LUDWIG: October 17, 2009 "All-Beethoven"
Musik zu einem Ritterballet (Music for a Ballet of Knights) WoO 1
Ludwig van Beethoven was born in Bonn in 1770 and died in Vienna in 1827. He composed this work in 1791, and it was premiered with a performance of the ballet in Bonn the same year. The score calls for flute, piccolo, 2 clarinets, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings.
Count Ferdinand Ernst von Waldstein (1762-1823) was one of Beethoven’s earliest and staunchest patrons; they would become great friends, as well. Waldstein promoted the young composer’s career, subsidized his expenses, even gave him a grand piano. If you recognize the name, it’s likely because one of Beethoven’s great piano sonatas bears it.
In 1791 Waldstein produced a ballet about medieval knights, creating the scenario and even having a hand in the choreography. He asked Beethoven to compose the music for it, though Beethoven’s name didn’t appear on the playbill. The reviewer assumed that Waldstein had written the music and we assume that Beethoven didn’t mind ghost-composing for his friend.
The ballet has no plot to speak of—it is merely a celebration of medieval German enthusiasms. The work leads off with a curtain-raising March. The stately German Song that follows is like a compressed rondo: a short repeated phrase alternates with contrasting episodes. The Hunting Song brings the horns to the fore, and a reprise of the German Song brings on the delicate pizzicatos of the Love Song, which is clearly related to it. From here to the end, the main phrase of the German Song is used to connect the movements. The Battle Song has martial brasses and pounding drums, while the Drinking Song brings its boisterous revelry. The German Dance is charming, rather more rustic than a waltz but just as graceful. The Coda interrupts this without warning, and interrupts itself with a final iteration of the German Song.
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D Major, Op. 61
Beethoven composed this concerto in 1806, and it was performed the same year in Vienna with Franz Clement as soloist. The score calls for solo violin, flute, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings.
Beethoven composed his Violin Concerto during one of his richest periods: works from this time include the Fourth and Fifth Symphonies, the G-major Piano Concerto, and the Razumovsky String Quartets. He composed it for violin virtuoso Franz Clement, who was known for his wild showmanship (he was capable of playing with his violin upside-down) as well as for great sensitivity, elegance, and scintillating technique.
Beethoven was hard-pressed by the deadline of the first performance, so much so that the concerto’s completion became a mad dash to the finish. He was, of course, in the habit of revising his work over lengthy periods of time; on this occasion, though, he left empty staves in the score to accommodate his own revisions and those suggested by Clement. The autograph score shows that Beethoven made ample use of this extra space. Even so, it is said that Clement had to read portions of the solo part at sight, corrections and all, at the first performance.
The concerto was not universally well received. According to one critic who heard it, “The judgment of connoisseurs is unanimous; its many beauties must be conceded, but it must also be acknowledged that the continuity is often completely broken and that endless repetitions of certain commonplace passages may easily become tedious to the listener. It is to be said that Beethoven might employ his indubitable talents more fittingly by giving us such works as his earlier compositions, which will always place him in the front rank of composers. It is to be feared, at the same time, that if Beethoven continues upon this path he and the public will fare badly.”
Those sentiments may not have been “unanimous,” but they were shared by many. In fact, the concerto did “fare badly” until it was championed years later by the still very-young violinist Joseph Joachim, with the help of Felix Mendelssohn on the podium. Schumann wrote that it was Joachim’s “skillful hand” that “led us through the heights and depths of that marvelous structure which the majority explore in vain.”
The opening Allegro ma non troppo begins with five soft drum-beats on the tympani, which prompted one wag to dub the piece “A Concerto for the Kettledrum.” The throbbing drum sets a most serene mood; as this motive returns, both in the tympani and in other instruments, it becomes the glue that holds the piece together. This movement is sometimes given the artificial weight of a ponderous tempo, but there’s no need: it has delicacy and sweetness balancing its profundity, and a transparency that belies its complexity.
The Larghetto is much simpler, though no less indelible. It is one of those Beethoven slow movements that is a whole world unto itself, a world where time is suspended as if in a dream and the only thing that matters is the next note.
The Rondo: Allegro is a rollicking invitation to dance. It delivers a rustic, foot-stomping good time, with a brilliant coda and ingenious close: a delightful smile from Beethoven.
Symphony No. 5 in C minor, Op. 67
Sketches for this work date from 1804, but Beethoven put it off for other projects (including the Fourth Symphony) until 1807, completing it in 1808. The Fifth Symphony premiered later that year at the Theater an der Wien, Vienna. The work calls for 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, contrabassoon, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, timpani, and strings.
Three Gs and an E-flat—it’s the most famous theme in western music. And no wonder: it is the seed from which springs one of the most powerful works in all of the symphonic literature.
The four notes in question do not constitute a melody, really; instead they are a motive. Unlike Mozart or Schubert, Beethoven was not a natural melodist. His sketch books are filled with the agonizing evolution of simple melodic materials: a note changed here, a rhythm altered there. He wasn’t just looking for a good melody—he was looking for a musical theme that could shape an entire work. In the first movement of the Fifth Symphony, nearly every note that follows can be traced back to Beethoven’s simple four-note motive; this is what gives the music its inexorable inner logic and its extraordinary power.
The essence of the motive is rhythm: three short notes, one long. This rhythm is pervasive: you find it nearly everywhere you look. It not only constitutes the first theme of the movement but the accompaniment to the lyrical second theme as well. The rhythm’s propulsive drive is so great that even its absence, as in the oboe cadenza, demands our attention.
