Friends of Music Member Program Notes
Brilliant Beginnings, November 7, 2015
Oswaldo Golijov
(Born in La Plata, Argentina in 1960)
Last Round
1. Movido, Urgente – Macho, Cool and Dangerous
2. Lentissimo – Death of Angels
Oswaldo Golijov’s Last Round is a wonderfully quirky chamber work that honors the tango, Argentina’s beloved song and dance. It also serves as an elegy for two of tango’s greatest composers –- Astor Piazzolla and Carlos Gardel. Last Round represents the tango as it has always been –- a multi-cultural, always-evolving form of music.
The tango itself came about as amazing amalgamation of influences. By the 1890’s, tango had reached Buenos Aires, Argentina, but not before first stopping in Uruguay and Cuba. In Uruguay tango began as a West African slave-trade musical form called candombe. The word itself designated a set of drums, but the drums became a part of a spiritual dance and song, under the same name, which was only preformed during carnival — a splendid blend of West African and Catholic influences. The song and dance form then moved with the active slave trade to Cuba, and there it began to take on a new, sensual kind of dance shape.
Before long, tango found its way to Argentina, and into that country’s streets and dance halls. In the dance halls, now imbued with African and Cuban influences, it was blended in with salon music brought from the huge influx of European immigrants, and soon became solidly known as the tango. Where first needing the salon-type orchestra as its accompaniment in the Buenos Aires dance halls, the common folks needed an orchestral substitute. This was soon found in the bandoneón, a button accordion which was brought to South America by German immigrants as a substitute for the organ in makeshift churches. By the early 1900’s, the tango as we generally know it today had morphed in Buenos Aires into the overtly sensual form of singer, bandoneónista, and two dancers. It has since become one of Argentina’s most prized cultural icons –- and as diversely invested with influences and change as perhaps any song and dance form ever has been.
Golijov is himself one of the world’s most sought-after new composers, and he brings his own cosmopolitanism to Last Round. But he comes by the tango honestly: born and raised in Argentina to Eastern European Jewish immigrants, Golijov grew up immersed in Jewish, Classical, South American pop music, and of course, the tango. He went on to study music first in Israel and then finished his doctorate at the University of Pennsylvania. During his childhood in Argentina, it was the “tango of the old guard,” as epitomized by the actor and performer Carlos Gardel (1890 – 1935), who essentially won the hearts of the world to the beauties of tango, especially with his famous tango song My Beloved Buenos Aires in the 1930’s. Along the way, Golijov fell in love with the tangos of Astor Piazzolla (1921 – 1992), especially with his first set of tangos in the 1960’s, which challenged the “old guard” tangos with his new approach – the “nuevo tango.”
Said Piazzolla: “Nuevo tango = tango + tragedy + comedy + whorehouse.” One tango in particular in his early 1960’s set, which truly epitomized Piazzolla’s philosophy, was titled La muerte del ángel, which, with its highly syncopated rhythms and its complex harmonies, defied tango tradition. Having achieved National Hero status in Argentina, and fame around the world, Piazzolla’s death in 1992 prompted Golijov to begin his elegy to his tango guru by writing the second movement of what would later become Last Round – Lentissimo – Death of Angels. A few years later he was commissioned to expand the work and Golijov added the first movement. It premiered in 1996 to high acclaim.
Last Round’s orchestration is wonderfully unique. Two small string ensembles oppose each other on stage, and they are moderated and anchored by a double bass in the middle. Golijov’s objective was to create a string version of the bandoneón and it works remarkably well. The first movement is a tango of the rough and tumble street musicians of the underbelly of Buenos Aires, circa early 1900’s. Wheezing and snapping, the “string-bandoneón” creates a very untidy, and altogether joyful, roughneck tango straight off the streets. Occasional increases in tempo call into play the machismo of the vying tango dancers, and the jaunty, almost chaotic, rhythms testify to the love of rhythm that Piazzolla adored and exploited in over 300 tangos.
