A preliminary observation. The works featured in this concert share the same inspiration: Beethoven’s ever-popular Septet, Op. 20.

Beethoven premiered this septet in 1800, shortly after he arrived in Vienna. Not yet known as a composer of large-scale works, Beethoven began “working up” to writing a symphony by expanding his instrumental palette. His first effort at expansion was this septet, which he scored, essentially, for a small orchestra: clarinet, bassoon, horn, violin, viola, cello, and double bass.

Brimming with light, energy, and the devil-may-care attitude of a young, genius, Beethoven’s Septet Op.20 is arguably his sunniest work. It was instantly loved at its premiere and has remained so ever since. For many years, its mastery and ebullience, and its ubiquity in concert halls, cast their influence over composers who followed, encouraging additional masterpieces. 

One of these masterpieces is Franz Schubert’s Octet in F major. Premiered in Vienna 24 years after Beethoven’s septet, the octet very specifically evokes that work. 

Another masterpiece prompted by Beethoven’s septet is Carl Nielsen’s Serenata in vano, which was written more than a century after the septet, in 1914. It acknowledges the septet like a revered ancestor. 

The program notes that follow more fully explain the relation of Beethoven’s septet to both these works.

Carl Nielsen

(Born in Sortelung, on Funen, Denmark in 1865; died in Copenhagen in 1931)

Serenata in vano, FS 68

Allegro non troppo

Un poco adagio

Tempo di marcia

Nielsen was born on the island of Funen, Denmark, the birthplace of Hans Christian Anderson and a place so lovely it is rightfully called the Garden of Denmark. Along with the island’s natural wonders, Nielsen’s early years were filled with music. His mother was a fine singer, and his father was the leader of the town band. Nielsen was soon playing the violin, singing at every opportunity, and playing trombone in his father’s band. And there was often a fair amount of hilarity — Nielsen’s father was an exceptional impressionist, pranking his pals with friendly buffoonery. 

Nielsen’s early immersion in this musical world of folksong and joyful hometown music-making, along with a keen sense of the comical, deeply informed his compositional career. That career would span nearly five decades, from studying at the Copenhagen Conservatory to eventually becoming its director and, arguably, Denmark’s greatest composer.

Nielsen also spent many years as a professional violinist, playing for, and eventually serving as the assistant conductor of the Copenhagen Royal Theater Orchestra. In 1914, several of Nielsen’s Royal Theater colleagues created a chamber group to tour Denmark performing Beethoven’s Septet, Op. 20. They asked Nielsen to provide a short, lighthearted piece to round out their program. He obliged. Scoring for several of the same instruments that were already used in Beethoven’s work — clarinet, bassoon, horn, cello and double bass — he penned his delightfully fun Serenata in vano in only a few weeks.

It’s a quirky work, brimming with humor and good spirit. Nielsen provided this description of it:

Serenata in vano is a humorous trifle. First the gentlemen play in a somewhat chivalric and showy manner to lure the fair one out onto the balcony, but she does not appear. Then they play in a slightly languorous strain (Poco adagio), but that hasn’t any effect either. Since they have played in vain (in vano), they don’t care a straw and shuffle off home to the strains of the little final march, which they play for their own amusement.

The first movement begins with a waltz feel, awash with energy and high hopes. The clarinet, cello and horn each have their solo moment, with very different approaches: the clarinet displays sultry Arabic influences; the cello’s approach is extremely romantic; the horn offers a full-throated love song. But primarily the serenade is a beguiling ensemble production, punctuated with many soloistic flourishes. Notice, however, that as the movement progresses, the double bass has been essentially excluded from the spotlight. This is surely a good-natured jab at Nielsen’s long-time friend Ludwig Hegner, who was the Royal Theater’s double bassist, the head of the chamber group, the organizer of the tour, and commissioner of the Serenata.  

When the double bass finally does get its moment, its role is to begin the second movement (with no pause after the first movement) with just a few, simple, repeated notes — Nielsen was apparently mercilessly “good natured.” As it proceeds, though, the second movement is ripe with beautiful songs and sounds. Nielsen’s instrumental combinations and wandering, lush harmonies are touchingly tender and poetic. Listen especially for the emergence of the clarinet near this movement’s end, as it increasingly, but most delicately, takes several flights of musical fancy as though lost in other thoughts since the fair one hasn’t appeared on her balcony.

A moment of silence prepares for the last, third movement. This movement is a ridiculous and wonderful march depicting the trio turning to go back home or perhaps to drown their sorrows elsewhere (as Nielsen described it, “playing a march for their own amusement.”) The march is comical indeed. While the clarinet, bassoon and horn reminisce on their failed serenades, the bass and cello interrupt with absurdly exaggerated episodes of swagger. The winds then join in with their own raucousness before the work comes to a tidy close.

