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VALLEJO SYMPHONY 2009-2010 Celebrating Our 78th Season Four Saturday Nights - Four Great Concerts
Program notes
© 2010 Mary Eichbauer
Antonin Dvorak. “Carnival Overture” Op. 92 B. 169. Composed in 1891-2. First performed 28 April 1892 in Prague, with the composer conducting. Scored for two flutes, piccolo, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, triangle, cymbals, tambourine, harp, and strings. The 1890s were an exciting time for Czech composer Antonin Dvorak. After a meteoric rise to fame in his youth, he had settled down to conservatory teaching and family life at age 50, when he was suddenly asked to travel to New York, where he would direct the new National Conservatory of Music, and attempt to create a truly “American” school of composing. (The irony of hiring someone known for his insistent use of his native Czech folktunes and themes in his music apparently did not occur to the founders.) Dvorak intended the Carnival Overture to be the central piece of his “Nature, Life and Love” trilogy, of which two other brief works, “In Nature’s Realm” and “Otello,” form the outer parts. The trilogy was premiered at the farewell concert Dvorak conducted before leaving for the New World, where he would compose his Symphony No. 9. The Carnival Overture follows a simple story line, according to Dvorak’s own program notes: “a lonely, contemplative wanderer reach[es] at twilight a city where a festival is in full swing. On every side is heard the clangor of instruments, mingled with shouts of joy and the unrestrained hilarity of the people giving vent to their feelings in songs and dances.” The slow, romantic interlude at the overture’s center, marked “Andantino con moto,” describes “a pair of straying lovers,” after which the lively dance resumes. The Carnival Overture begins with a swirling dance theme, accented by sparkling triangle and cymbals. It repeats, slightly modified, and a march of hooked notes follows. Descending strings lead us to a theme introduced by oboe that suddenly opens into a melancholy melody in the strings, representing the solitude of the lonely wanderer, who can only watch the festivities from the outside. The winds take up the melody next, but the strings dance playfully around it, lightening the mood. The winds play the light melody, and we return to the shimmering mood of the opening. Arpeggios on the harp, and a held note by the horn introduce a sweet waltz in 3/8 time, almost a lullaby (the “straying lovers”), played by first by solo flutes, then by solo violin, with English horn playing a plaintive accompaniment in the background. But the high spirits of the opening refuse to be repressed for long. A frenzied dance begins, played by winds over busy strings. Exciting descending scales in the strings lead us back to fragments of the opening melody, making us anticipate its return. And there it is, repeated and elaborated in variations until the thrilling quick-time ending.
Aaron Jay Kernis (1960- ). Air for Violin and Orchestra. Commissioned in 1995 by violinist Joshua Bell. First performed with orchestra 1996. Scored for two flutes (second doubling piccolo), one oboe, two clarinets, one bassoon, two horns, two trumpets, timpani, crotales (antique cymbals), harp, piano, strings and solo violin. Pulitzer Prize winning composer Aaron Jay Kernis began his music career as a child with violin lessons, going on to teach himself piano, and deciding to become a composer at age 13. He pursued studies at the San Francisco Conservatory, then the Manhattan and Yale Schools of Music. He is one of the most-commissioned American composers, regularly premiering works with many of the world’s greatest orchestras. Joshua Bell, who commissioned Air for Violin and Orchestra in 1995, was nominated for a Grammy for his recording of the piece. Kernis is a politically conscious composer. His second symphony is a lament for the waste of human life caused by the Gulf War, and “Colored Field,” his composition for English horn and orchestra (later revised for cello and orchestra), is a response to his trip to Auschwitz. “Air” carries no such programmatic burden, despite its melancholy sweetness. It is clearly an American work, cast in the mold of the Barber Violin Concerto, Copland’s “Quiet City,” and various works by John Adams, Kernis’ mentor. The violin takes center stage here, using its most lush and yearning voice. The work starts quietly, with muted tones in the orchestra and the violin playing mostly in its lower register. The melody is less a theme than an idea—a beginning repeated with several different outcomes. The orchestra and the violin echo and answer each other as emotional intensity rises, and then recedes. The basses add some darkness, and then the piano plays quiet chords as the violin’s voice begins to rise in tone, though not in volume or intensity. An oboe solo interjects a gesture, repeated by other winds. Solo strings playing lush harmonies tip the balance to sadness. The timpani adds a foreboding roll, and the violin becomes more passionate, even anguished. The orchestra reflects and reinforces the soloist’s darkening mood. The violin falls silent long enough for a glimmer of hope to emerge, as the harp is heard. The violin plays against the harp now, and the mood becomes gentler. Strings accompany the soloist, and then fall away. The violin plays a cadenza of double stops, rising to its upper register, to an almost impossibly high note, when the orchestra reenters, recalling the original theme and mood. Tension builds suddenly as the violin plays a forceful passage, accompanied by punctuating crotales (tuned, antique cymbals that sound like little bells). Everything falls away to silence, as the accompanying strings play on the open G string, the violin’s lowest, most resonant note. After a pause, the winds and soloist seem to make a new beginning. But where is it leading? The violin plays against swelling brass, then fades out on a single note without giving us an answer.