There’s more to this motive than rhythm, of course: it has melodic and harmonic aspects as well. Beethoven exploits all of the motive’s implications with relentless concision; so much so that the ending seems to come too soon, and the tension it has created remains unresolved.
Resolution does not come from the second movement, a theme-and-variations. Yet its softness—and sheer beauty—are welcome after the wild and fanatically concentrated first. The three-short-one-long rhythm appears prominently, first in the winds, then in the brass. As the variations unwind it can be heard in other places, too.
The motive is heard buried within the mysterious opening to the Scherzo, then up-front and full force in the horns. Listen for it again in the little tag-end to the scrambling bass and cello theme of the trio. As Beethoven brings the motive through differing musical contexts, so he transforms its emotional effect: what had been the building block for the doom-laden opening bars now serves the same function for the mighty
resolve of the Scherzo’s horn melody.
Instead of a full break, the Scherzo ends with an eerie transition to the Finale, full of musical and emotional ambiguity. The motive lurks around this transition, but when the Finale’s celebratory fanfare begins, it is at first entirely absent. Eventually you can hear it sneaking back in, and before long the floodgates are opened and it is nearly everywhere, transformed indelibly into triumph.
Beethoven’s friend Schindler said that the composer described his motive with the words, “Thus Fate knocks at the door.” So dramatic, and so apt! Unfortunately, it turns out that this was likely a fabrication on Schindler’s part. But the motive and the music it engendered haven’t changed, only the meaning we impose upon it. The emotional meaning of the motive as it evolves throughout the piece is so clearly delineated that its impact is profound no matter what qualities we ascribe to it.
Furthermore, the unstoppable power of this symphony is not related to the many imaginative interpretations spawned by that spurious quote. It stems directly from the composer’s manipulation of purely musical materials in such a way that some meaning, some truth is imparted to every listener. If that meaning contains a story or a theme, well and good. But the drama, and the emotional connection we make to it, have come from the music and not vice-versa. With music as astonishing as this, words seem superfluous anyway.
—Mark Rohr, 2009
Questions or comments? mrohr@comcast.net
GIVING THANKS: November 22, 2009 "A Pre-Thanksgiving Musical Feast"
A Note from Maestro Hangen ...
Today's concert is intended to be a true Family Concert in which every member and generation of your family will hear us perform exactly the kind of music they would most want us to play the week before Thanksgiving. Therefore, this is not so much a "Symphony" concert as it is a variety of music played ‘symphonically’ to honor and celebrate a holiday that has ‘Giving Thanks’ as its theme. In a way, this is rather like an Arthur Fiedler-style pops concert in which you will hear, indeed, classical music, but also in which we can let our hair down a bit and have some fun. I truly am hoping, then, that both young and old will get some real pleasure from the concert's musical selections. With all things-Thanksgiving as my inspiration, we begin the concert with an Autumn piece and continue with Tchaikovsky's “November.”
We then travel "Over the River and Through the Woods" as if we were "Hansel and Gretel" to make gingerbread. We honor President Lincoln, whose proclamation in 1863 declared Thanksgiving as an annual holiday; we also acknowledge our New England heritage with the Shakers' most famous song, "Simple Gifts." We add a twinkle of the eye to the second half of the program, with plenty-of-horns instead of a horn-of-plenty, turkey in the straw, a snare drum concerto (drumsticks, anyone?) and the “Pumpkin Eater's Little Fugue.” The program concludes with “76 Trombones,” a bow to that other great Thanksgiving tradition: the Macy's Parade. Have fun!
Comes Autumn Time: Leo Sowerby
After a few years of piano lessons, Leo Sowerby began composing at age ten; by the time he was 18 he had composed a Violin Concerto that was performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. He composed hundreds of works in nearly all genres, but spent most of his career as a church musician at St. James Episcopal Cathedral in Chicago, later becoming the founding director of the College of Church Musicians at the Washington National Cathedral. He was awarded the first Rome Prize from the American Academy in Rome, and in 1946 was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Music for his Cantata Canticles of the Sun.
Sowerby composed Comes Autumn Time for organ in 1916 and arranged the work for orchestra the following year. The title comes from a line from Bliss Carman’s poem Autumn. The work is an exuberant sonata form, by turns pastoral and celebratory, and true to its title, always colorful.
Prelude to Hänsel und Gretel: Engelbert Humperdinck
Engelbert Humperdinck was a composer, educator, critic, and music editor who is remembered primarily for one work, his opera Hänsel und Gretel. Humperdinck studied composition and voice at the Cologne Conservatory and composition with Lachner and Rheinberger in Munich. He also spent time as Wagner’s assistant during the first production of Parsifal and even tutored Wagner’s son Siegfried. His music was heavily influenced by Wagner’s style, to which he added his own fondness for the German folk tradition. The idea for Hänsel und Gretel originated with Humperdinck’s sister, who asked him to write music dramatizing Grimm’s fairy tale for a family children’s show. He complied, and instantly realized the potential for a large-scale work on the same theme. After composing the 3-act opera (to his sister’s libretto) he sent the score to Richard Strauss, who called it: “A masterpiece of the highest quality, all of it new, original, and so authentically German.” Strauss himself conducted the first performances in Weimar. The Prelude begins with a gorgeous, bucolic horn melody that is the focus of the slow introduction. An interjection from the trumpet instigates the lighthearted Allegro that follows, and the return of the horn tune at the end seems ever so right.
