Concert - November 19 & 20

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

Longing for Song

Amy Beach
(Born in Henniker, New Hampshire in 1867; died in New York City in 1944)

String Quartet, Op. 89
In one movement: Grave – Più animato – Allegro molto (Grave)

Amy Beach grew up in the Boston area in a well-to-do family. Like New York City, Boston was a cultural center for the United States at the time, and a great deal of excellent music was happening there. In that environment, Beach quickly became known as an astounding prodigy. At age four, for example, she began to compose small pieces in her head, without a piano, and to play them from memory whenever a piano became available. Around age seven she was giving piano recitals featuring works of Handel and Beethoven, as well as her own compositions. Soon, she was encouraged to go on an international tour. Her parents wisely declined that advice, but young Beach was reportedly tyrannical about deciding what music could be played in the house.

As Beach matured, she became a musician of many “firsts.” As the first American woman to write an acclaimed mass (Mass in E-flat, Op. 5, in 1892), she soon followed that success as the first American woman to write a successful symphony (her well-loved Gaelic Symphony in 1896). This led to her inclusion, again a first, in the “Boston Six” circle of composers, which boasted the likes of Horatio Parker (the original “dean of American composers” before Aaron Copland) and Edward MacDowell, who created the influential MacDowell Colony, a musicians’ retreat in New Hampshire.

MacDowell began his retreat (now known simply as “MacDowell”) so American musicians and artists could work in collaboration and in a “nest of ideas.” At Beach’s first summer there, in 1921, she came across the “Indianist” movement in American music that would inform our concert’s string quartet. The Indianists championed Native American songs, in part to capture the essence of American nationalist musical expression, and its proponents often gathered at MacDowell. Specifically, too, MacDowell himself had taught at Columbia University where he collaborated with the famous anthropologist/ethnomusicologist Franz Boas, who had collected Alaskan Inuit songs in his book, The Central Eskimo.

Beach used three songs from Boas’s book for our concert’s string quartet: Summer Song, Playing at Ball, and Ititaujang’s Song. She put the final touches on the quartet in 1929 and it found almost instant acclaim, being heralded as “uniquely beautiful.” What is especially wonderful about her use of these three songs is the way she integrated them, not only as straight-out melodies but using parts of them as countermelodies and harmonies. This was an imaginatively effective method of combining folk music with art music.

The opening is slow and filled with a wandering pensiveness that seems both austere and dignified. The music is mildly dissonant, and indeed, unresolved motives and melodies play a big role throughout the work. The reason for this, likely, is that the Inuit songs themselves don’t generally adhere to the same rules of harmony as Western European music — their scales are different and the endings of their musical phrases often feel unresolved.

The first song, Summer Song, appears as a viola solo at about 1:30 minutes into the work. Contrasting with the gravitas of the introduction, this first song is pleasant and glad sounding. Boas’s translated lyrics (the only one of the songs known to be translated) describe how lovely it is to be outside in the long hours of light in summer and when the reindeer return and food is plentiful. Beach deftly captures its lilting simplicity.

The second song, Playing at Ball, appears around 30 seconds later, when the rest of the quartet joins the viola. The tune is light-hearted and filled with repeated notes. Beach then presents the two songs in such a way as to complement each other, as though they were organically related — listen for bits of them as they appear and fade into the tapestry of Beach’s musical fabric.

The third song, Ititaujang’s Song, begins with a quick introduction of loud and short unison chords. The full tune is heard soon after in the second violin. After Beach presents this song, she carries all the songs together in some impressive counterpoint, leading up to a brief and frisky fugue.

The long, final bars of Beach’s String Quartet mimic the slow opening of the work. The energy winds down, and the strings creep increasingly higher into the stratosphere. The final chord brings to us, at last, a very solid harmonic resolution and then fades into the darkness of a cold Northern night.


Franz Schubert
(Born in Vienna in 1797; died in Vienna in 1828)

String Quartet No. 14 in D minor, (Death and the Maiden), D. 810

  • Allegro
  • Andante con moto
  • Scherzo: Allegro molto — Trio
  • Presto — Prestissimo

In 1824, Franz Schubert was beginning to suffer deeply from the illness that would fell him a few years later: syphilis. He wrote an achingly depressed letter to a friend:

I find myself to be the most unhappy and wretched creature in the world. Imagine a man whose health will never be right again, … I might as well sing every day now, for upon retiring to bed each night I hope that I may not wake again, and each morning only recalls yesterday’s grief.

Death was clearly on Schubert’s mind. And yet, for the next four years until he died, Schubert had one of the most exceptionally creative periods of his life. As his letters and manuscripts from those last years show, his mind was aflame with musical inspiration. And in 1824, he wrote one of his great masterpieces, his String Quartet No. 14 in D minor, which has become a cherished cornerstone of the quartet genre. 