John Williams (1932- ). Theme from Schindler’s List. Composed 1993. Scored for two flutes, piccolo, two oboes (second doubling English horn), two clarinets (second doubling bass clarinet), two bassoons, four horns, three trombones, vibraphone, harp, celesta, strings and solo violin. John Williams, the preeminent composer of film music working in the U.S. today, has composed many of the most recognizable television and film scores of the last 50 years, including those for Star Wars, Superman, E.T., and all three Harry Potter films. Williams is also known for his conducting and piano playing, having served as conductor of the Boston Pops from 1980 to 1993. He is currently at work scoring Spielberg’s upcoming film Tintin: Secret of the Unicorn. Steven Spielberg’s 1993 film Schindler’s List dramatized the life of Oskar Schindler, a German businessman who began by exploiting Jewish slave labor in his munitions factories after the Nazi invasion of Poland, and ended by sheltering his workers, helping over 1100 of them to escape certain death at Auschwitz. The movie’s theme song, played on the film’s soundtrack by Itzhak Perlman, is a lovely, darkly emotional melody that captures the deep sadness, though not the horror, of the movie’s subject.
Fritz Kreisler (1875-1962). “Tambourin chinois,” Op. 3. Composed 1910. Scored for two flutes, piccolo, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, three horns, timpani, harp, strings and solo violin. Fritz Kreisler was born in Vienna of German-Jewish ancestry. He was lucky enough to have his talent on the violin recognized early, and privileged enough to study with the best teachers that Vienna and Paris had to offer, entering the Vienna Conservatory at age 7. After making his New York debut in 1888 and touring the U.S., he took a hiatus from music to study medicine and serve in the Austrian army. When he resumed his musical career in 1898, he soon rose to international prominence. His technique was brilliant, with a sweet, emotional sound all his own. He was a master interpreter of others’ music, and soon began to compose works in the styles of other composers, claiming (sometimes truthfully) to have discovered fragmentary works of those composers and revised them. As an unknown composer himself, he hoped that invoking the names of venerated composers would help him make his name. Eventually, he grew so popular that he no longer needed that support, and admitted in 1935 that most of these works were all his own invention. Kreisler’s compositions cover a multitude of styles and levels of difficulty, from simple melodies to works that require the highest level of virtuosity. They are written with a full understanding of the violin and its possibilities. Kreisler fought in World War I, rejoining his old regiment, and later settled in Berlin, then France, and, during World War II, in the U.S, where he concertized until the early 1950s. “Tambourin chinois” is a brief, fast-moving piece of “chinoiserie”—a pastiche of Chinese music, rather than the real thing—that was so popular at the turn of the 20th century. The composer uses a major pentatonic (five-note) scale to give the work a vaguely Chinese feel. The opening part introduces a lively Asian-sounding melody, taking it to the uppermost register of the violin and back down again, and demanding quick virtuoso bowing, left-hand pizzicato, and difficult double stops that imitate the percussive brilliance of a tambourine. The second part is calmer, introducing an exotic, dance-like melody (more fin-de-siècle Viennese than Chinese) that ends on a scale and an octave. Soon, the quick opening melody returns, this time ending the piece.