Franz Schubert

(Born in Vienna, Austria in 1797; died in Vienna in 1828)

Octet in F major, Op. 166, D. 803

1. Adagio — Allegro
2. Adagio
3. Allegro vivace
4. Andante con variazioni
5. Menuetto. Allegretto
6. Andante molto — Allegro

While Schubert was at work in 1824 on his String Quartet No. 14, Death and the Maiden, one of his friends commissioned him to write what would become his Octet in F major. The scope of the commission offered Schubert a great opportunity. The friend, the very talented clarinettist Count Ferdinand von Troyer, was the chief administrator for the Archduke Rudolph, the Viennese patron and occasional piano pupil of Beethoven. Troyen was preparing a performance of Beethoven’s beloved Septet, Op. 20, and asked Schubert to write a companion piece to that work for the performance. It was a chance for Schubert to impress an important musical benefactor. According to accounts from his friends, Schubert couldn’t be distracted from this composing and finished the octet within several weeks.

The Octet in F major is indeed a companionable piece. It uses the same instruments as Beethoven’s septet — clarinet, bassoon, horn, violin, viola, cello, and double bass — with an additional violin. Also, the mood of this nearly hour-long work is, like Beethoven’s, one of the composer’s sunniest expressions, consistently hedging towards cheerfulness. Schubert even used the same number of movements and, broadly, the same formal structure that Beethoven did for the septet.

But, as always, Schubert shines in his own way. And regardless of how sunny this octet seems, it flirts often with pathos. And amidst so many cheerful melodies, we find hints of yearning, sadness, sometimes even fear and distress. Such mixed emotions are not surprising considering that he was writing his Death and the Maiden at the same time and also in the throes of his worsening health crisis with syphilis. As Schubert said of his compositional muses, “When I attempted to sing of love, it turned to pain. And when I tried to sing of sorrow, it turned to love.”

Schubert obligingly wrote a virtuosic part for Troyer’s clarinet, and another for the first violin (which was also played by a great musician, Ignaz Schuppanzigh, who knew Beethoven well). You will hear these two instruments both as soloists as well as singing together many times. But the octet is much more than a double concerto.  Schubert captures an uncanny balance between chamber music and symphonic grandeur throughout the work, and virtuosity extends to each of the members of the octet.

Here are a few moments of sheer delight and genius in this masterpiece: 

1. Adagio — Allegro

From the beginning you can hear that Schubert’s simple addition of one violin to the Septet ensemble makes for a big, orchestral sound. After the brief opening, the winds then play a motive that will inform the rest of the work in various ways, and which contain a clipped, or dotted, skipping rhythm that will pervade almost every bar of the rest of the movement. In the quick-stepping Allegro, listen for the spectacular and near-dizzying sequences of the main theme as it passes between the instruments.

2. Adagio

The opening theme by the solo clarinet is one of Schubert’s most gentle-natured and vulnerable melodies. It rises and falls over an accompaniment that reminds us of his beautiful Ave Maria. It is only surpassed here by the addition of the violin to the clarinet as they play a love duet to the heavens.

3. Allegro vivace

The emotional arc in this delightful little dance piece feels wonderfully backward.  Beginning with great cheer, it subtly moves into more sentimental and darker territory and then returns to lightness.

4. Andante con variazioni

The opening melody here is borrowed from a happy duet in Act II of Schubert’s 1815 singspiel (opera) called Die Freunde von Salamanka (“The Friends from Salamanca”). (Schubert, having written several operas and finding no success with them, may have been doing a little self -promotion here.) But it’s a wonderfully carefree tune and ripe for variation, a skill at which Schubert excelled. Listen especially for his imaginative instrumental combinations, and how the variations spotlight specific instruments, such as the solo horn in Variation III and solo cello in Variation IV. Though this movement is particularly bright, Schubert can’t seem to help listing toward darker hues in Variation V. As Schubert said, “When I attempted to sing of love, it turned to pain.”

5. Menuetto. Allegretto

Though traditionally a light dance movement, Schubert turns this minuet into almost a hymn, at least at the opening. Listen, too, for the symphonic richness of the sonorities and for the many birdlike solos. And notice a little Schubertian magic: that clipped, dotted rhythm introduced in the opening movement has by now appeared in nearly every bar of the work.

6. Andante molto — Allegro

The introduction here is some of Schubert’s most dramatic, almost frightening, instrumental music. With shivering (tremolo) strings and exclamatory winds, Schubert evokes an unsettling eeriness. But the Allegro delightfully zooms off in cheer and dignity, as if none of that ever happened. The music increases in good cheer, even rambunctiousness. Listen especially for the heralding horn moment that sets off two absolutely manic, jaw-dropping passages of virtuosic triplets, first heard in the violin and replied to by the clarinet. The rowdiness gets to a point of beer-hall bluster and then stops rather abruptly. The eerie introductory Andante music returns, as though Schubert has stumbled upon a memento mori. But the concluding bars quickly recapture the octet’s overall good cheer and the movement ends with some of Schubert’s most exhilarating writing.