Lincoln Portrait: Aaron Copland (1900-1990)
When the United States entered World War II, conductor Andre Kostelanetz commissioned three composers (Copland, Virgil Thompson and Jerome Kern) to compose musical portraits of three great Americans, exhibiting the “qualities of courage, dignity, strength, simplicity, and humor, which are so characteristic of the American people.” Copland first thought to portray Walt Whitman, but Kern had already chosen a literary figure, Mark Twain. When Copland decided to portray a statesman, he wrote that “the choice of Lincoln as my subject seemed inevitable.” Inevitable or impossible? To paint a musical picture of America’s most beloved president seemed daunting, at the very least. But Copland would have a narrator to recite Lincoln’s own words, and “with the voice of Lincoln to help me I was ready to risk the impossible.” He deliberately avoided the most famous of Lincoln’s speeches with the exception of an excerpt from the Gettysburg Address at the very end. Yet the quotes Copland chose are timeless and had particular application to the time the piece was written: there is a call to action, a meditation on democracy, and a remembrance of those who died to protect it. That so much could be conveyed in so few words is a testament to Lincoln’s mind, his spirit, and his insight into the meaning of America.
Fanfare to La Pèri: Paul Dukas
Paul Dukas was famously self-critical, to the extent that he destroyed or withheld the majority of his own music. One of the reasons The Sorcerer’s Apprentice is one of his best-known pieces—apart from Walt Disney—is that he only left seven major works and five smaller ones from which to choose. His ballet La Pèri was the last major work he issued. Dukas composed the Fanfare as an afterthought, and it has no thematic relationship to the music of the ballet proper. But its grandeur and power has made it popular in and of itself, and it is often performed separately.
Pumpkin Eater’s Little Fugue: Robert McBride (1911-2007)
Robert McBride was born in Tucson, Arizona and pursued his musical studies at the University of Arizona. He taught at Bennington College for eleven years, then moved to New York City to compose for films. McBride composed in a wide range of styles from jazz pieces to opera; his whimsical Pumpkin Eater’s Little Fugue is based on the children’s nursery rhyme Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater.
BAROQUE & BEYOND: January 24, 2010
Johann Sebastian Bach: Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F major, BWV 1047
J.S. Bach was born in Eisenach, Germany in 1685 and died in Leipzig in 1750. He likely composed his Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 between 1717 and 1721. There is no record of a first performance, but it is again likely that it was heard at the court of Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Köthen during the same period. The score calls for solo recorder (or flute), oboe, trumpet, and violin, plus continuo and strings.
In a strange twist of fate, the Brandenburg Concertos have come to be named after a man who didn’t especially want them, never heard them, and may not have liked them had he done so. Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg, heard Bach play in 1718, and casually mentioned that he would like some concertos from Bach, if he cared to supply them. Some years later, Bach sent the now-famous set of six to the Margrave, together with a painfully obsequious cover letter. (With all those children, Bach was always on the lookout for work). It turned out that the six concertos required a larger and more versatile orchestra than the Brandenburg court possessed. Christian Ludwig never had them performed, nor did he even have them listed in his library’s catalog, which included some two hundred other such concerti. They were forgotten until they were sold after his death. Far from being vanquished without a hearing, however, the Brandenburgs are now thought to be works that Bach had already composed and performed at Köthen; he evidently just gathered them up in a bundle for presentation to the Margrave.
It is almost certain that Christian Ludwig did not have at his disposal a trumpeter skilled enough to negotiate the celestial part written for the instrument in the Second Brandenburg Concerto. In Bach’s day, the clarino was what we now call the “natural” trumpet—a valveless instrument whereby notes were changed by lips alone. The part was written for Johann Ludwig Schreiber, the virtuoso trumpeter at the Köthen court. Schreiber must have been an impressive player, to say the least.
The trumpet is part of a quartet of soloists including violin, recorder (or flute) and oboe. The shape of the first movement follows that which Bach had adopted from Vivaldi, with recurring orchestral passages (ritornelli) separating interludes for the soloists. The trumpet sits out the second movement—a well deserved rest, perhaps—as do the orchestral strings; the violin, flute and oboe form a trio with continuo accompaniment. The light-hearted nature of the third movement disguises its underlying form: a double fugue. In the hands of others such a rigid form can seem pedantic, but Bach’s craft is merely the means to a gracious end.
Violinist and scholar Reinhard Goebel has written, “We must realize that Bach, at 35, was not yet the monument—300 years old and more—that we are inclined to take him for,” meaning that the Brandenburgs should be played with rather more gusto than reverence. In the Second Brandenburg this comes quite naturally. As for reverence, if Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg would have none, then we shall, in the listening.
Jean-Philippe Rameau: Dances from Les fêtes d’Hébé
Jean-Philippe Rameau was born in Dijon, France in 1683 and died in Paris in 1764. He composed his opéra-ballet Les fêtes d’Hébé ou les Talents lyriques in 1739 and it was first performed at the Paris Opera the same year. The instrumental music from this work has been arranged into countless suites over the years; the score of this set calls for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 bassoons, 2 trumpets, continuo, and strings.
Rameau would have been known to musicians through the ages even if he hadn’t composed a note: his theoretical treatises on harmony and other musical subjects are still relevant and consulted. As it happens he composed a great deal in a variety of genres, especially keyboard music, but his first love (and the music that made him famous) was opera.
