In 1816, when Symphony No.5 was written, Schubert was 19 years old. He was a prodigious but not precocious youth, composing many pieces but producing little of any real originality.

For the most part, he output was a rather able mimicking of Haydn and Mozart with a healthy dash of Rossini and Bach thrown in for colour. Indeed none of his teachers would ever have predicted that Schubert would create anything that would distinguish him from the multitude of composers working in Vienna at the time.

For some reason, in the autumn of 1814, Schubert’s yet untapped talent burst on the scene and, over the next 15 months, resulted in one of the most intensely creative periods of any Western artist’s life.

During his 18th year, he composed 150 songs, which works out to more than one every three days. He wrote more than songs during this time and when all his output is added up, it works out to roughly 65 bars of music per day, much of it for full orchestra.

This is all well and good for a focused, full time composer but when his day job as a school teacher, private teaching, vigorous concert attendance and enthusiastic socializing are taken into consideration, this output is simply mind-boggling.

The pace of 1815 tapered a little the following year but only just. Schubert still found time for 110 songs, a mass setting, two-thirds of an opera, Symphonies 4 and 5, a string quartet and three sonatas for violin and piano.

Despite this massive amount of material and large circle of friends, neither Schubert or his supporters had enough money to hire the musicians necessary to perform most of it. As such, very little of his work was performed during his liftetime. His fifth symphony was an exception and received its first performance in August of 1817 as part of a house concert series put on by Otto Hatwig, a prominent violinist in whose amateur orchestra Schubert often played viola.

ABOUT THE SYMPHONY
Although considered by musicologists to still be a juvenile work of Schubert’s the fifth symphony represents a significant advancement in originality and style from the fourth even thought they were composed in the same year.

A heavy debt is still owed to Mozart, particularly in the third movement where he essentially quotes the corresponding movement of his colleague’s Symphony No. 40. Teenagers are not the most subtle of creatures, so the obviousness of this tribute is not entirely surprising.

It is easy to point to Schubert’s influences and conclude that his early symphonies are not really of any consequence. That, however, would be a mistake. Symphony No.5 is full of good humour, good tunes and in places, sparkles with the promise of things to come.

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Pulcinella Suite
Overture: Sinfonia
Serenata
Scherzino - Allegro - Andantino
Tarantella
Toccata
Gavotta - Variation I &II
Vivo
Minuetto - Finale

Igor Stravinsky

Neo-classicists were generally interested in combining the forms and structure of the 18th century with their own stylistic and harmonic ideas. Brahms was a pioneer in this field and relied heavily on traditional forms to create the framework up which he could layout his ideas. Other composers gave the style a go, of which Tchaikovksy’s Rococo Variations and Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony are fine examples.

Sergei Diaghilev

Stravinsky makes the music his own by spicing up the 18th century harmony and combining instruments to create new timbres. Prominent solo passages are given to the flute, oboe and trumpet. He also got excellent mileage out of his work and created Suite Italienne as well as the Pulcinella Suite from the full ballet score.

Pulcinella

All girls are attracted to Pulcinella’s magnetic charm, which, naturally, enrages their lovers, who plot to kill him. They seem to have succeeded until a magician appears to revive the corpse. In the end, the corpse was not Pulcinella at all but rather his friend Fourbo who impersonated him and feigned death. The magician reveals himself to be Pulcinella, who then promptly settles the marriages of the enraged lovers and marries his girlfriend while Fourbo assumes the guise of the magician.

The ballet was premiered on 15th May, 1920 and was heralded as the restoration of Russian ballet to its former glory. With sets by Picasso and choreography by Léonide Massinee, it was a true masterpiece, meaning it excelled in all areas. Some critics challenged the ethics of Stravinsky’s liberal appropriation of the original works but even they were not immune to the infectious wit and charm of the final production. Critic Reynaldo Hahn, a sceptic, was forced to admit that, “M. Stravinsky has never given proof of greater talent than in Pulcinella, nor of a surer taste in audacity.”

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Archduke Rudolph

The difference is noticeable immediately at the beginning of the first movement. Traditionally, the orchestra outlines the initial thematic material and the soloist enters after a lengthy wait. In this case, the piano begins with material that sounds as if it is being made up on the spot before the orchestra gently takes over and develops it. In the second movement, the calm piano line is the counterfoil to the gruff and restless strings.

