian domination, and revolt and uprisings were common, the story centers on the illegitimate son of a cardinal who joins the fight to unite Italy. When caught, he faces the firing squad as a willing martyr. It is a story of faith, disillusionment, revolution, romance, and heroism.

As a novel The Gadfly was exceptionally popular in the Soviet Union, exerting a large cultural influence. It was compulsory reading there and the top best seller. Indeed, by the time of Voynich’s death, it is estimated to have sold 2,500,000 copies in the Soviet Union alone. Shostakovich composed the score for the film of the same name. Its most famous movement, Romance, was used in the BBC/PBS TV series, Reilly, Ace of Spies.

Moscow, Cheryomushki (1958) is a three-act comic operetta in a bewildering variation of styles, from the Romantic idiom to the most vulgar popular songs. The satirical plot deals with one of the most pressing concerns of urban Russians of the day: the chronic housing shortage and the difficulties of securing livable conditions. Cheryomushki translates to “bird-cherry trees,” the name of a real housing estate in southwest Moscow. A Spin Through Moscow is the first of the four dance-like movements of the orchestral suite from the operetta.

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Gioachino Rossini
(Born in Pesaro, Italy, in 1792; died in Paris, France in 1868)

Fantaisie Concertante sur des Thèmes de L’ Italiana in Algieri (arr. Charles Triébert and Eugene Jancourt)

This “concert fantasy” is from a delightful collection of opera-inspired arrangements dating from 19th-century Paris and the salon music of that time. It contains works by the opera composers Rossini and Donizetti, who were the delight of Parisian audiences, in potpourri arrangements by the oboe and bassoon virtuosi (and conservatoire professors) of the day Charles Triébert, Henri Brod, and Eugéne Jancourt. These works were not only “tuneful” but enabled the performers to show off their ample virtuosity very well. The rousing Fantaisie Concertante, based on tunes from Rossini’s L’italiana in Algeri, (The Italian Girl in Algiers) is such a work.

Rossini composed L’italiana in Algeri, an operatic drama in two acts, when he was 21 years old. The work was first performed at the Teatro San Benedetto in Venice on May 22, 1813. The opera was a notable success, and Rossini made progressive changes to the work for later performances in Vicenza, Milan, and Naples.

The music is characteristic of Rossini’s style, remarkable for its fusion of sustained, manic energy with elegant, pristine melodies. The opera is notable for Rossini’s mixing of opera seria (the “serious” style of Italian opera that predominated in Europe during the early 18th century), with opera buffa (a genre of comic opera which originated in Naples in the mid 18th century).

Except where otherwise noted, program notes by the Poulenc Trio.

PROGRAM NOTES

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

Piano Concerto No. 12 in A major, K. 414

1. Allegro in A major
2. Andante in D major
3. Allegretto in A major

The fact that Mozart needed to convince the city of Vienna that he should be better regarded as both a virtuoso pianist and a composer tells us something about the world of music in that city in 1782. Vienna had an insatiable appetite for music, yet it was not easily impressed nor—ironically—especially sophisticated. That combination would set Mozart’s teeth on edge throughout his career, especially with regard to his piano concertos. But in 1782, not long after he had moved from Salzburg to settle permanently in Vienna and had married, Mozart was determined to win over the fickle Viennese with three extremely charming piano concertos: his 11th, 12th and 13th. Indeed, in a letter to his father, Mozart described these concertos as:

… a happy medium between what is too easy and too difficult; they are very brilliant, pleasing to the ear, and natural without being vapid. There are passages here and there from which the … connoisseurs alone can derive satisfaction; but these passages are written in such a way that the less learned cannot fail to be pleased, though without knowing why.

Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 12 is certainly pleasing to the ear and anything but vapid. Charming and perfectly urbane, the first movement begins with a delightfully spirited theme that is then taken up by the piano soloist. The movement is full of light and gentle wit, perfect not only for the Viennese in the late 18th century but for any concertgoer anywhere anytime. Listen here for a characteristic of Mozart’s early concertos:  The piano is typically set apart from the orchestra, often playing extended solo passages or with only the lightest accompaniment. The effect is articulate and enchanting.