Paul Nero (1917-1958). “The Hot Canary.” Composed 1949. Scored for two flutes, piccolo, two oboes (second doubling English horn), two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, tuba, bass drum, cymbals, small bell, harp, strings, and solo violin. Born in Hamburg, Germany, violinist Kurt Paul Nero’s musical life bridged the gap between classical and jazz. He attended the prestigious Curtis Institute in Philadelphia while taking arranging lessons from big-band leader Jonny Warrington. Later, he played in both the New York Philharmonic and Pittsburgh Symphony while playing in Gene Krupa’s big band. During World War II, he led the Navy dance band in Washington D.C. A pilot, he suffered from mental illness, and was not above self-medicating. “I enjoy flying, with or without an airplane,” he was reported to have said. He concertized incessantly and appeared regularly on popular radio shows and movie soundtracks. “The Hot Canary,” an amusing novelty piece, was his biggest hit. We all know that violins, with the simple drawing of rosined horsehair over a metal-synthetic or gut string, can produce sweet melodies, brash chords, or exciting runs of notes that hit our ears faster than we can take them in. But, by using the proper techniques, a violinist can also make the instrument imitate anything from a babbling brook to a speeding freight train, or, in this case, a tweeting canary. While you are enjoying the brash antics of this jazzy bird, watch for the techniques Nero used to produce the unusual sounds you hear: glissando (sliding), left-hand pizzicato, and ethereal harmonics.
Jean Sibelius (1865-1957). Symphony No. 2 in D major, Op. 43. Composed 1900-02. First performed in Helsinki 8 March 1902 with the composer conducting. Scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, and strings. Finnish composer Jean Sibelius lived during turbulent times in his native land, and had the distinction of being a symbol of nationalist pride for his countrymen. But this composer, known for his contributions to the formation of the modern Finnish national identity, was himself formed by many elements and influences, not all of them Finnish. After a century of domination by Russia, following a century of Swedish rule, most late 19th-century Finns were of Swedish extraction, and still spoke Swedish, looking upon their Russian rulers as unwelcome conquerors. Those who spoke Finnish were looked down upon as an inferior underclass. The Fennoman Movement, which developed in the mid-19th century, sprang from the desire of some Finns of Swedish descent to cut their ties with both Sweden and Russia and valorize purely Finnish culture and history. Their motto was, “Swedes we are no longer, Russians we can never become, so let us be Finns!” Although his given name was Johan, Sibelius was inspired by a cosmopolitan uncle to affect the French form of his first name—Jean—the name under which he is still known. Perhaps influenced by the tenor of the times, Sibelius’ parents, who primarily spoke Swedish at home, sent their son to a Finnish-language school, where he would develop a passion for his native culture, its landscapes, its sounds, and its folklore and mythology. Although the teenaged Jean was an excellent violinist, his parents wished for him to study law, which he did briefly, while simultaneously enrolled at the Helsinki Conservatory of Music. Soon he decided to study music full time, majoring in composition. Early on, despite his dislike of Finland’s Russian rulers, he was influenced by Tchaikovsky, then by Bruckner, Wagner, and others. The Symphony No. 2 was influenced not only by these composers, but by a trip to Italy Sibelius took in 1900, where he started composing the work. The second movement was inspired by the Commendatore’s theme in Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni. Despite these “foreign” influences, supporters of Finnish independence immediately dubbed the Second Symphony “The Symphony of Finnish Independence.” They probably thought they had good reason to do so, since Sibelius’ earlier composition, “Finlandia,” composed in 1899, was a tone poem glorifying his oppressed homeland. Although in the Second Symphony Sibelius probably had other intentions, the nationalistic interpretation has continued to attract adherents. In style, Sibelius is a late romantic, seemingly little affected by 20th-century modernist musical modes, but, despite his apparent conservatism, he developed a unique compositional method that rejected basic elements of the traditional sonata form. Sibelius would take fragments of music, or “cells,” and gradually construct themes from them, ending in a grand statement that synthesized what had come before. He compared the process to the assembling of a mosaic, with pieces thrown down