Franz Liszt likened the soloist’s role to the legend of Orpheus taming the wild beasts with his lyre. Eventually, the piano’s serenity does prevail only to be overtaken by an energetic final-movement rondo. Wit rather than boisterousness is the name of the game although the brief coda does manage to break free and bring the piece to a rambunctious close.

Beethoven gave the premiere performance in a private concert at the palace of his patron Prince Lobkowitz in March of 1807. Acutely aware of his seriously diminished hearing, Beethoven scoured Vienna for a replacement to premiere the work in public. The first pianist he contacted said the piece was too difficult to learn quickly. The next soloist agreed to perform it but then, at the last minute, played another of Beethoven’s concertos. The composer was furious and despite his auditory difficulties, he took matters into his own hands and added the piece, with himself as soloist, to an already mammoth concert on 22 December, 1808.

The concert was put on at the Theater an der Wien in Vienna with his Fifth and Sixth symphonies and the Choral Fantasy being premiered along with the Concerto and some movements from the Mass in C major.

The ambitious concert ended up being a comedy of errors lasting over four hours. Even though the concert took place in the dead of winter, the hall was unheated and Beethoven’s difficult personality meant that the orchestra was fatally under rehearsed. The final piece on the programme, the Choral Fantasy, was acknowledged by all present to be a terrible mess. Predictably, the Concerto and most of the other premieres received lukewarm appreciation for the audience.

Op. 58 languished into obscurity until it was rescued by Felix Mendelssohn in 1836. A young Robert Schumann heard this performance and was so transfixed that he later reported, “I sat in my place without moving a muscle or even breathing.” Patrons at the premiere concert likely would have said the same thing although their reaction would more likely have been caused by hypothermia than musical ecstasy.

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Bartók’s Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste is one of his most well known pieces along with the Concerto for Orchestra and the 6 string quartets. It was commissioned to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Basel Chamber Orchestra and premiered 21 January 1937.

In the score Bartók stipulates that the strings are divided antiphonally.

Although the piece was written 15 years before Gyorgy Ligeti’s Romanian Concerto, it sounds quite modern in comparison. Bartók fled Hungary for the United States in 1930 and was free to compose as he wished. Also, Bartók was a much older man, so his compositional style had already matured.

It is well known that folk music was Bartók’s great love. He and Zoltan Kodaly were responsible for an enormous folk music collection project and co-founded the academic discipline of ethnomusicology. As you might expect, elements of folk music are omnipresent in Bartók’s work, whether it be rhythm, melody, tonality or form.

Bartók was writing while Schonberg was developing his system of atonal serialism. Rather than being a reactionary, Bartók wanted to show Schonberg that “one can use all 12 tones and still remain tonal”. He did this by writing pieces that were polytonal. Playing in more than one key simultaneously is a feature of some Eastern European folk music.

A slow fugue is the basis for the first movement. Rather than use a melodic subject like Bach, Bartók uses a chromatic motive centring on the pitch A. He further rejects the formal key structure traditionally associated with fugue by writing the score without any key signature at all. The idiom is much closer to his later string quartets than his violin rhapsodies or early piano works.

Bartók stipulates in the score that the strings be arranged antiphonally, which results in a stereo sound experience. The opening of the second movement uses this to full effect with fragments of the tune being tossed back and forth across the orchestra. This technique was exploited to the extreme by American radio orchestras in the early 1950s when stereo speakers were a new invention.

Often referred to as Bartók’s night music, the third movement is punctuated by imaginative use of percussion. It opens with a solo xylophone and goes on to feature tympani glissandi, an effect created by adjusting the tuning pedal after the drum head is struck.

Tympani and pizzicato strings get the final movement off to a lively start. Folk rhythms and melodies are interspersed with episodes of the first movement fugue, most notably near the end, where what appears to be a final frenzied climax is interrupted by the languid return of the fugue.