Opera had a rather fluid definition in Rameau’s time, subsuming the categories tragédie lyrique, comédie lyrique, and opéra-ballet. Les fêtes d’Hébé ou les Talents lyrique (Festivals of Hebe, or the Lyric Talents) is an example of the last. An opéra-ballet was usually in three or four acts, each with its own story but all linked by a common theme; here, the goddess Hebe descends to earth to sample the poetry, music, and dances of Man. Each act consists of many separate numbers including recitatives, arias, choruses, duets and other ensemble numbers and, of course, ballets. Rameau often raided his own keyboard works for the ballet numbers, selecting them for mood and orchestrating them with uncanny skill. Tonight’s performance will include an Air (Danse des Lacedemoniens), a Gavotte (Danse de Mariniers), two Tambourins, two Rigaudons, and a Chaconne.
Georg Philipp Telemann: Trauer-Musik eines kunsterfahrenen Canarienvogels
(Funeral Music for an Artful Canary)
Georg Philipp Telemann was born in Magdeburg, Germany in 1681 and died in Hamburg in 1767. It is believed that he composed this Cantata around 1737. The author of the text is unknown, as are the circumstances of the first performance. The score calls for solo voice, continuo, and strings.
Scholars know very little about the provenance of this work. It seems to have been composed around 1737, at the request of a friend—presumably a pet lover who had recently lost his beloved bird.
Nonetheless it is a singular accomplishment for Telemann, who is rarely accused of composing overly-passionate music. It is clear that the suffering of his friend inspired him to great heights of musical expression, fanatical devotion to the text, and a sense of tragedy more than equal to his subject.
Following the text of the Cantata during the performance will reveal all this and more. A word of warning, however: when the music comes to its appraisal of the villain—well, let’s just say it’s not for the squeamish.
English Text of Cantata
I. Aria. O weh, O weh, mein Canarin ist tot.
O alas, O alas, my canary is dead.
To whom can I bemoan my misery?
To whom can I bemoan my bitter sorrow?
Who will take this grief to heart with me?
To whom can I bemoan my misery?
O alas, O alas, my canary is dead.
II. Recitative. So geht’s mit der Vogel Freude
This is what happens to the joy of a little bird
And to the things of this world.
Aversion is bound up with desire,
Joy wastes away with sorrow.
Yes, yes, the cunning bird can teach you this.
His singing was delightful to hear
And almost a miracle in his lifetime.
His little throat was beautifully formed
And whistled many a fine tune in happiness.
But his joy is gone now.
He lies prostrate and will be covered with black earth.
III. Aria. Ihr lieblichen Kanarienvogel
You lovely canaries, bewail my joy and your beauty.
You birds, who always do our keen ears good with your excellent singing.
You lovely canaries, bewail my joy and your beauty.
IV. Recitative. Was soll ich mehr zu deinem Lobe singen
What more can I sing to your praise, O noble canary!
You could extend your clear voice so that the ears, heart, and mind
Of all who listened to you were moved.
Only you, you alone, cruel Death, were unmoved by the delightful sound;
For you have cruelly and arrogantly devoured the precious little thing.
V. Aria. Friss, dass dir der Halsanschwelle
Eat, so that your neck swells up!
Eat, you impudent intruder!
Eat! Eat! Eat!
Eat, so that your neck swells up!
Eat, you impudent intruder!
Let the bird scratch you and tear you to pieces!
And bite at your stomach and intestines until you burst on the spot!
Eat! Eat! Eat, and burst on the spot!
Eat, so that your neck swells up!
Eat, you impudent intruder!
VI. Recitative. Allein, was sill ich ferner klagen
But what more can I say?
What more will our harsh brother Death inquire about my sorrow?
He demands a parrot or a raven, a canary or a sparrow for his breakfast.
He spares no bird.
Very well, depart.
A melancholy word—depart—my beloved canary.
If Fortune should ever give me his equal again (a thing that rarely happens)
Yet he will never fade from my memory as long as I live.
VII. Aria. Mein Canariene gute Nacht
My canary, good night!
Before my little feathered friend goes away for good,
I must think of your true diligence.
You made everything so nice for me.
My canary, good night!
VIII. Recitative. Nun dann, so nehmt die kleinen Glieder
Now then, so take the tiny limbs in your hand
And put the bird softly down in the cool earth.
See that he lies in safety, to assuage my sorrow.
Let us pay our last respects by writing on his tombstone:
Because of a Devil, here lies a bird
Who could sing so prettily and brought joy to everyone.
You alley cat!
Because you ate this little animal,
My wish for you is death by stoning.
Johann Pachelbel: Canon in D
Johann Pachelbel was born in Nuremberg, Germany in 1653 and died there in 1706. He composed this work for 3 violins and continuo in 1700; it has since been arranged for many different instrumental combinations. The version used in tonight’s performance is for string orchestra.
The Pachelbel Canon has suffered a horrifying and cruelly undeserved fate: it has become the single most popular work of the Baroque era. It secures heavy rotation in drive-time “classical lite” radio programs, it can be heard wafting through yuppie bookstores and cafés, supermarkets, dentists’ offices, malls, television advertisements and, at any given moment, is playing in 27% of all the elevators in the western world. It has appeared in arrangements for every known combination of instruments; no doubt there exist editions for accordion orchestras, balalaika aggregations and marimba ensembles. The mind-numbing frequency and the mind-numbed performances are enough to make music lovers—those for whom music must be something more than aural wallpaper—scream (inwardly, of course), “Oh, no! Not again!”
A canon, of course, is a piece where each part plays the same music, but each begins at a different time. It is one thing to pull off this trick in a simple song like “Frere Jacques,” quite another to accomplish it in an extended movement. Pachelbel’s Canon is also a passacaglia, that is, it has an eight-note bass line that is repeated continually from beginning to end.
