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VALLEJO SYMPHONY 2009-2010 Celebrating Our 78th Season Four Saturday Nights - Four Great Concerts
Program notes Saturday, January 9, 2010 © 2010 Mary Eichbauer Michael Daugherty (1954- ). “Dead Elvis.” Composed 1993. First performed July 1993. Scored for violin, bass, E-flat clarinet, trumpet in C, bass trombone, percussion (large brake drum, large and small bongo, large cowbell, crotales, large ride cymbal), and solo bassoon (in Elvis costume). Dead Elvis, a slick and skillful amalgam of classical, rock, and jazz, was commissioned by Boston Musica Viva and Chuck Ullery, principal bassoonist with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra. In the work, composer Michael Daugherty approaches Elvis, not just as an historical personage, but as a cultural icon, and further, as an idea that epitomizes elements of the American culture that both created him and was changed by him forever. Who is Elvis? What does he represent? Everyone knows his trajectory: from poverty in rural Mississippi, to rockabilly singing in Memphis, to breakout stardom in the late 50s, as one of the first singers of a new musical genre—rock and roll, a fusion of gospel, country, and blues. The new medium of television launched his career, and then relaunched it in 1968, with his “Comeback Special.” He inhabited, or created, all the familiar elements of the high-strung, rock-and-roll-star story that we all know by heart. Graceland, his estate in Memphis, was the garish precursor to Michael Jackson’s “Neverland.” Bulletins from his failed marriage kept the tabloids afloat. But years of stardom took their toll. As his body bloated from a serious drug habit, Elvis’s ego also swelled; he commissioned his famous, elaborately embroidered jumpsuit costumes, and set about crafting an image. Later, he became a part of the overblown, hyped-up world of Las Vegas shows, where has-been acts go to become self-parody. His death from a heart attack in 1977 had just enough mystery about it to set off thirty years of “sightings.” Elvis’s meteoric rise was all about chance and good timing; his decline was all about money and image and unfulfilled desire. But Elvis, as a concept, never really died. His story, with its tragic ending, seems to feed some need in American culture that can never be satisfied. And so we tell it, over and over again. “Dead Elvis” raises more questions than it answers. What are we meant to think at the sight of a classical bassoonist dressed like Elvis, mimicking the trademark Elvis moves? Those gyrations—scandalous in the 50s, triumphant in the 60s, and passé in the 70s—what do they mean when performed on the classical music stage? How does Elvis’ “presence” affect the way we listen to and interact with this musical work, written for a chamber ensemble? We seem to be watching Elvis, but, in what sense is he really “here,” present in the concert hall? When we hear the dies irae theme, are we mourning or judging him? How dead is “dead” Elvis? Composer Michael Daugherty says:
It is more than a coincidence that [“Dead Elvis”] is scored for the same instrumentation as Stravinsky's Histoire du Soldat (1918) in which a soldier sells his violin and his soul to the devil for a magic book. In “Dead Elvis,” the bassoon is Elvis (or perhaps an Elvis impersonator). Does this rock star sell out his Southern folk authenticity to the sophisticated professionalism of Hollywood movies, Colonel Parker and Las Vegas in order to attain great wealth and fame? “Dead Elvis” goes far beyond this romantic Faustian scenario. For me, the two clashing Elvis images (the hip, beautiful, genius, thin, rock-and-roll Elvis versus the vulgar, cheesy, fat, stoned, Las Vegas Elvis) serve as a sturm und drang compositional algorithm. Further, my use of the dies irae (a medieval Latin chant for the Day of Judgment) as the principal musical theme of “Dead Elvis” signifies yet another aspect of the Elvis myth: some people believe Elvis is dead, while others believe he is alive and well in Kalamazoo. Perhaps the question is not whether Elvis is alive or dead, but why the phenomenon of Elvis endures beyond the grave of Graceland. Elvis, for better or worse, is part of American culture, history and mythology. If you want to understand America and all its riddles, sooner or later you will have to deal with (Dead) Elvis.