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When he wrote this piece, Ligeti was a harmony and counterpoint professor at the Budapest Conservatory, the school from which he graduated in 1949. It would still be four years before he and his wife would escape from Hungary by hiding under postbags on a train bound for Vienna. He later moved to Cologne and became, along with Stockhausen, a crucial member of the avant-garde movement.

Those familiar with Ligeti’s later work could certainly be forgiven for thinking Bartók wrote this piece. The Concerto does owe a debt to Bartók, it’s true, but a much larger one is owed to the communist Hungarian government. Much like Shostakovich, Ligeti was cut off completely from all things Western and under obligated to compose the tonal, folk-influenced pieces the government favoured. The Romanian Concerto is one of the few works from this period that Ligeti did not consign to juvenilia.

This piece very rarely programmed, likely because it is so different to Ligeti’s later works. It is a shame really, as the Concerto is an imaginative setting of Romanian folk music as well as a promise of the Ligeti to come. The first complete UK performance was in 2003, at the Barbican for the composer’s 80th birthday celebrations.

Ligeti’s skill at orchestrating for a precise colour is immediately evident in the first movement. The opening unison cello melody is shaded with a pair of clarinets and later on Ligeti scores a flute and bassoon duet.

An exuberant dance melody bursts in on the tranquil country scene established in the Andantino as it heralds the beginning of the second movement. It’s as if a rambler has stumbled upon a village fête with the fife and drums, gypsy fiddler and brass band out in full force. A final unison figure echoes the liveliness of the opening.

The opening clarinet dissonances and solo horn in the third movement are the first moments of this piece to really sound like Ligeti. He makes use of string techniques such as tremolo and sul ponticello, bowing at the bridge, in order to create an ethereal background for the solo cor anglais. These effects, along with many others, are used extensively in Ligeti’s later work.

Once again, serenity is shattered as a pair of trumpets announce a change of pace, recalling the final movement of Dvorak’s eighth symphony. A folk melody soon emerges from frenetic orchestral murmuring and it is taken in turns throughout the band. This frantic pace is maintained until finally solo instruments begin to play themes on top of each other halted only by a fortissimo trumpet outburst. 10 unison chords are not enough to extinguish the solo violin and it continues playing while the solo horn reprises its third movement melody. The orchestra gets the last word in however and one final, diatonic chord brings the piece to a close.

It is easy to attach meaning where there is none, however it does not seem too much of a stretch to think of the ending as an aural illustration depicting the suppression of the individual and creative ideas. Even though the soloists were assimilated in the end, the Hungarian government was not impressed and these final dissonances, which seem mild to modern ears, resulted in the Concerto being banned.

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There is great debate among musicologists regarding Shostakovich’s relationship with the Soviets. Some interpret his music as railing against Soviet cruelty while others have compiled evidence to show that he was at least somewhat complicit in their activities. Much of Shostakovich’s music is ambiguous and can be heard as triumphal or subversive depending on who is doing the listening. Whether this was a coping mechanism or the result of his complex personality is all part of the ongoing discussion.

In the case of the Seventh Symphony, ambiguity was directly responsible for its wartime popularity. After its premiere on 5th March 1942 the Allies immediately realized its propaganda value and Toscanini, Koussevitsky and Stokowski raced to give its Western premiere.

A microfiche copy of the score was sent to Tehran, driven to Cairo and then flown to London so that Sir Henry Wood could give the premiere at the Proms on 29th June 1942. The score was then sent to the United States where Toscanini managed to edge out the others and give the first American performance on 19th July.

Critics almost unanimously disliked the music. Virgil Thomson wrote that the symphony, “seems to have been written for the slow-witted, the not very musical and the distracted.” As is often the case, critical opinion was no match for public sentiment. The piece was heralded as a resounding success, a masterpiece and a perhaps most importantly, a symbol of the struggle for freedom against the forces of evil. At the time of the symphony’s American premiere, the United States was only 6 months into its battle with Japan. The government was actively promoting its alliance with Russia and edited out the more barbaric aspects of Stalin’s regime to support this goal.

In many ways, the Seventh Symphony was a gift for Western propagandists. Any questions about its artistic merit in an absolute sense were brushed aside in favour of the mythology of an artist single-handedly fighting the global forces of evil. The environment in which the piece was composed only served to further its appeal.