The second movement is a fittingly somber threnody of the two great tango men. Its subtitle, of course, is named in homage to Piazzolla’s groundbreaking tango La muerte del ángel, but only in name. Here it serves both as literal reference and as an elegy about the influence and death of Piazzolla, one of tango’s great champions. In this movement, Golijov wanted to create the sensation of what a bandoneón could do if it never had to change between compression and expansion –- one gigantic, long pull. Bits of a tune are implied at first, but melancholic and atmospheric music pervade, evoking mourning and sadness. Not until near the middle do we understand from where the bits of melody arise, as Golijov finally quotes
outright the famous Gardel refrain from My Beloved Buenos Aires. Heard clearly and somberly –- this refrain is the first true melody to invade the movement.
From then on, the movement rhapsodizes on Gardel’s refrain and Golijov’s “endless pull” idea, with delicate beauty and bitter sweetness. The result of both movements together creates the kind of spiritual, earthy, sexy and ecstatic music of the tango in a completely fresh and heartfelt way, much in keeping with tango’s multi-cultural roots, and delightfully new and engaging for today.
Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy
(Born in Hamburg, Germany in 1809; died in Leipzig, Germany in 1847)
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in E-minor, Op. 64
1. Allegro molto appasionato
2. Andante
3. Allegretto non troppo – Allegro molto vivace
In 1825 and 1826, the 16 year-old Mendelssohn wrote two of Westerns Music’s greatest jewels: the String Octet in E-flat Major, Op. 20, followed by A Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture, Op 21. After being stunned and delighted by these great works, all of Europe was expecting a string of masterpieces to follow. Although Mendelssohn composed many excellent works in the years that followed – most notably his Symphonies No. 2 through 5 and his two Oratorios – none seemed to achieve the inspiration that he had displayed with these two early, giant masterpieces.
But during these seemingly quiescent years, Mendelssohn wasn’t resting on his young laurels. He had become a revivalist of Bach’s great choral works and was a first-rate Bach scholar; he founded and directed the Leipzig Conservatory; he conducted professionally and made some significant reforms in that field; and he concertized at an exhausting pace. Nevertheless, the music-going audiences of the day came to believe that his former masterpiece-well had gone dry.
The 1845 Violin Concerto would prove them wrong. It was only Mendelssohn’s hectic life that had kept him from finishing and premiering it. Its first notes had in fact been conjured up in 1838, when he told his friend and violinist, Ferdinand David, that he wanted to write him a concerto. The life-long collaboration between Mendelssohn and David is famous, and in this Concerto, David became an indispensable technical advisor. Despite that first inspiration in 1838, Mendelssohn couldn’t sit down to work on his Concerto without distraction until 1844. It was premiered in 1845 with David as soloist. It was immediately recognized as a masterpiece worthy of Mendelssohn’s early successes, and his critics were converted into his greatest admirers.
By Mendelssohn’s day –- hardly a generation since the towering violin concertos of Beethoven and Mozart –- Europe was becoming infatuated with concertos filled with musical fluff, often more flash than musical merit. Mendelssohn’s Concerto had something much more serious and lasting to say, surely in keeping with the tradition of the great Masters before him. This is clear from its opening theme. That first theme, sweeping, haunting and wonderfully lyrical, had been lurking in Mendelssohn’s mind ever since he wrote David in 1838 that it “gave [him] no peace” until he gave it voice in the Concerto. The entire concerto is filled with beautiful melodies, concise expression and those hallmark Mendelssohnian charms –- all aspects that would make this a masterpiece on their own.
But three unusual compositional techniques add an aspect of wholeness, of seamless flow and drama that make this Concerto stand above most others. First, the violin and orchestra are immediately thrown together to play at the outset, contrary to the typical orchestra-only introduction followed by a spotlight on the soloist. This fusion makes for a very dramatic beginning, as though there is little time to waste on trifles. Mendelssohn also placed the cadenza in an unusual place – instead of customarily placing it near the end, it occurs much sooner, heightening the sense of drama. Lastly, to keep an organic flow, Mendelssohn calls for no breaks between movements, but rather links them with musical bridges.
The link between the intense first movement and the second is a magical moment. The bassoon holds out a prolonged pitch after the final chords die off from the first movement, suspending time. And then a change of a half step occurs, followed by a quiet gathering of flutes and strings, liquefying like clouds into pitches of a new key, and then a new movement emerges. The Andante that follows is a sweet musing, one of Mendelssohn’s most beautiful songs. As this second movement ends, another magical bridge follows, this time like a recitative from a Rossini opera, with statements from the soloist and responses from the orchestra. All the while the tempo is quickening, and then, unexpectedly, a new movement launches forth.