The reason this work has suffered humiliating arrangements and thoughtless performances is simple: it is exquisitely beautiful, and thus fair game. Perhaps we might restore some of its dignity if we performed it as if it were as worthy as it is—and listened to it, finally, without distraction.
Christoph Willibald Gluck: Music from Orfeo ed Euridice
Overture
Dance of the Furies
Dance of the Blessed Spirits
Christoph Willibald Gluck was born in Erasbach, Bavaria in 1714 and died in Vienna in 1781. He composed his opera Orfeo ed Euridice in 1762 and it was first performed in Vienna the same year. These excerpts call for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, bassoon, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings.
Gluck was the human dividing-line between the stylized opera of the late baroque and the music-drama we recognize as opera today. In Gluck’s era opera had become a caricature of itself: endless strings of arias, duets, and set-pieces, with static plots and only the most tenuous relationship between the music and the words. Singers would—and were expected to—bring all stage action to a halt while they improvised wildly at every opportunity, demonstrating their pipes and their showmanship. Opera had become all decorative icing with no cake underneath.
Gluck “reformed” opera all in one go with the premiere of Orfeo ed Euridice in 1762. The change was radical. Orfeo’s libretto was passionate, emotionally realistic, and allowed the character of Orfeo to develop; the music was simpler, classically austere, and attempted to express the meaning of the words. Gluck even took back control of the voices, requiring singers to remain in character and—horrors—to sing what was written and no more. So much change at once was a shock, but the new style eclipsed the old in a short time: Gluck had opened the way to modern opera.
In the familiar story, Orfeo receives permission to retrieve his beloved Euridice from Hades. The Overture launches the opera with a simple main theme, propulsive rhythms, and a lively sense of dynamics. As Orfeo approaches the underworld he is confronted by the Furies, enraged that he would seek to enter. His aria elicits their compassion and they admit him; once he leaves, however, they come to themselves in the wild Dance of the Furies. This begins with soft, minor key music in the strings that soon bursts into a furious rage of near-constant sixteenth notes. Brass interjections sound like the wrath of God, then the music winds down as if its energy is spent. When Orfeo reaches Elysium, he views the Dance of the Blessed Spirits—slow, serene, and some of the most beautiful operatic music ever composed.
OF PEACE & HARMONY: February 13, 2010
A Note from Maestro Hangen
This concert's musical selections are wrapped around a theme that's very important to me personally: Peace and Harmony. This is an attempt to blend, to mix and match widely varying musical styles around themes of love, peace and reverence for the earth and its peoples. I am purposely juxtaposing "classical" music with "pops" or "new age" or "world" with the intent to blur generally held distinctions, and to show that it really doesn't matter in this day and age what the labels are. Rather, it's the meaning of the music itself that is important to this concert of peaceful celebration and personal reflection. Beginning the program with "Let There Be Peace On Earth," each half of the concert has a joyful beginning: Beethoven's "Awakening of Cheerful Feelings Upon Arrival in the Country" and Holst's "Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity."
Each half of the concert progresses in various ways to feelings more of reflection, even allowing for personal meditation if you wish. In that regard, "What a Wonderful World," John Lennon's "Imagine" and Part's "Fratres" (“Brothers”) will be the penultimate conclusion to each half that, hopefully, will lead you to feel personally inspired by the message of the music itself. In between, in each half of the concert, we feature the Native American flutist R. Carlos Nakai, a truly spectacular musician who both personally and musically embodies the notions of peace and harmony in so many wonderful, indigenous ways. I've chosen to conclude the program with the last few minutes of the Mahler Third Symphony (subtitled by Mahler as "What Love Tells Me"), which is generally regarded as one person's monumental, glorious hymn to love, peace and harmony.
Ludwig van Beethove: Symphony No. 6 in F Major, Op. 68 “Pastorale,” Movement I
Beethoven always found relief and renewal in his daily tramps around the ramparts of Vienna and his summers in a nearby village. The natural world was a tonic for him; in his Sixth Symphony, Beethoven turned those feelings into sounds. He calls the first movement Awakening of Cheerful Feelings upon Arriving in the Country, and the music itself awakens with a gentle phrase that stops even before it gets going. It marks the leisurely pace of Nature’s world. Beethoven turned to the ever-constant yet always-changing face of Nature when the works of Man made him sour. For centuries composers have tried to evoke Nature with their music, but only Beethoven has so eloquently captured its uplifting spirit.
Gustav Holst: Jupiter, from The Planets, Op. 32
Gustav Holst had wanted to compose a large-scale piece for some time. He even had a title: Seven Pieces for Large Orchestra. But it was not until a friend had introduced him to astrology that Holst found a ruling metaphor. He would call his work The Planets, but he would treat them in the astrological sense, not the astronomical. However, The Planets has no program as such. Each movement is a character piece, a musical metaphor for the influence of each ruling planet. The Planets, then, is a work about the human experience, not the cosmic. Holst wrote: “Jupiter brings jollity in the ordinary sense, and also the more ceremonial kind of rejoicing associated with religious or national festivities.” The joyous celebration is most poignant in a central hymn tune of noble beauty.
James S. Hoch: Ancestral Voices, from Gift to the People: Concerto for Native American Flute
James S. Hoch is principal clarinetist of the Winona Symphony, assistant principal clarinet with the La Crosse Symphony, and principal clarinet with the Holiday Rambler Rally Band. He earned his Bachelor of Music degree from the University of the Pacific Conservatory of Music, and his Masters and Doctoral degrees from the University of Colorado. He has taught at Carroll College, the University of Hawaii, and Central Wyoming College. He is currently a Professor of Music at Winona State University. In Ancestral Voices, the last movement of his Concerto for Native American Flute, slow sections of atmospheric and evocative sounds alternate with faster sections of rhythmically-charged and highly colorful music.