And, so, the myth never ends, as we both mourn Elvis and celebrate him. You might think he’s dead, but, tonight, in this concert hall, Elvis Lives! Col legno (striking the strings with the wooden side of the bow) by the bass starts the piece with a dry, bouncing and ticking rhythm. The solo bassoon plays a phrase from Henry Mancini’s “Theme from Peter Gunn” (performed by Elvis at his TV “comeback” in 1968), while the percussionist adds accents by alternately striking crotales (small, tuned cymbals that sound like bells) and a cowbell. “Peter Gunn” leads smoothly into the “dies irae” theme. The trombone and violin echo the seven notes of the theme with expansive slides and bright chords. The bassoon plays a minor key variation on dies irae, then, rising to the top of the instrument’s register, plays a hint of Elvis’s hit song, “It’s Now or Never.” The bassoon plays a scale, climbing to eerie heights, as the other instruments remain on ostinato (identically repeated) rhythms. The cacophony reaches a fevered pitch. Three climaxes are followed by pauses, and sudden silence. With the violin playing pizzicato, the bass plays expansive slides up and down the fingerboard. The bassoon comes back in, and the mood switches to one of drunkenly swinging cabaret jazz, with glissandi in all the instruments (perhaps meant to invoke Las Vegas Elvis?). The dies irae is repeated in an eerie mood. Conga drums recall Elvis’ signature sound. The bassoon starts at the bottom of its range to climb a long scale. The trombone repeats the dies irae once more, and the bassoon ends the piece with a low, resounding note.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791). Mozart Serenade in D major K. 239 (“Serenata notturna”). Composed 1779 in Salzburg, Austria. Scored for timpani and strings. The title, “Serenata notturna,” is somewhat redundant, because serenades were, in Mozart’s time, night music for outdoor social events, to be performed at a soirée and then usually put away and forgotten. Although other serenades of the time had more movements, this one just has three: it begins with a march, continues with a minuet, and ends with a rondo. The work is scored for strings and timpani, but Mozart divides his string section into two small groups: a string quartet, consisting of solo 1st violin, solo 2nd violin, viola, and double bass, and a small string orchestra, consisting of 1st violins, 2nd violins, violas, and cellos, punctuated by timpani. The interplay of solo and ensemble instrumental lines creates a complex tapestry of voices that sets Mozart’s serenade apart from those of lesser composers, and yet never deviates from a feeling of pure, delicious fun. It is unknown who commissioned this work, or where and when it was first performed, but one hopes that those who were present at that first occasion were not too distracted by the food and conversation to appreciate the brilliance of the “incidental” music they were privileged to hear. A cheerful but impressive fanfare, accompanied by thunderous timpani, begins the first movement, Marcia (maestoso). The movement proceeds at a brisk walking pace, with recurrences of the fanfare, but, despite the short spiccato and marcato bow strokes, the strict tempos and the timpani solos, it is playful, rather than overly martial in character. The second movement, Minuetto, features octave doubling and tripping harmonies in the upper strings that keep it sweet and light. The final movement, Rondo (allegretto), is led by the solo first violin, accompanied by echoes and harmonies in the other lead strings. The delightful theme, accented by timpani, is played in a few variations. Solo violin plays a drawn-out adagio theme, then accelerates to find the main theme again. Mozart knew how to make listeners sit up and take notice when he sprinkled his final movement with novelties: a viola solo, some sparkling pizzicato, and an arresting timpani solo that fades away into a grand pause. A triumphant climax ends this little gem of a piece.