The Finale is a quick-silver affair, introduced with a fanfare, followed by the soloist catapulting into revelry. One delightful detail of its main theme is that, as mercurial as it is, the upper woodwinds play along, creating an aurally 3-dimensional effect. Not without its own special charms, the Finale dashes through to a rousing ending.
Almost instantly famous, Mendelssohn’s Concerto became a mainstay in the repertoire. As the renowned violinist Joseph Joachim (1831 – 1907) said of it in 1906:
“The Germans have four violin concertos … [Beethoven, Brahms, Bruch and Mendelssohn’s]. But the dearest one of them all, the heart’s jewel, is Mendelssohn’s.”
Ludwig van Beethoven
(Born in Bonn in 1770; died in Vienna in 1827)
Symphony No. 1 in C Major, Op. 21
1. Adagio molto – Allegro con brio
2. Andante cantabile con moto
3. Menuetto, Allegro molto e vivace
4. Finale, Adagio – Allegro molto e vivace
Beethoven began sketching his First Symphony in 1795, but Haydn and Mozart’s symphonic legacy cast a daunting shadow over the young composer, not to mention the demands posed by composing his piano concertos and his performing career. But in 1800 this First Symphony was finally completed and premiered in a concert where he also premiered his Piano Concerto No. 2. The Symphony received generally good reviews, and some even called it a masterpiece. Though the First may not be the masterpiece of Beethoven’s even greater symphonies yet to come – his Third and Fifth through Ninth Symphonies –- it is robust and energetic, filled with Classical charm, and containing more than a few renegade surprises. It’s a wonderful creation by a genius during the happiest days of his life, when he was on top of the world.
It’s important to note, however, that Beethoven felt a tremendous need to write a symphony that could stand alongside those of Mozart and Haydn, and perhaps even surpass them. To do so meant that he had to show intelligence in key relationships, counterpoint, symphonic structure and orchestration –- and it meant that his Symphonic debut needed to turn some heads. This First Symphony in C Major begins with one of those head turners –- a series of chords not in C Major and that don’t seem to be going anywhere near their ostensible “home” key. These introductory chords sound almost like a small musical “bridge,” which is a customary technique for linking main themes or sections, but not as an introduction to a “proper” symphony. These chords soon lead into a harmonically rich adagio introduction that does indeed bring us to the main key and a very buoyant first theme, leaving these mysterious chords behind. The rest of the movement is lively and bright, rather like Haydn in its overall lightness, but with a greater use of woodwinds than was common in 1800.
The second movement stretches the symphonic conventions a little further. Its lyrical themes are fashioned into quasi-fugues, although slow and meandering ones, which was something normally saved for a finale. This is Beethoven perhaps flexing his youthful muscles and challenging norms. All the same this Andante with its variations is delightful in its nearness to singing. Two other surprises greet us here. After the easy-going fugal work, Beethoven begins solving the mystery chords from the first movement by using them in their traditional role as a “bridge” to the next section. That next section, then, delivers the second surprise by giving the timpani a prominent part, an important role that the timpani will play even more aggressively as the Symphony continues.
The third movement also breaks with tradition by turning the typical menuetto-dance movement into a break-neck speed concert piece, completely unsuitable for dance and completely exhilarating for the orchestra and listener alike. This would become one of Beethoven’s many contributions to the symphonic form –- that of introducing the lively scherzo in the place of the dance movement.
The Finale starts with a section that resolves the musical mystery of the Symphony’s opening chords, by, in essence, recreating that chordal conundrum again. In this uncharacteristically slow introductory section for a finale, fractured bits of a scale creep upwards in the “wrong” key, wonderfully ambiguous and creating great anticipation. And, then, the Finale breaks out in full force and in the home C Major key. It’s a wonderful finale, filled with energy and vigorous joy. For the listener, it’s a jubilant end to a terrifically enjoyable symphony. For Beethoven, it was just the beginning of even greater things to come.
Program notes © Max Derrickson