© Max Derrickson

Secrets & Surprises

May 21 & 22, 2022

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Gabriel Fauré
(Born in Pamiers, Ariège, Midi-Pyrénées, France on May 12, 1845; died in Paris in 1924)
Masques et Bergamasques Suite, Op. 112

1. Overture. Allegro molto vivo
2. Menuet. Tempo di menuetto—Allegro moderato
3. Gavotte. Allegro vivo
4. Pastorale. Andantino tranquillo 

In 1918 Prince Albert of Monaco commissioned the aging Gabriel Fauré to write the music for a divertissement (a short ballet) to be performed at the Monte Carlo Theater. Fauré, age 73, was still busily directing the Paris Conservatoire and was battling a curious form of deafness that warps pitches. With little free time, instead of composing an “occasion” piece for this commission, Fauré partly expanded an earlier work, his Clair de lune from his Fêtes galantes of 1902. But at this stage in Faure’s career, the Monte Carlo piece was also intended to be a kind of musical autobiography. And so, in the end, it contained eight songs and instrumental pieces, some of them previously published as far back as 1869 and some newly composed. The work was well-received, and Fauré quickly refashioned it into a four-piece suite that had its premiere in 1919 under the title Masques et Bergamasques. 

The program for the Monte Carlo event noted that the inspiration for the ballet’s characters came from the Italian commedia dell’arte: 

The characters Harlequin, Gilles and Colombine, whose task is usually to amuse the aristocratic audience, take their turn at being spectators at a ‘Fêtes galantes’ on the island of Cythera. The lords and ladies, who as a rule applaud their efforts, now unwittingly provide them with entertainment by their coquettish behavior.

Fauré’s Clair de lune had been based on a poem of the same name by the French poet Paul Verlaine. And the curious title of Fauré’s 1919 suite was taken from the first stanza of Verlaine’s poem, which reads as follows:

Votre âme est un paysage choisi
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques,
Jouant du luth et dansant, et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantastiques!  

(Your soul is a chosen landscape
charmed by masquers and revelers
playing the lute and dancing, and almost
sad beneath their fanciful disguises!).  

Fauré’s suite may therefore be read as a kind of hidden camera on aristocratic reveling. The music strives, like Verlaine’s decadent poems, to portray a deeper pathos underneath the polished veneer of such festivities. The overture, originally from Fauré’s Fêtes galantes of 1902, begins in a sprint, with lighthearted vigor. The revelers are no doubt giddy and full of expectancy as they arrive at the grand party. But a second theme, though luxurious and soaring, seems to uncover a melancholy. All the same, it’s ignored quickly enough with the return of the energetic first theme.

The two middle dance movements, the Menuet (newly composed) and the Gavotte (from 1869), broaden the underlying dissatisfactions in the revelers, though the formal appearances are upheld. Fauré keeps the dance forms structurally accurate, but the Menuet drives through an unsettling number of key changes and introduces a sort of reveler petulance in the Trio section with plodding brass and low pitched timpani. Likewise, the Gavotte has an absolutely lovely first theme but is tinged with dark harmonic hues, suggesting an underlying melancholy. It continues with a frenetic and driving repetition of notes in the liquid-like middle section, portraying a vapid chattering. And yet, though this music flirts with shallowness and pathos, it also contains some of Fauré’s most exquisite melodies.

The suite ends with an unexpectedly placed Pastorale. Perhaps the sleepy and drunken revelers are taking a walk under the moonlight: The music is gentle and dreamy, lightly cascading in the strings and harp. The music grows and sweeps, breathes deeply and deliciously, and all are under the spell of Fauré’s musical charms. But near the Pastorale’s end a breathtaking set of harmonies stagger the melodic cadences. The harmonies shift about and don’t want to come back to the home key; although brief. These shifts cleverly create an atmosphere of surrealism à la Verlaine––though lush and sated, there is a feeling of being unsure, and alone.

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Camille Saint-Saëns
(Born in Paris in 1835; died in Algiers, Algeria in 1921)
Cello Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Op. 33

1. Allegro non troppo
2. Allegretto con moto
3. Allegro non troppo (Tempo primo)

Following France’s loss to Germany in the Franco-Prussian War in 1871, Paris began calling for a new, French-minded music to reassert its national self-esteem, and Saint-Saëns was at the ready. One of his first responses was to compose a concerto for cello, an instrument that at the time was highly overshadowed by the public’s obsession with showy German piano and violin concertos. His Cello Concerto No. 1 premiered in 1873 to thunderous nationalist acclaim.