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). Symphony No. 7 in A major, op. 92. Composed 1811-12; first performed 8 December 1813 in Vienna, with the composer as soloist. Scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, timpani, and strings. The Symphony No. 7 was first performed at a December 8, 1813, benefit concert for soldiers wounded at the Battle of Hanau, in October 1813, during which the beleaguered Napoleon managed to open a passage through enemy lines that allowed his army to retreat to French soil. Despite a few partial victories, Napoleon was losing strength, and it was only a matter of time before his defeat by a coalition of armies from the rest of Europe, which finally occurred in April 1814. (Napoleon escaped from exile on Elba and ruled for another 100 days, before his final defeat and exile in 1815, but that is another story.) After his early admiration for Napoleon, Beethoven was disillusioned when Napoleon crowned himself emperor. By the time the Seventh Symphony was composed, Europe was tired of continual upheaval, and simply wanted peace. At the same concert, Beethoven also premiered a symphonic work honoring Wellington’s victory over Napoleon in the Battle of Vitoria, Spain. Originally composed for an instrument called the “panharmonicon,” a mechanical device that could play band instruments, the piece had later been orchestrated by Beethoven. Initially, that work was wildly popular, far outstripping even the Seventh Symphony, but today their positions are reversed, and the “Battle Symphony” is hardly performed. The Seventh Symphony is an anomaly in Beethoven’s symphonic catalogue because it was popular immediately upon its premiere and has been beloved of audiences ever since. (American poet T.S. Eliot asked to have the bittersweet allegretto second movement played at his funeral.) At the first performance, the allegretto was encored, and the whole work was performed again several times in the ensuing months. People have speculated that Beethoven wrote the symphony while in the throes of requited passion—his letters to the “Immortal Beloved” were apparently written just a few months later—and so was in a more sanguine mood than usual. These three letters, found among Beethoven’s effects after his death, are dated by day and month, but not year. Researchers have established that the letters were probably written to an unhappily married woman named Antonie Brentano. Beethoven knew her from mid-1810 until late in 1812, after which time he never saw her again. It is not clear that the three passionate letters, written over the course of two days in July of an unnamed year—probably 1812—were ever mailed, and it is likely that Beethoven’s relationship with the woman remained platonic. But whether or not this work’s creation had anything to do with Antonie Brentano, her presence in Beethoven’s life does not, and never can, explain the work. The most famous of Beethoven’s symphonies—the third, the fifth, the ninth—all seem to delineate a struggle from darkness into light, but the seventh tells no such tale. Each movement contains a complex of emotions, expressed by a wealth of brilliant musical invention. In this case, perhaps anything extraneous detracts from the symphony’s impact, rather than enhancing it. Its meaning is in a music idea, not a verbal one. Words can tell us when and where, but not why he composed the work, or what it means. The best approach to this symphony might be simply to listen, observe, and, above all, feel. The hooked rhythms, the questions and answers exchanged among sections of the orchestra, the quick shifts in mood and how they are accomplished, the changes in dynamics, and the different voices of the orchestra, each with its own timbre and emotional associations—these are the “syntax” that express Beethoven’s ideas, and make hearing this symphony a profound experience. A chord played by the whole orchestra introduces the first movement’s long poco sostenuto (slightly sustained) introduction. An oboe is heard playing the first, four-note theme, then a clarinet, and both are joined by the flute, and echoed by the horns. Strings, from high to low, play tripping, climbing scales under the melody. Winds flesh out the theme, elaborating it, and then calling back and forth with violins like birds piping in the woods. Almost without realizing it, we are in the vivace section of the first movement, in 6/8 time instead of in 4/4, hearing a lively theme underlain by a vivacious hooked rhythm. (When Wagner called this symphony “the apotheosis of the dance,” he might have been referring to this movement.) There are calm moments in this movement, but no lag in energy. At every moment, some section of the orchestra is bursting from pianissimo to forte, or playing rising scales in energetic rhythms to soar above or underlie the melody. We approach the coda slowly, as the