On 22nd June 1941, the Nazis invaded Russia and started what would become one of the most protracted and brutal military campagins in modern history. Although intent on capturing Moscow, the Germans knew that gaining control of Leningrad was an important first step. Shostakovich was teaching at the Conservatory and, caught up in the patriotic fervour sweeping the nation, tried twice to enlist in the Red Army. He was rejected both times due to his poor eyesight but was accepted by the Home Guard and made a fireman at the Conservatory. Work on the symphony was begun about a month after the initial invasion. Shostakovich, one of Russia’s cultural treasures., was offered an escape to the country in early August but refused it.

The German strategy was to encircle the city and starve its inhabitants to into submission. It was an exceptionally cruel plan and resulted in the deaths of a third of the city’s 3 million people.

After rapidly completing the first two movements, Shostakovich appeared on the radio saying, “An hour ago I finished the score of two movements of a large symphonic composition. If I succeed in carrying it off, if I manage to complete the third and fourth movements, then perhaps I’ll be able to call it my Seventh Symphony. Why am I telling you this? So that the radio listeners who are listening to me now will know that life in our city is proceeding normally.”

Two weeks after the broadcast, Shostakovich completed the third movment and the next day, 30th September 1941, he was evacuated from the city with his family to a refugee camp 800 km to the east. Due to extremely cramped conditions and and practically non-existent rations, his first few months there were relatively unproductive. The last movement was written in 17 days and completed on 27th December. Shotstakovich was not one for dedicating his pieces, but marked this one, “to our struggle against fascism, to our coming victory over the enemy, and to my native city, Leningrad.”

The first Russian performance was given on 5th March 1942 by the remaining members of the Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra, who had also been evacuated to Kuybïshev. Several more performances were given throughout Russia the most famous of which was in Leningrad on 9th August 1942, the day that Hitler had decreed the city should fall.

Once again, the symphony proved to be an important piece of propaganda for the fight against fascism. The Leningrad Orchestra had already been evacuated, so the orchestra was cobbled together from the remaining members of the Radio Orchestra and any retired musicians that were still in the city. The piece required a larger orchestra than the beleaguered city could provide, so the call was put out to musicians serving at the front. The inclination to fight with guns rather than art was too strong and eventually some brass players had to be forcibly removed from the front to play the concert. Players were so weak from their near-starvation diet that the first rehearsal lasted just 15 minutes and extra rations had to be issued. The conductor, Karl Eliasberg fainted from exhaustion on his walk home. Only one copy of the 252-page score was available, so copyists worked day and night to create individual parts for the players.

On the day of the performance, the Russian army carried out a heavy offensive on the German artillery so that the concert would not be disturbed. It was broadcast via loudspeakers throughout the city with additional speakers being arranged to transmit the music over German lines.

Considering the nature of the orchestra and demands of Shostakovich’s score, it is quite likely that the performance was less than stellar. This was unimportant in the grand scheme of things however as the very idea of the concert proved to be a political rallying point for Russian citizens and Western sympathisers. Indeed, the symphony went on to be played no less than 62 times during the 1942-1943 American concert season.

Curiously, when the war was over and Russo-American relations soured, the symphony conveniently disappeared from concert programmes. Critics renewed their previously ignored assertions regarding the piece’s artistic merit and Shostakovich’s true political affiliation. In America in particular, it became quite fashionable to dismiss the piece as a bloated hymn to communism.

At nearly 85 minutes in length, the Seventh Symphony is the longest of the fifteen Shostakovich eventually completed. Musically, it is best known for the invasion theme, which occurs in the development section of the first movement. An 18-bar march tune begins quite jauntily and is accompanied by a repeated snare drum rhythm. The tune is repeated twelve times, with each repetition louder than the last in the manner of Ravel’s Boléro.

Once again, scholars have difficulty agreeing on what Shostakovich was trying to say. Some hear this theme as a clear representation of the encroaching fascist invaders while others think it illustrates Russia’s destruction from within. Even the source of the tune cannot be agreed upon. Suggestions include an operetta by Franz Lehár, said to be one of Hitler’s favorites; a clever distortion of “Deutschland über alles“, the German national anthem and Russian folk song.