Arvo Pärt: Fratres
When Estonian composer Arvo Pärt found himself at a loss for direction, he spent a good deal of time studying medieval and Renaissance music, from plainchant to early polyphony, absorbing the methods of composers such as Josquin, Machaut, Ockeghem, and Obrecht. He found his inspiration in these works: their simplicity, harmonic openness, and crystalline textures appealed to him, as did their air of mystery. Fratres is one of his earliest efforts in this style. It consists of a hymn-like melody that is played over an open-fifth drone. This melody is repeated eight times, with each iteration appearing a major- or minor-third lower than the previous one. The sound becomes richer and denser with each downward step, and the combination of movement and stasis suggests a procession of monks in a medieval church.
Gustav Mahler: Finale from Symphony No. 3 in D minor
Mahler said, “To write a symphony is, to me, to create a world.” In the case of his Third, this can nearly be taken literally. Its six movements evolve from the physical world to the spiritual: “ I imagined the increasing articulation of feeling, from the brooding, elementary forces of Nature, to the tender creations of the human heart, which in turn reach out beyond themselves, pointing the way to God.” The Finale is a slow movement as only Mahler could write: time appears to stand still as the worldly gives way to the metaphysical. The goal of the music—and of mankind—is Love: Mahler called it “The peak, the highest level from which one can view the world.”
FROM THE INSIDE OUT: March 13, 2010
Béla Bartók: Concerto for Orchestra
Béla Bartók was born in Nagyszentmiklós, Hungary (now Sînnicolau Mare, Romania) in 1881; he died in New York in 1945. He composed his Concerto for Orchestra in 1943, and it was first performed by the Boston Symphony in 1944 under the direction of Serge Kousevitsky. The score calls for 3 flutes, piccolo, 3 oboes, English horn, 3 clarinets, bass clarinet, 3 bassoons, contrabassoon, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, 2 harps and strings.
Bartók’s music is a unique synthesis of compositional techniques: it has the colorful orchestral palette of the Romantics, the contrapuntalism of the Baroque, the harmonic freedom of the “impressionists,” the transparency of the Classical era, the quirky rhythms of Hungarian folk music, and a mastery of musical architecture in a league with Beethoven’s. It is both highly sophisticated and vividly direct, with an instantly recognizable voice.
Bartók fled the Nazis in 1940 and settled into a small apartment in New York City. It was not a happy time. He had always been frail, but now he was suffering recurrent bouts of incapacitating illness. He was, in fact, dying of leukemia. His royalties had been cut off and his illness prevented him from accepting the engagements as a pianist and lecturer that he had hoped would support him and his wife. His friends and admirers tried to help, but Bartók would never accept charity.
Violinist Joseph Szigeti and conductor Fritz Reiner were among those friends and admirers, and compatriots of Bartók’s as well; they approached conductor Serge Koussevitzky to arrange for the Koussevitzky Foundation to commission a work from the ailing composer. Koussevitzky himself visited Bartók in his hospital room, gave him the commission and a $500 check, with $500 more due upon completion. The offer prompted Bartók to work again, and may even have caused his health to improve; he and his wife spent the next summer at Saranac Lake, New York, where Bartók composed the Concerto for Orchestra.
The piece opens with an example of Bartók’s incomparable nachtmusik: dark, eerie, and portentous. The steady eighth-notes in the low strings become faster and more ominous as they drive toward the Allegro vivace, which is, in Bartók’s words, “more or less” a sonata form. The bold interjection by the trombone between the first and second subjects becomes the theme of the fugato in the development.
The second movement is called the “Game of Pairs,” composed in what Bartók calls a “chain” form—a sequence of short unrelated episodes. Each episode features a pair of wind instruments, with each pair locked together in a different interval: the bassoons play in sixths, the oboes in thirds, the clarinets in sevenths, the flutes in fifths, and muted trumpets in biting seconds. A gorgeous brass chorale intervenes, then the game returns.
The Elegia returns to the motives of the first movement’s introduction. Bartók called it a “lugubrious death-song”; its three themes “constitute the core of the movement, which is enframed by a misty texture of rudimentary motifs.”
The Intermezzo Interrotto is based on folk-like materials—except for the interruption. While Bartók was composing the Concerto, he heard a radio broadcast of Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony. Some of the themes in that work are repeated interminably, especially one depicting the Nazi advance on Leningrad. Bartók found this tune nearly unbearable, and he parodies the second half of it in the interruption. Mere parody wasn’t enough, though: after the banal tune he has the brasses guffaw and the woodwinds giggle.
The whirlwind Finale returns to a loose sonata form. Its perpetual-motion figures and dance rhythms propel it to a brilliant finish.
A huge number of fascinating musical details live in this piece, impossible to catalog, or even notice, in one hearing. In the first movement’s Allegro, for example, how the second three bars of the violin theme are the first three turned upside-down; how the final chord of the “Game of Pairs” is made up from the notes of all the pairs, still locked together in their original intervals; how the fugato in the Finale is so deftly executed that it is hardly noticed as such; how the overall shape of the work is Bartók’s favorite arch form. These are the elements of craft—the unseen structures that unify the music and make each note seem as if it were inevitable.