upper strings play a repetitive, wavelike rhythm made exciting by a crescendo and an accelerando, while the basses growl a chromatic echo of the violins as accompaniment underneath. The horns rise above the fray to repeat the familiar hooked rhythm and end the movement. The famous allegretto second movement starts with a sustained chord in the winds, but the strings begin their subdued melody right on its heels. First, the theme is played in short, separated notes—one long note, two short, two long—then it is sung luxuriously by the violins. Beethoven repeats it over and over, with different sections taking different roles, giving the haunting music a feeling of perpetual motion. Another, secondary, theme appears, providing a gentle respite from the main theme’s yearning sadness. Under this theme, however, the lower strings continue to play the long-short-short rhythm in pizzicato. The development section uses the long-short-short rhythm in infinitely inventive ways, pitting busy strings against legato woodwinds, and then reversing the roles. A small fugue diverts the ear from the main theme, fragmenting it before its forceful restatement. The secondary theme returns, and now the music’s energy becomes subdued for a moment, almost sounding like a dirge. Solo winds and horns play bits of the main theme against pizzicato strings. Just when we think the movement will disappear into silence, the strings play a swelling, sighing note and fade away, ending the movement in pathos. The rollicking scherzo begins with a light, swift melody, punctuated by timpani. Beethoven uses an interesting rhythmical figure: strings and winds in turn play the same note forcefully, then softly, several times quickly in a row, for a pulsating effect. A three-note figure is played in quickly turn by several sections, then resolved by all together, adding a humorous touch, almost like musical laughter. Beethoven repeats the trio—the usual slow section included in a scherzo. Several times, he slows the music down to a crawl, as if we are about to embark on a more serious journey, only to surprise us with a timpani beat, and a return to the irrepressible melody. Just when the trio seems to be about to repeat for a third time, the movement ends with a saucy scale that seems to say, “Fooled you again!” Winds and timpani twice announce the opening of the allegro molto final movement with a rhythmical idea that will underpin the whole movement—an eighth note, two sixteenths, and another eighth, played by timpani and winds. Like the preceding three movements, this one plays with leaping, hooked rhythms that are integrated into and under the melody—this time interspersed with long, echoing notes in the lower strings that seem to announce a more serious possibility for the theme, before eventually letting it go. The overall character of the movement is joyous and triumphant, but the darkness of the repeated long notes adds emotional complexity. The simplest little pieces of the theme, when repeated in rising and falling scales around the orchestra by various sections, become the basis for exciting emotional changes. The same idea that began the movement—eighth, two sixteenths, eighth—ends it simply, with less elaboration than in any of Beethoven’s other symphonies.
April 25, 2009 concert © 2009 Mary Eichbauer
On the surface, Handel’s stately, baroque “Music for the Royal Fireworks” would seem as far removed from politics as any music could be. But in 18th-century London, the work made up part of a propaganda machine designed by King George II to celebrate the end of an unpopular war—the War of Austrian Succession—and the signing of the Treaty of Aix-en-Chapelle. This war, in which the English fought as an ally, rather than as an involved party, ended after almost eight years of fighting with the secession of Silesia, a small Austrian territory, to Frederick II of Prussia. King George’s forces were divided, as he was also fighting the French over colonial territories in North America and Asia. George had not initially backed the winning side, but eventually thought it prudent to negotiate with Prussia and save some measure of pride. The German-born King George clashed continually with Parliament, and the War of the Austrian Succession, fought in support of the first female successor to the Hapsburg throne, was not wildly popular. Handel, also German-born, but a naturalized British citizen since 1727, was probably more popular than the king he served. King George was annoyed that there would be music at all at his celebration, but was better pleased when he learned it would be relatively brief, and that there would be “no fiddles.” To please the king, Handel scored the original for a huge battery of winds and brass: 24 oboes, 12 bassoons plus contrabassoon, 9 trumpets, 9 horns, 3 pair of kettledrums, and a number of side drums. The work’s alternative title is “A Grand Overture of Warlike Instruments,” and it must have made an impressive and joyous noise, even in an outdoor venue. Handel later reduced the winds and added strings for future performances. An open-air rehearsal of the Royal Fireworks Suite on April 21, 1749, at London’s New Spring Gardens (later called Vauxhall Gardens), attracted so many people that a huge traffic jam of carriages ensued throughout London. The actual event, six days later at Green Park, part of the huge complex of parks and open space surrounding Buckingham Palace, was marred by a fire in the elaborate building that had housed the musical ensemble. Happily, the musicians had played their music and had already left the building. A third performance of the music at Whitehall, with fireworks, on May 15 of the same year, resulted in the death of three spectators when a stray firework landed on the so-called Temple of Peace. The irony of celebrating the end of a war with spectacular but hazardous fireworks that mimicked the mechanism, the sounds, and sometimes the fatal results of actual bombardment seems to have escaped George II, bent on pacifying his subjects with bright lights and pretty colors. . “Music for the Royal Fireworks” was written in five parts: Overture, Bourée, La paix: Largo alla siciliana [Peace: Sicilian largo], La réjouissance: Allegro [Rejoicing: Allegro], and Menuets I and II. Tonight, we will hear only the Overture, itself written in four parts, alternating slow and fast: Adagio, Allegro, Lentement [Slowly], and Allegro. Following a long note announcing the opening of the work, the brass and drums dominate the stately Adagio opening. Notes are extended, and punctuated by drums, in the manner of a royal fanfare. Trills and ornaments abound. The brass states the theme, with answers and echoes by the winds and strings, and then the roles reverse. The music is impressively loud, but its complex texture and syntax keep it interesting, and make the overall sound rich and opulent. An elaborate fanfare by the horns announces the Allegro section. Brass plays high ornaments and stately melodies, while winds and strings play a sprightly tune of hooked notes and arpeggios that again uses the various textures and dynamic levels of instrumental sound in a rich and exciting counterpoint. The next, very brief, slow section—Lentement—adds a note of seriousness and dignity to the proceedings. The brass backs off, and the winds and strings dominate, playing one of the preceding themes in a minor key. The Allegro section repeats to finish this royal work, fit for a wiser king than George II.
The morning of the first performance of Beethoven’s third piano concerto, at which he was to serve as soloist and conductor, he awoke at 5:00 a.m. and spent three hours in bed, copying out the trombone parts for one of the other works to be performed that evening, an oratorio. In addition, that first audience heard both the first and second of Beethoven’s symphonies. The orchestra rehearsed all day long—its only rehearsal—with only a short break for refreshments before more rehearsal, and then the long, chaotic concert. At the time, Beethoven, as yet untroubled by illness, was commencing his most productive period. He was the toast of Vienna, appearing to play ad hoc concerts at private homes during which he improvised brilliantly and kept audiences spellbound for hours. The hall for the concert was packed, and yet Beethoven had the supreme self-confidence to play the piano solo from memory, all the while pretending that he was reading music. Not in on the joke, Beethoven’s friend Ignaz von Seyfried was not initially sure if the markings he saw on the pages he was turning for Beethoven at that first performance were necessary to his friend’s playing or not. I saw almost nothing but empty pages; at the most on one page or the other a few Egyptian hieroglyphs wholly unintelligible to me scribbled down to serve as clues for him; for he played nearly all of the solo part from memory, since, as was so often the case, he had not had time to put it all down on paper. He gave me a secret glance whenever he was at the end of one of the invisible passages and my scarcely concealed anxiety not to miss the decisive moment amused him greatly.... He laughed heartily at the jovial supper we ate afterwards. Beethoven did not write out his cadenzas until 1809, and did not even finish writing out the solo part until a friend of his played it in 1804. The concerto, especially the somewhat unstructured third movement Rondo, gives us an idea of what it must have been like to hear Beethoven play, with his prodigious talent and inventive mind. In the Allegro con brio first movement, the orchestra enters on tiptoes and proceeds to play a three-minute long introduction that is almost a mini-movement in itself. The strings state the first theme, and the winds echo it. Both sections play