Despite what opinion one holds regarding the piece and its multiple meanings, there is no denying that it played a major role in the war against totalitarian rule. The piece still resonates today, over 60 years after the fact. Russian conductor Valery Gergiev wrote of it, “The message is that hope prevails, that you cannot possibly destroy the human spirit. In the spirit of our own time, everyone has strength and a voice. People will resist and they will never allow anyone evil - those who represent evil forces - to have the biggest strength. We may all disagree about what it would take to make a perfect world, but these great works were composed to remind us that the tragedies of the past should not be repeated.”

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Britten’s largest work for symphony was born in rather curious circumstances. It was the result of a commission by the British Council for a piece to commemorate the 2600th anniversary of Japan’s Mikado dynasty. Why the Council chose the relatively unknown and inexperienced Britten is something of a mystery and indeed it was this inexperience that led to the piece’s ultimate rejection by the Japanese government.

Britten, perhaps rather naively, incorporated titles from the Christian Mass for the Dead, something that the Japanese found infinitely offensive. The work is not programmatic and there isn’t any attached text but even the allusions made by the movement titles were understandably unwelcome when the purpose of the commission is considered.

The first and second movements reference one of the verses from the Dies Irae sequence. Lacrimosa dies illa, translates roughly as “tearful that day” and Dies irae as “day of wrath”, hardly an appropriate sentiment for massive anniversary celebrations. The third movement title, Requiem aeternam, occurs several times in the Mass text, most often as Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine or “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord.”

When the commission was rejected, Britten rebranded the piece as a requiem to his parents as well an expression of his feelings regarding the developing menace of the Second World War. Both he and his partner Peter Pears were firm pacifists and the composition can be seen as a plea for peace. The premiere of the Sinfonia da Requiem was given in America by the New York Philharmonic under Sir John Barbirolli in March of 1941.

Britten found himself, “absolutely incapable of enjoying Elgar for more than two minutes” and chose to embrace the orchestral style of Mahler rather than his English compatriot. He didn’t write much for orchestra on its own over the course of his career and even though this is an early composition, there is much to indicate that he could have excelled in this genre had he chosen to.

The piece is scored for a standard Romantic orchestra with an extra flute, clarinet and saxophone as well as, somewhat bizarrely, a whip.

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Louis Andriessen was born into an extraordinarily musical family. His father and uncle were well-respected Dutch composers and his brother and sister also took up the trade. After studying at the Hague Conservatory, Andriessen went to Milan for two years to work with Luciano Berio. In his early compositions, he experimented with a number of different styles including serialism, pastiche, tape and indeterminacy.

His classical studies were complemented by a love of jazz. Because of this varied background, Andriessen’s oeuvre is varied and embraces whimsy with as much seriousness as the profound. He is also not afraid to acknowledge musical influences from whatever genre they may come. JS Bach, Stravinsky, Charlie Parker, Charles Ives, rap and boogie-woogie are all on equal footing.

The most ardent of the avant-garde composers rejected all pre-twelve tone influences wholesale and strove to create an entirely new aesthetic. Stockhausen and company stuck rigidly to their artistic and philosophical ideals and ended up composing themselves into a corner. Not so with Andriessen. The bedrock of jazz is the collaboration of players and exchange of ideas. It is outward looking where the classical avant-garde movement was preoccupied with looking inward. In many ways, Andriessen managed to glean the best of both worlds and combines the curious openmindedness of jazz with the intellectual discipline of the avant-garde style

Various writers have described Andriessen’s style as “a tough sound, processed-driven rhythms and hard-edged sonorities” and “a European heavy metal answer to American minimalism.” Although there are not any of the aforementioned rhythms in 9 Symphonies, Andriessen is not shy about introducing non-traditional instruments such as electric guitar and bongos into the mix.

The 9 Symphonies of Beethoven is not so much a comment on Beethoven himself as it is on the institution of the symphony. The twentieth century saw the breakdown of the large orchestra as the favoured compositional tool. Composers tended to use smaller ensembles with unconventional instrumental combinations in order to avoid any association with the bloated German Romanticism of the late 19th century.