Bartók saw the work as “a gradual transition from the sternness of the first movement to the life-assertion of the last one.” Biographer Halsey Stevens called it “a great work, one of the greatest produced in this century, not because of the startling originality of its materials, or the novelty of their treatment, but because the problems it poses are broad and vital ones, solved with the utmost logic and conviction.”
MADE IN THE USA: April 10, 2010
Samuel Barber: Medea’s Meditation and Dance of Vengeance, Op. 23a
Samuel Barber was born in West Chester, Pennsylvania in 1910 and died in New York City in 1981. He composed the music for his ballet score, first called Serpent Heart, then Cave of the Heart, on a commission from Martha Graham in 1945 and 1946; the ballet was first performed at Columbia University in 1946. In 1947 Barber extracted a seven movement suite from the score, with greatly expanded orchestration, under the title Medea. In 1955 he created a highly condensed one-movement version of the suite, with further expanded instrumentation, under the new title above. This version of the music was first performed in 1956 by the New York Philharmonic under the baton of Dmitri Mitropoulos. The score calls for 3 flutes, piccolo, 3 oboes, English horn, 4 clarinets, bass clarinet, E-flat clarinet, 3 bassoons, contrabassoon, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, harp, piano, and strings.
In 1945 Martha Graham asked Samuel Barber to compose music for a ballet loosely based on the Greek mythical figure Medea, daughter of King Aeëtes and wife of Jason, leader of the Argonauts. The story of the ballet is horrific, even by the standards of Greek myth: Jason abandons Medea to take a young princess as his wife; in a fit of jealous rage, Medea murders her own children to spite him.
Barber and Graham were interested in going beyond mere story-telling in the ballet. Barber wrote, “These mythical figures served rather to project psychological states of jealousy and vengeance which are timeless. The choreography and music were conceived on two time levels, the ancient-mythical and the contemporary. Medea and Jason first appear as godlike, superhuman figures of the Greek tragedy. As the tension and conflict between them increase, they step out of their legendary roles from time to time and become the modern man and woman, caught in the nets of jealousy and destructive love; and at the end reassume their mythic quality.”
Barber’s original ballet music was scored for a mere thirteen instruments. When he made a concert suite from the ballet he expanded the orchestration to better exploit its dramatic possibilities. He increased the orchestration once again when he created this final, highly condensed version of the music.
This form of Medea not only concentrates the music of the original ballet, it distills its psychological subtext to its essence. The opening music is slow, brooding, and oppressive. (It is also immensely colorful.) The music grows with inexorable intensity as jealousy becomes rage and, finally, a savage madness. A magnificent and harrowing work.
Aaron Copland: Appalachian Spring, Suite from the Ballet
Aaron Copland was born in Brooklyn in 1900 and died in Peekskill, New York in 1990. He composed his ballet Appalachian Spring on a commission from the Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge Foundation in 1943-1944 and it was first performed at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. in 1944. Copland’s music for the ballet won the Pulitzer Prize for music in 1945 as well as the Music Critics Circle of New York Award. The original score was for a tiny orchestra of thirteen players; in 1945 Copland arranged most of the ballet’s music into a suite for larger orchestra. The score of this version calls for 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, 2 trombones, timpani, percussion, harp, piano, and strings.
In 1942 Mrs. Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge invited Martha Graham to create three new ballets for the Coolidge Foundation’s annual Fall Festival. Three composers were engaged to write new ballet scores for the event: Paul Hindemith, Darius Milhaud, and Aaron Copland. Copland’s contribution would go on to become his most popular and oft-performed work: Appalachian Spring.
The scenario of the ballet as printed in the score describes “a pioneer celebration in spring around a newly-built farmhouse in the Pennsylvania hills in the early part of the last century. The bride-to-be and the young farmer-husband enact the emotions, joyful and apprehensive, their new domestic partnership invites. An older neighbor suggests now and then the rocky confidence of experience. A revivalist and his followers remind the new householders of the strange and terrible aspects of human fate. At the end the couple are left quiet and strong in their new house.”
Copland’s note for the premiere of the Suite describes the sections of the work:
1. Very slowly. Introduction of the characters, one by one, in suffused light.
2. Fast. Sudden burst of unison strings in A-major arpeggios starts the action. A sentiment both exalted and religious gives the keynote to this scene.
3. Moderate. Duo for the Bride and her Intended—scene of tenderness and passion.
4. Quite fast. The revivalist and his flock. Folksy feelings—suggestions of square dances and country fiddlers.
5. Still faster. Solo dance of the Bride—presentiment of motherhood. Extremes of joy and fear and wonder.
6. Very slowly (as at first). Transition scenes reminiscent of the introduction.
7. Calm and flowing. Scenes of daily activity for the Bride and her Farmer-husband. There are five variations on a Shaker theme. The theme, sung by a solo clarinet, was taken from a collection of Shaker melodies compiled by Edward D. Andrews, and published later under the title The Gift to be Simple. The melody I borrowed and used almost literally is called “Simple Gifts.”
8. Moderate. Coda. The Bride takes her place among her neighbors. At the end the couple are left “quiet and strong in their new house.” Muted strings intone a hushed, prayer-like passage. We hear a last echo of the principal theme sung by a flute and solo violin.
Long before he composed Appalachian Spring Copland began to heed the advice given by that incomparably beautiful Shaker tune “Simple Gifts;” in fact its sentiments seem to sum up this period of his career. As a young man Copland composed brash, dissonant, jazz-tinged works that pleased the critics yet left audiences unmoved. So he performed a musical about-face: “I felt that it was worth it to see if I couldn’t say what I had to say in the simplest terms possible.” This change of attitude yielded a rich lode of accessible and instantly popular works such as El Salon Mexico, Rodeo, and Lincoln Portrait—all culminating in Appalachian Spring.
