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 works—more than 2,000 by many of the 18th century’s most prolific and eminent composers—we 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 eviolone 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 femalecomposers 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
https://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/CurrentSeasonImages4.jpg400600Jen Rolstonhttps://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpgJen Rolston2022-03-24 14:54:412022-03-24 14:55:22From Venice to Vienna – April 3 & 5, 2022
(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.
https://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/CurrentSeasonImages3.jpg400600Jen Rolstonhttps://www.friendswv.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FOM_logo_340x156-300x138.jpgJen Rolston2022-03-16 17:01:052022-03-16 17:09:15Winds for Wolfgang – March 19 & 20, 2022
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, SouvenirdeFlorence 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 SouvenirdeFlorence, 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.
From Venice to Vienna – April 3 & 5, 2022
Program NotesFrom 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 works—more than 2,000 by many of the 18th century’s most prolific and eminent composers—we 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
Winds for Wolfgang – March 19 & 20, 2022
Program NotesWINDS 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
November 20, 2021 Looking Bach-wards
Program NotesPROGRAM 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