with the theme for a moment, before the whole orchestra states it more forcefully. Another, gentler, theme is stated and repeated, then elaborated. The first theme returns. Winds and strings toss bits of the theme back and forth, and the introduction ends with three forceful chords. The piano enters on a rising scale and a statement of the first and second themes. After some give and take with the orchestra, the orchestra states the theme as the piano plays ornamentation. The second theme is restated and elaborated, first by piano, then orchestra, then both together. The orchestra plays an interlude as a transition between the exposition and the development sections. Once again, the piano enters with scales and a statement of the first theme, echoed by oboe and bassoon. The first theme is developed rhapsodically in a minor key, with oboe and bassoon continuing to take major accompanying roles. The orchestra states the main theme fortissimo to begin the recapitulation. The piano restates the second theme, followed by the orchestra. After a minor key restatement of the theme, the key and the mood become suddenly sunny. The orchestra takes over and returns to a minor key to introduce the cadenza. Beethoven’s cadenza is brimming with energy and ideas, not the least of which is the unique way the orchestra is reintroduced in the coda: quietly, ethereally, instead of in the usual forte, and then building to a forceful conclusion. The piano begins the Largo with a solo statement of the calm, beautiful theme. Winds and strings restate the theme more elaborately with ornamentation and harmonic texture. The piano starts alone again, but this time is echoed and supported by winds. Long, languorous solos by bassoon and flute are accompanied by pizzicato strings and solo piano playing arpeggios. The solo piano slowly restates the theme again, with support from winds. Rising scales on the piano lead to an elaboration of the theme by piano, a trill, a mini-cadenza, and a gentle ending in arpeggios. The Rondo begins energetically, continuing the give and take between piano and winds, as the piano plays lighthearted variations on the main theme, and the orchestra serves as a touchtone, repeating after the piano and bringing us back again and again to the theme. Another theme is introduced by the winds, and the piano picks it up to toss it back and forth with the winds. The piano plays a trill, and suddenly everything changes. The cellos play a variation on the first theme, followed by the strings into a mini-fugue. The piano comes in playing octaves, and plays a lyrical version of the first theme, while strings play rhythm, and solo instruments from all sections play fragments of the first theme. Finally, Beethoven takes pity on us, and restores our sense of direction. Once again, the piano and orchestra restate the theme as at the beginning. More variations ensue, each more inventive than the last. The piano plays a brief cadenza of rising scales, and playfully leads us into the satisfying conclusion, where the piano indulges in virtuoso flights of fancy, while the winds remind us of the second theme, and descending scales finish the movement.
“If one still dared, after Beethoven, to write symphonies, they would have to look completely different!” —Johannes Brahms
It is fair to say that Brahms struggled with the idea of composing a symphony for twenty years of his adult life. If, as he once said, he heard Beethoven’s “giant tread” behind him every time he contemplated attempting symphonic form, at age 43 he finally decided to take on the giant face to face. Brahms chose C minor for his First Symphony, the key of Beethoven’s Fifth, and his fourth movement’s main theme reminded listeners of the “Ode to Joy” theme from Beethoven’s Ninth. “Any ass can see that!” Brahms exclaimed irritably when the similarity was pointed out to him. Brahms’ First actually resembles Beethoven’s Fifth more than his Ninth, in that it depicts a struggle from despair in the first movement, through poignant tranquility in the second and third, to triumph in the fourth. This was the symphonic language that Beethoven created, and the challenge he issued to those who came soon after him was how to make it their own without slavishly imitating him. Brahms found a solution that acknowledged his debt to Beethoven, admitting that complete originality is impossible. Just as Beethoven’s First Symphony seemed to channel Mozart, Brahms’ First would contain brief allusions to Beethoven’s symphonies, both in theme and in style, but framed in Brahms’ own, unique voice. The best way to conquer the giant was to pay him the homage. After the wildly successful first performance, well-known conductor Hans von Bulow called Brahms’ First Symphony “Beethoven’s Tenth,” a kindness that must have made Brahms wince a little, even as it showed him that he had hit the mark: he had composed a