For the “connoisseurs,” the second movement begins with a nearly direct quote of part of a theme written by Johann Christian Bach (1735–1782, son of Johann Sebastian) in the overture to his 1763 opera La calamita de’ cuori. While on extended tour as a young piano prodigy, the eight-year-old Mozart had met Johann Christian in London and become quite fond of him and his music. When Mozart wrote his Piano Concerto No. 12, the “London Bach” had just died earlier the same year, and the beginning of the second movement pays homage to him. Regardless of this movement’s origins, however, every listener can simply luxuriate in its gorgeousness. In its beautiful Andante, sophistication is created out of simplicity and poignancy––a hallmark of Mozart’s genius.

The Allegretto completes this concerto with a wonderful rondo (a cyclical form within which sections return) which allows the orchestra and piano to trade and play with several themes, all accomplished cleverly and stylishly. Including some charming little piano cadenzas, the movement is immensely refreshing, and brings this delightful concerto to a refined yet energetic close.

A performance note: Mozart was not only the piano soloist at the premiere of his Concerto No. 12 but also the conductor. This practice of conducting from the keyboard has a long history that predates Mozart. Well before conductors came into their modern existence, players of keyboard instruments often led/conducted their ensembles; in fact, one of the Bach sons found this to be the most superlative way of keeping an orchestra together. Nonetheless, Mozart’s dual performance roles became legendary in his own day, and thus, Maestro Jed Gaylin continues a great tradition that Mozart himself made famous in Vienna.

Anton Webern
(Born in Vienna, Austria in 1883; died in Mittersill, Austria in 1945)

Langsamer Satz (“Slow Movement”)

This exquisite work was composed in 1905, early in Anton Webern’s career, when his compositions were tonal, highly chromatic, and steeped in the ethos of the Romantic era. Its title, Langsamer Satz (literally, “Slow Movement”), suggests that Webern may have intended it to be part of a full-fledged string quartet. Yet he never wrote any more movements. The short work remained unpublished and seems to have been shelved and nearly forgotten until nearly 20 years after his death, when it finally received its premiere at a concert in Seattle, Washington, in 1962. Three decades later, in 1992, the Seattle Symphony conductor Gerard Schwartz arranged the piece for string orchestra. Since its reemergence, musicians and audiences have found this brief, orphaned work, with its tenderness and rapturous beauty, to speak completely for itself—its possible place in a never-completed string quartet unnoticed.

At the time of the work’s writing, 1905, Webern had just begun studying composition with Arnold Schoenberg in Vienna. Around 1919, Schoenberg, Webern, and his fellow pupil Alban Berg would later usher in an entirely new method of composing now known as “serial,” or 12-tone, music. Webern’s serial approach was unique, however:  His works were concise, given to utter clarity almost above all else, and infused with an uncanny lyricism. Because of these guiding principles, Webern’s short list of his 12-tone works are often celebrated as rarefied musical gems. And though Langsamer Satz was created long before his serial works, Webern’s guiding principles of clarity, concision and lyricism infuse this work and all his early Romantic works just as significantly.   

Langsamer‘s beguilement, too, is certainly owed in part to its inspiration from a particularly wondrous time in Webern’s life. Indeed, just before this work’s creation, Webern had just taken a holiday in the Alps with his cousin, Wilhelmine Mörtl, and he was head-over-heels in love with this young woman who would later become his wife. As Webern wrote in his diary in 1905:

To walk forever like this among flowers, with my dearest one beside me, to feel oneself so entirely at one with the universe, without care, free as the lark in the sky above—O what splendor! …. When night fell (after the rain) the sky shed bitter tears, but I wandered with her along a road …. A coat protected the two of us. Our love rose to infinite heights and filled the Universe. Two souls were enraptured.

In the mere 10 or so minutes of this piece, Webern seems to capture those ecstatic, joyful, contented emotions. The piece is cast in three sections, beginning with a main theme that is full-blown ecstasy. Here, the violins set out with an achingly beautiful and lyrical song that will soar into the infinite blue sky. A delightful passage that contrasts with this theme soon appears, featuring the lower strings accompanying in pizzicato (plucked strings). The music in this section is filled with sweet energy as well as vulnerability, as if Webern is evoking his fluttering heart. In the work’s short central section, a second theme is introduced, joyful and poetic, with violins and cello trading bits of this new theme back and forth, like sweethearts. These two themes come together to fill out the last section, flowing but intense and luxuriating in their harmonies. The plucked strings reappear, this time with a heart-catching tenderness, and this may be one of the loveliest moments in all of Webern’s music. After another, gentler climax, the concluding section quietly fades into a contented lovers’ twilight, which Webern has repeatedly marked zögernd—a musical direction meaning “lingeringly.”  