As the song goes:
’Tis the gift to be simple
’Tis the gift to be free
’Tis the gift to come down
Where we ought to be
And when we find ourselves
In the place just right
’Twill be in the valley
Of love and delight.
Just so.
Leonard Bernstein: Serenade (after Plato’s Symposium)
Leonard Bernstein was born in Lawrence, Massachusetts in 1918 and died in New York City in 1990. He completed this work in 1954 on a commission from the Koussevitzky Foundation, and led the first performance in Venice the same year with the Israel Philharmonic and Isaac Stern the violinist. The score calls for solo violin, timpani, percussion, harp, and strings.
Leonard Bernstein was one of those rare geniuses who excelled at every musical discipline: a performer, composer, conductor and teacher, he was also a musical ambassador-at-large with the uncanny ability to make everyone he met excited about music. He is best known for his music for the theater but he also wrote numerous works for the concert hall; alas, most remain unduly neglected.
Bernstein never wrote a work he called a concerto, but that’s only because the term is too limiting. His Symphony No. 2, The Age of Anxiety, is a musical expression of W.H. Auden’s poem, but it is also a piano concerto in disguise. Likewise, his Serenade is a musical version of Plato’s Symposium, but it is a violin concerto in all but name.
Bernstein wrote that “There is no literal program for the Serenade despite the fact that it resulted from a rereading of Plato’s charming dialogue, ‘The Symposium.’ The music, like the dialogue, is a series of related statements in praise of love, and generally follows the Platonic form through the succession of speakers at the banquet.” The music is in five sections; Bernstein described them in his own program note:
“For the benefit of those interested in literary allusion, I might suggest the following points as guideposts:
I. Phaedrus; Pausanias (Lento-Allegro). Phaedrus opens the symposium with a lyrical oration in praise of Eros, the god of love. (Fugato, begun by the solo violin.) Pausanias continues by describing the duality of lover and beloved. This is expressed in a classical sonata-allegro, based on the material of the opening fugato.
II. Aristophanes (Allegretto). Aristophanes does not play the role of the clown in this dialogue, but instead that of the bedtime story-teller, invoking the fairy-tale mythology of love.
III. Eryximachus (Presto). The physician speaks of bodily harmony as a scientific model for the workings of love-patterns. This is an extremely short fugato scherzo, born of a blend of mystery and humor.
IV. Agathon (Adagio). Perhaps the most moving speech of the dialogue, Agathon’s panegyric embraces all aspects of love’s powers, charms, and functions. This movement is a simple three-part song.
V. Socrates; Alcibiades (Molto tenuto-Allegro molto vivace). Socrates describes his visit to the seer Diotima, quoting her speech on the demonology of love. This is a slow introduction of greater weight than any of the preceding movements; and serves as a highly developed reprise of the middle section of the Agathon movement, thus suggesting a hidden sonata form. The famous interruption by Alcibiades and his band of drunken revelers ushers in the Allegro, which is an extended Rondo ranging in spirit from agitation through jig-like dance music to joyful celebration. If there is a hint of jazz in the celebration I hope it will not be taken as anachronistic Greek party music, but rather the natural expression of a contemporary American composer imbued with the spirit of that timeless dinner party.”
In Plato’s “Symposium” each successive speaker takes the previous speech as his starting point, a striking parallel to Bernstein’s preferred compositional technique. Instead of continual variation, Bernstein is more likely to seize upon some facet of music that came before and, like a chain reaction, pursue that facet in the music that follows. This is music having a conversation with itself: it not only gives the work as a whole an uncanny cohesiveness, but also draws together the various sentiments expressed at Plato’s famous “dinner party.”
William Schuman: New England Triptych
William Schuman was born in New York City in 1910 and died there in 1992. He composed this work in 1956 on a commission from conductor Andre Kostelanetz. It was first performed the same year by the University of Miami Orchestra led by Kostelanetz. The score calls for 3 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, bass clarinet, E-flat clarinet, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, and strings.
William Schuman was one of the most important musical figures in America in the twentieth century. Apart from his accomplishments as a composer—sadly neglected today—he promoted new music as Director of Publications for G. Schirmer, was a longtime president of the Julliard School, president of the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, and director of such institutions as the Koussevitsky Foundation, the Chamber Music Society at Lincoln Center, and the Naumberg Foundation. In a strange twist, he is best known as a composer for his New England Triptych, which is based on another man’s music.
Schuman explained: “William Billings (1744-1800) is a major figure in the history of American music. His works capture the spirit of sinewy ruggedness, deep religiosity, and patriotic fervor that we associate with the revolutionary period in American history. I am not alone among American composers who feel a sense of identity with Billings, which accounts for my use of his music as a departure point. These three pieces are not a “fantasy” nor “variations” on themes of Billings, but rather a fusion of styles and musical language.”
The first movement is based on Billings’ hymn “Be Glad, Then, America,” a celebration of America’s bounty. After a dark introduction led by the timpani, a great profusion of counterpoint ensues based on music originally written to the lines “Be glad, then, America, shout and rejoice.”
“When Jesus Wept” begins with Billings’ tune in a mournful bassoon, and continues in rounds. Billings composed “Chester” as a church hymn, but during the Revolution it became a popular marching song for the Continental Army. We hear it first as a hymn, then a joyous tribute to the spirit of America.
©2009 Mark Rohr
Questions or comments? mrohr@comcast.net
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