This string quartet’s nickname, Death and the Maiden, came from the musical introduction that begins the quartet’s second movement. Schubert took those first 24 bars from the opening to a song he had written in 1817, based on a poem by the German poet Matthias Claudius (1740–1815) also titled Death and the Maiden. The poem and Schubert’s song portray the moment when a personified Death entreats a young woman (the “Maiden”) at a ball. The Maiden bids Death to leave her at peace in life, but he cajoles her with comforting words:

Give me your hand, you fair and tender form!

I am a friend and do not come to punish.

Be of good cheer! I am not fierce,

You shall sleep softly in my arms!

Scholars debate whether Schubert intended String Quartet No. 14 as a rumination on his own death, but inspiration from this earlier song clearly informs the work. The quartet is, indeed, filled with gravitas and poignancy. The first movement begins with one of Schubert’s most memorable moments, emotionally charged, angry and pained. All four instruments begin at fortissimo, scored in double-stops (two notes played simultaneously on one instrument), with a short declamatory motive ending with a triplet figure. This immediately grabs our attention and grips us with pathos. Aurally, it approaches the sound of an entire orchestra of strings. The triplet motive will permeate almost every bar of the movement, as well as each of the quartet’s other movements. Listen especially, just after the declamatory introduction, as the instrumentalists pass the triplet around to each other like a foursome juggling flaming torches. 

The second movement begins with a searching and solemn progression of chords, a funeral march that Schubert borrowed from the opening of his Death and the Maiden song. From this statement of 24 bars (or longer, if Schubert’s section repeats are observed) spring five exceptional variations, each increasingly charged with emotion. The fifth and last variation — beginning with the cello playing octave triplets, followed by the first violin playing quick and repeated notes — especially evokes a sense of time running short; of something frightening looming.

The third movement is a scherzo, and here, too, Schubert again borrowed from himself for the first theme: a ländler (a rustic Austrian waltz), from the sixth dance of his 12 German Dances, D. 790, of 1823. This cascading theme crackles with a clear sense of urgency. Balance comes in its contrasting middle section (Trio) with a bittersweet tenderness; listen for the rhapsodic singing of the first violin here. But the “borrowed” theme returns to push the quartet toward its final movement.

The finale’s structure is a tarantella — an old Italian dance whose frenetic pace was claimed to be a folk remedy to ward off madness and death caused by a poisonous spider bite. Schubert surely captures freneticism here. Pure quicksilver, the finale begins in a hush but hurls along with fervor. True virtuosic playing is demanded in this section. Listen for the ways Schubert plays with big contrasts: loud and soft, silence and sound, pulse and stutters, and all the while, the first movement’s triplet figure is almost constantly in the musical fabric, propelling the music manically forward. And the final section of this masterful work does not disappoint — marked prestissimo (very fast), it is spectacularly exciting.

© Max Derrickson

Christine Lamprea

Secrets & Surprises

May 21 & 22, 2022


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.


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. 


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

The Vivaldi Project

From Venice to Vienna

April 3 & 5, 2022


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

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

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

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

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

—PROGRAM NOTES BY STEPHANIE VIAL

Mozart

WINDS FOR WOLFGANG

March 19 & 20, 2022


Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

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

Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), K. 620

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

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

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

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

Overture

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

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

Der Vogelfänger (I am the bird catcher)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dove sono (Where are they?)

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

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

Largo—Allegro molto

Minuet

Adagio

Minuet. Allegretto

Romance. Adagio—Allegretto—Adagio

Theme and Variations. Andante

Rondo. Allegro molto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Max Derrickson

Heather Austin Stone & Noelle Drewes

Heather Austin Stone & Noelle Drewes

 

PROGRAM NOTES

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

Holberg Suite (Fra Holbergs tid), Op. 40

Praeludium. Allegro vivace

Sarabande. Andante

Gavotte. Allegretto –– Musette. Un poco mosso

Air. Andante religioso

Rigaudon. Allegro con brio

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

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

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

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

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

Concerto for violin and oboe in D minor, BMV 1060

1. Allegro

2. Adagio

3. Allegro

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

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

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

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

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

1. Allegro con spirito

2. Adagio cantabile e con moto

3. Allegretto moderato

4. Allegro con brio e vivace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Max Derrickson

Two Rivers String Quartet

Two Rivers String Quartet

Two Rivers String Quartet

PROGRAM NOTES

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

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

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


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

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

1. Presto

2. Adagio

3. Tempo di Menuetto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

1. Allegro con spirito

2. Adagio sostenuto

3. Menuet. Presto

4. Finale: Allegro ma non troppo

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

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

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

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

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

–– Program notes © Max Derrickson

PROGRAM NOTES

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

Salut d’Amour, Op. 12

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

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

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

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

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

Overture to Don Giovanni

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

––Program notes © Max Derrickson

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Petite Symphony, Op. 216

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mládí” (Youth) Suite for Wind Instruments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serenade for Winds in D minor, Op. 44

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

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

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

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

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

––Program notes © Max Derrickson