Franz Josef Haydn
(Born in Rohrau, Austria in 1732; died in Vienna in 1809)

Symphony No. 44 in E minor (Trauersymphonie), H. I/44

1. Allegro con brio
2. Menuetto e Trio; Allegretto
3. Adagio
4. Presto

Haydn created his beloved Symphony No. 44 (nicknamed the Trauersymphonie—trauer meaning “mourning”) in 1772. At that time, he was about halfway through his long journey of writing his 104 symphonies, and in true Haydn form, he was continuing to experiment with the genre. During the same period, German artists in both literary and musical circles were using the sturm und drang (“storm and stress”) technique, a proto-Romantic aesthetic. In music, the idea was to turn away from rationalism and classicism and to give more freedom to experimentation, the emotions, and disquiet. Since Haydn was “cut off from the word,” (as he humorously described it) by his role as Kapellmeister (director of music) for the Austrian Esterhazy Estate, he was able to experiment without censure. Indeed, his 104 symphonies run a most wonderful gamut of experimentation in form, humor, and emotionalism, as well as early forays into chromaticism. We see this in his Symphony No. 44, which specifically stands out for its unrelenting energy and its unique exploration of pathos.

Symphony No. 44 is one of only a few of Haydn’s symphonies written in a minor key, which in the 1770s would have been perceived as a uniquely serious tonal world. The very opening of the first movement bears this out: It is strident and edgy, as though something gravely important, even sinister, is afoot. Notice, too, how the dynamics begin loud (forte) and then immediately drop to soft (piano)—a technique used here for emotional affect, to keep listeners at the edge of their seats. These abrupt dynamic changes occur throughout the symphony, but they are especially prevalent in this first movement. With its thematic emotional gravitas and its dynamic jangling, together with a pulsing motive that permeates the entire movement, Haydn’s techniques are delightfully tense and thrilling.

The second movement is a menuetto (a stately dance) which by the late 18^th Century was typically placed as the third movement in symphonies. But Haydn here is experimenting with pacing and balance:  After the intense first movement, a light dance stabilizes the symphony’s weight. Nevertheless, the themes in this Menuetto’s first section also flirt with dark emotions, despite their parlor-waltz characteristics. Haydn also marks the score as canone in diapason, meaning “canon in the octave [apart].” A canon is a musical form that repeats its melody in a delayed manner, so that the two (or more) iterations soon play in harmony with each other. You can hear this canon technique immediately in this Menuetto’s very first bars, as well as throughout the movement. But where ordinarily these themes tumbling about themselves might seem jolly, in this case Haydn has created a mesmerizing feeling of the singing of repetitive sorrows.  Only in this movement’s middle section, the trio, do we hear a bit of major-key sunshine, which feels all the brighter in contrast to what has come before. The beginning theme returns to close the movement somberly.

The slow third movement, “Adagio”. is one of Haydn’s loveliest creations. Musical lore tells that Haydn asked for this movement to be played at his funeral. That may be apocryphal, but we do know for certain that this adagio was played at a commemorative concert in Berlin in 1809 after Haydn died. Hence, the reference to mourning in the symphony’s nickname. In tone, this movement pulls away from the symphony’s turbulence and darkness and instead explores serenity, moving with simplicity and with few frills. The melody is gently active, its accompaniment unrushed, and its feel is calming and content. A particularly beautiful section occurs when the upper strings sing above a quietly undulating triplet figure in the lower strings.

The frenetic finale, however, leaves no prisoners. The pace is breakneck—a cyclone of driving energy. The beginning, and main, theme is played in unison in the strings, evoking a feeling of an urgent statement. From there, Haydn creates a race to the last bars with an almost inexorable relentlessness. Extraordinary, too, is how much energy comes surging out of the few instruments that Haydn scored for: only two oboes (often bassoons), two horns, and the typical strings. Listen also for the abrupt dynamic changes in this movement and more canonic writing, all of which serve to create one of the most breathlessly exciting finales in any of Haydn’s symphonies.

© Max Derrickson