symphony in the master’s idiom that still belonged unmistakably to Brahms, not Beethoven. His next three symphonies were much easier on Brahms’ self-esteem; the second premiered about a year after the first. The first movement begins abruptly, with violins playing a drawn out, poignant melody, accompanied by winds, while the timpani beats out a foreboding rhythm. A chord ends the section and changes the mood. Winds play softly now, accompanied by pizzicato strings. Strings take over, and the timpani beats return, getting faster, and bringing back the original melody. An oboe solo is taken over by cellos, and the movement’s Allegro section begins with stormy notes rising and falling. The dramatic moment falls away and reminders of the original theme return, but less urgently. The violas play a three-note warning that sets off the stormy music again, with echoes of the third movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and its recurring four-note motif. Things come to almost a complete halt before the emotion builds again. Shifts in mood follow alternately rough-edged, abrupt scales and flowing arpeggios. The movement’s climax comes as the violas’ three-note warning is played in alternation by strings against the different sections. And then the tempo slows, reminding us of the movement’s opening menace, but with unexpected sweetness. A rising, heartfelt resolution echoes a theme from Beethoven’s Sixth, or Pastoral, Symphony. The second movement, marked Andante sostenuto, begins with a passionate melody of sustained notes with a variable, rubato rhythm. Recurring clarinet and oboe solos add an intimate feel against moving strings. The mood never darkens too much, but remains yearning and emotional throughout. Solo violin takes over the melody, asking a question that the solo horn attempts to answer. This movement has a much smaller feel than the opening one, with its solo voices and halting melody that seems almost to speak. It ends on a rising arpeggio and long sustained note by the solo violin and orchestra that dies away slowly. Accompanied by quickly walking pizzicato in the lower strings, the third movement, marked Un poco allegretto e grazioso, starts with a light, graceful three-note melody in four that suddenly becomes a more urgent melody in two as a solo clarinet enters. The motion changes again as it slows down and changes to three-quarter time. This waltz becomes more urgent in turn until the first melody returns, with its gentle, walking pizzicato. Towards the end, the melody becomes more sustained and languorous, but never heavy. Throughout, the character of this brief movement is dance-like and Italianate, more in Brahms’ than in Beethoven’s style. The fourth movement opens with an Adagio-Piu andante section in which foreboding timpani and lower strings alternate with slowly accelerating pizzicato in the upper strings, breaking off suddenly, and then repeating. Thunderous timpani lead to a lovely melody played by the solo horn and then the flute. Brass takes over and adds a stately sound, reintroducing solo horn and trumpet. Some tension builds, but it is not foreboding, and then the strings introduce the theme that will resolve the entire work. It is a light theme, but dignified—the kind of theme that implies a return to the familiar—a sort of homecoming. The orchestra develops it with great verve and happiness, or “con brio,” as Brahms puts it in his description of the movement’s character. Another passionate and yearning theme erupts out of the strings, and the rising tension leads us to a tranquil moment, and back to the “homecoming” theme. The opening, foreboding pizzicato returns, but is entirely overshadowed by the warmth of this redemptive theme. Brahms makes a series of large gestures, including an attempt at the master’s own favorite device—delayed gratification. The orchestra seems to circle as the timpani beats out a steady rhythm and everything slows down to a crawl. The strings play a sweet melody that quickens and returns to the passionate, yearning theme. Again, we hear an echo of the “homecoming” theme that accelerates to a dramatic, joyful ending of sustained liturgical-sounding notes—and a distinct, deliberate echo of Beethoven’s ending to the “Ode to Joy.”
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George
Friderich Handel (1685-1759). Overture to Music for the Royal Fireworks.
Composed 1749; first performed in London 21 and 27 April 1749. Scored for
two oboes and English horn, two bassoons, three trumpets, three trombones,
timpani, and strings.
Ludwig
van Beethoven (1770-1827). 
Johannes
Brahms (1833-1897). Symphony No. 1 in C minor, op. 68. Composed 1854-76;
first performed 1876 in Karlsruhe, Germany. Scored for two flutes, two
oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons and contrabassoon, four horns, two
trumpets, three trombones, timpani, and strings.