Two distinctive features of the concerto made it stand out immediately in 1870’s French music: The first and most obvious feature is the way the Concerto begins with an unaccompanied cello solo that completely skips the typical orchestra-only introduction. The second striking feature is the innovative manner in which Saint-Saëns blends all three movements into a single movement without pauses in between.

Few concerti begin as stridently as this one, as the opening cello solo immediately sweeps us up with its majestic power and rich singing ability. The delightful transition into the slower next movement is one of Saint-Saëns’ most novel techniques––the music abruptly begins slowing down, as if the engine had run out of fuel.

The Allegretto second movement is one of those wonders that take us to another realm of beauty. Saint-Saëns does this by capturing a feeling of antiquity and simplicity, filled with lyrical themes that hint of older times and offer nothing showy. A brief reprise of the main theme returns at the end, serving as a musical bridge to the next movement, again, without pause.

The finale offers both tunefulness and a certain operatic drama that trade off in turns. The cello passages both melt and burn, the themes blending melancholy, intrigue and excitement with gleeful gymnastics. The movement paces itself perfectly into a quickening of tempo and an exciting, yet stately, ending––not grandiloquent but the perfect finish to a work of such mastery. It’s hard not to marvel that Saint-Saëns, in his first attempt at a cello concerto, could have gotten it so right. 

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Felix Mendelssohn
(Born in Hamburg, Germany in 1809; died in Leipzig, Germany in 1847)
Symphony No. 4 in A major, Op 90 (Italian)

1. Allegro vivace
2. Andante con moto
3. Con moto moderato
4. Finale. Saltarello—Presto

When Mendelssohn was a young and precocious lad of 12, he met the great poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and it was then that this elder statesman of German literature encouraged the young Felix to travel and see the world and thereby learn. By the time the extraordinarily talented Mendelssohn was 21 in 1830, he had already composed two astonishingly great pieces: his octet at age 16, and his masterpiece, the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, at 17. Despite these successes, he wondered whether music was to be his true path, and so with his family’s financial backing and Goethe’s advice to inspire him, he set out into the world for what he called his “Great Trip.” His destinations were London, Paris, and key cities in Germany, Scotland and Italy. In each place, Mendelssohn gave keyboard concerts, soaked in the atmosphere, met other famous musicians, and painted. But mainly he absorbed musical inspiration. After a little more than two years on this journey Mendelssohn returned home a richer man in spirit, dedicated to music as his vocation, and having mostly completed both his Scottish Symphony No. 3 and his Italian Symphony No. 4.

The nicknames that Mendelssohn gave these symphonies tell only of his inspirations from those countries, rather than any storyline or place depiction in them. Nonetheless, judging from the copious letters he wrote during his travels, Mendelssohn was utterly in love with Italy: enchanted by its history, its congeniality, and its sun-soaked climate. There can be no better musical souvenir of his jubilant impressions than the opening of his Italian symphony (which premiered in 1833). Beginning with a grand pizzicato in the strings, the winds then race off into rapid-fire motion, underneath a wonderfully bright melody in the violins above them. Its sprightliness and vigor are infectious and clearly reflect Mendelssohn’s exuberant delight with Italy.

The beautiful and arching second movement, Andante, captures something of the faded grandeur of a country that once ruled and cultured the Western world. The solemn main theme paints nostalgic frescos in long, cinematic sweeps, but a delicately subtle simplicity and naiveté also shines through.  

The third movement, Moderato, sings with a tender touch, but it is darkened ever so skillfully with a more somber Trio in the middle section that is reminiscent of Mozart’s magical and evocative minuets that Mendelssohn so adored.

The Finale is fashioned after an old Italian dance form called a saltarello, although some musicologists insist it is a tarantella––that frantic, jumping dance prescribed as an antidote to a tarantula bite. Whichever its inspiration, after the stomping-like opening chords, the animation is set in high motion. What makes it so fantastic is the way Mendelssohn manages to continue increasing the excitement amid its unrelenting pace, leading to its final bars brimming with exhilaration.

© Max Derrickson

WINDS FOR WOLFGANG

March 19 & 20, 2022

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Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

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

Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), K. 620

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

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

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

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

Overture

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

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

Der Vogelfänger (I am the bird catcher)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dove sono (Where are they?)

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

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

Largo—Allegro molto

Minuet

Adagio

Minuet. Allegretto

Romance. Adagio—Allegretto—Adagio

Theme and Variations. Andante

Rondo. Allegro molto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Max Derrickson

Two Rivers String Quartet

PROGRAM NOTES

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

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

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

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

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

1. Presto

2. Adagio

3. Tempo di Menuetto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Allegro con spirito

2. Adagio sostenuto

3. Menuet. Presto

4. Finale: Allegro ma non troppo

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

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

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

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

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

–– Program notes © Max Derrickson