The piece is essentially a highlights reel of all nine symphonies with brief interpolations of other instantly recognisable music. In many ways, the 9 Symphonies was conceived in the spirit of the postmodern mashup that has become popular in recent years. The question is, does removing the context and presenting only the most popular bits make the piece more or less poignant? Is the experience enhanced by listening to 15 minutes of buildup or is it better just to listen to the best bits on their own?

The symphonies are presented in order, generally speaking, with Für Elise, the Moonlight Sonata, and Rossini’s Barber of Seville Overture making cameo appearances. Andriessen uses stylistic as well as melodic quotation and incorporates Europop, boogie-woogie and lounge music. The final joke is the interminable number of V-I cadences at the end of the piece. In this case, the jab is directed at Beethoven, who had an affinity for signalling the end of his symphonies more emphatically than was perhaps strictly necessary. The conclusion of his fifth symphony is a particularly fitting example.

9 Symphonies is an early work of Andriessen’s and was the only time he wrote anything for orchestra. His 1976 work De Staat (The Republic) brought him into the international spotlight and remains his most famous work.

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What is easy to sing, has a highly repetitive modal melody, a small range, simple harmony and is immediately danceable?

Folk music!

It’s easy enough to describe but terribly difficult to define, since, although there are common features, the form folk music takes and the purpose for which it is quoted or mimicked varies widely.

Used most often in the music of German, Russian, Czech, Hungarian and Polish composers, folk songs instantly evokes a particular culture and by extension its language, customs and geography. The mania for folk music in the late 19th century was, in part, a product of astute music publishers taking advantage of the nationalist movement happening in Europe but also due to composers’ genuine affection for the music and, in the case of Verdi, their own political ideas.

Of special interest to the Romantics was the idea of revaluing their heritage by working with the music of their people. The rationale was that since folk music was created and performed largely by self-taught amateurs, it was somehow more pure, and therefore desirable, than the learned style favoured by those trained in a conservatory.

The concept of purity would become even more entrenched in the early 20th century thanks to the relative portability of recording equipment. Much like the organic food movement in the 21st century, the idea discovering music that was free of the intellectual tentacles choking the art music world was largely a middle class affection.

19th century Romantics weren’t fussed about authenticity, however and composers such as Borodin, Brahms, Bruch, Smetana and Dvorak regularly wrote pieces in a folk style. Brahms became so good at it that his second set of Hungarian Dances, written in 1880, were entirely his own creation. Dvorak used the rhythms from the music of his native Czechoslovakia but created his own melodies. Some of these original compositions were so popular they actually became folk tunes in their own right.

By the time Bartók, Kodály, Grainger and Vaughan Williams were at work, it had become very noble to spend time recording, cataloguing and working with folk music. The cruel irony is that the recording industry that grew from this early technology is, in large part, responsible for destroying the very thing these infant ethnomusicologists were trying to preserve.

The oral transmission of culture that has kept folk song going for centuries is quickly losing ground in the individualist culture of the 21st century. It is no longer common in the West for people to live with Aunt Hazel and their Nan, which inevitably means that less people are learning folksong. Despite this gap in knowledge, we seem to grasp almost innately what a folk tune signifies when it is heard. We may have a deeper understanding if we know what the tune is or the accompanying words but, on the whole, it is not a barrier to understanding its meaning

Mieczyslaw Karlowicz
Lithuanian Rhapsody

Born in 1876 in Wizniewo, Lithuania, Polish composer Mieczyslaw Karlowicz studied composition in Warsaw between 1889 and 1895. After failing to get into Joseph Joachim’s violin class at the end of his studies in Poland, Karlowicz decided to become a composer. His unapologetically Romantic style earned him much criticism from his contemporaries who were afraid of being, “affected by some evil spirit that would deprave their work, strive to strip it of individual and national originality and turn them into parrots lamely imitating the voices of Wagner and Strauss.”

Although he uses folk song in his other works, the Lithuanian Rhapsody is his only composition based entirely on authentic folks song. The Rhapsody’s themes are recollections of childhood, with the portrayal of the family home and children’s games. When asked about his intentions, Karlowicz replied that he was trying to, “encapsulate within [the piece] the total grief, sadness and eternal servitude of native Lithuanians” and that he was hoping it would contain, “a particle of that which hangs vanishing in the air in every part of that region.”