by god. In his late works, Sibelius even rejected the division of his movements into an exposition of major themes, a development, and a recapitulation, pursuing instead his more “organic” compositional style. The Second Symphony is more traditional, but still we can hear, from the beginning, seemingly unrelated thematic gestures that will return as the bricks and mortar of the whole symphony. The Allegretto first movement begins in 6/4 time with a simple, rising three-note fragment, played by strings with bouncing bows. The winds answer with three descending notes. Horns and winds begin a dialogue that is almost like a courtly dance. Low and high winds call and respond. Pauses separate each new fragment from what came before. Strings soar into a rhapsodic statement, reinforced by winds and a trilling flute. Suddenly, a pizzicato passage hastens us into a nervous interlude where strings play an exciting circular motif, leading us to a variation on the opening three-note gesture. The development section begins with an oboe solo. Nervous strings underlie repetitions of a five-note theme by various winds, building anticipation. Suddenly, the agitation is damped down, and a soft timpani roll introduces a slow trill by clarinet. The agitation returns in an interlude where the sections of the orchestra repeat a rising, yearning theme, underlain by the clarinet’s slow trill, like the sound of a babbling brook. The movement comes to a climax here with brass playing a triumphant melody over trilling strings. One by one, the musical fragments we have heard before return and are linked together into a grand musical construction. The opening three-note motif returns, and the movement draws to a quiet close. The long second movement is marked Tempo andante, ma rubato (Medium tempo, but freely). Timpani opens with an ominous roll, then lower strings play an extended pizzicato sequence. The bassoons enter over the continuing pizzicato with a dark, chant-like theme, played in unison. The horn plays a high, two-note call like a warning. Other instruments join in as the tempo increases and becomes more urgent. Strings and winds seem to have a dialogue, in which each voice has a distinctive character and message. Brass becomes insistent, as the bassoon’s dark melody returns, and lower instruments end the sequence ominously. After a pause, a pastoral melody arises, that at first seems to have no relation to the former dialogue, but bits of anxiety surface, with strings playing the circular, foreboding figure that we heard in the first movement. Solo trumpet plays a melancholy tune, backed by strings playing rising scales. Solo flute takes over the theme. The theme is extended and developed throughout the orchestra, with rising energy. Other themes and fragments reappear. Out of the previous thematic elements comes a forceful statement in the brass. Another dramatic pause, then strings playing a sort of dirge. (In early drafts of this movement, Sibelius labeled this sad, but comforting, melody “Christus.”) As in the first movement, everything we have heard before is integrated into one grand construction. The strings’ foreboding figure appears again. After a pause, the cellos play a chant-like theme, recalling the bassoons at the movement’s beginning. Winds now take up the foreboding theme, alternating with strings. Pizzicato seems to be leading out of the darkness, but an echo of the bassoon’s theme returns, and the movement ends with pizzicato. The Vivacissimo (extremely fast) scherzo movement is a beehive of activity with a threatening cast to it. As in the second movement, there is a sudden halt and change of mood for the trio, a sad and sweet melody in the winds. It is interrupted once again by the rampaging storm that began the movement. The trio intervenes once again, leading us without pause into the Finale, played Allegro moderato. The main theme of the Finale takes the rising three notes from the first movement’s opening and completes their statement, creating a heroic gesture unlike anything that has gone before. After all the starting and stopping, the storms, the sadness and changes of mood, this movement is epic, unified, full of sweeping emotion. A quiet, ominous melody arises over the familiar, circular figure in the strings. Instead of leading us into darkness, it leads us back to the heroic mode we started in, and then to ethereal high strings, playing the main theme in a gentler vein. As the theme is developed, excitement builds. Again, doubt intrudes with an expansive, bittersweet melody. (One can see why nationalists thought this movement was speaking to them.) Suddenly, the minor theme turns major, bringing back the heroic opening theme to end the work triumphantly.
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.