Rather than create a mash-up or medley of folk tunes, Karlowicz instead chooses a more episodic structure loosely based around five through composed sections. Harmonic conservatism is typical of folk music, so to counteract this, Karlowicz emphasizes colour changes to create interest. His music is highly visual and it seems likely that he would have been a very gifted film composer had he not been hit by an avalanche at age 33.

The Rhapsody begins with rustling in the strings and a bass clarinet solo. A hint of a tune appears in the lower strings but fades away to allow the flute to have the starring role. The second section is a lovely pastorale complete with bird song as well as lots of oboe and clarinet. Section three is a sort of lullaby fashioned out of a thoroughly tonal six-note theme. The endless repetition brings to mind a brook bubbling gently in the summer sunshine.

A piccolo breaks the idyll as the strings transform the lullaby motive into a decoration of another tune. Eventually, the ornament is developed into its own tune and takes over. The brass announce the beginning of the final section by repeating the opening theme. Karlowicz’ colleagues would be horrified but as the section develops it is not difficult to hear the influence of Strauss. More of the opening is heard as the last section arches towards the end. The solo bass clarinet returns, a flute appears and it all fades, as memories do, into the ether without a trace.

Bela Bartók
Dance Suite BB 86a
Moderato
Allegro molto
Allegro vivace
Molto tranquillo
Commodo
Finale

In a discussion of folk music in an art music context it is not long before Bela Bartók’s name is mentioned. He and fellow composer Zoltán Kodály spent a good part for their life collecting and cataloguing folk tunes from Southern and Eastern Europe as well as North Africa and the Middle East. The pair travelled together, analyzing and systematically classifying the songs they collected. One of their major discoveries was that authentic Magyar folk music was vastly different to the Hungarian gypsy music that was regarded as the country’s only folk style.

Written in 1923 to celebrate the union of the cities of Buda and Pest into the present-day Hungarian capital, the Dance Suite contains a smorgasbord of folk melodies from throughout Easter Europe. The Dance Suite is through-composed and divided into six sections with a riternello in Hungarian style linking the parts together.

Bartók’s most well-known piece, Concerto for Orchestra wasn’t composed until 20 years after the Dance Suite but they make similar demands on the orchestra. Always trying to replicate the sounds he heard while collecting folk songs, Bartók uses imaginative instrument combinations to create unusual colours. He also very often scores for one or two instruments at a time as if the orchestra is a super-sized folk band rather than one big unit. Bartók was careful to retain the non-diatonic and modal scales he encountered in the field rather than shoehorn the melodies into the tonal structure of Western art music. Because of this, the music has a certain wild, untouched quality to it.

The suite opens with solo bassoon and becomes increasingly animated as oboes and then cor anglais take centre stage. Rather than settling in on one tune, Bartók flits between ideas, changing colours and moods without notice. Both the first and second dances contain tunes of Magyar origin. Romanian traditional music from the Wallachia region ups the energy level considerably as solo bassoon and clarinet passages give way to a full orchestra folk party. The mood mellows for a moment but then, like and excited child, starts off again in another direction.

Bartók didn’t confine himself to the music of his homeland, choosing to use Arabic inflections in the sensuous fourth dance. He combines the cor anglais and bass clarinet to create a truly unique colour. The section alternates between an almost Debussyian string motive and the bass clarinet/cor anglais or oboe theme.

An archetypical peasant dance form the basis for the fifth section. Quiet, mysterious strings and a drone in the bass are the foundation for short unison figures scored for varying timbres.
The sixth section draws together thematic and rhythmic ideas of the previous dances in an exhilarating synthesis. An energetic brass opening begins a sort of canon that spreads throughout the orchestra. Rhythms and melodies twist and turn back over themselves with abandon in what Bartók described as, “the brotherhood of peoples…in spite of all wars and conflicts.” The piece ends as it began, out of nowhere.


Johannes Brahms
Symphony No 1 in C minor Op 68
Un poco sostenuto. - Allegro
Andante sostenuto
Un poco allegretto e grazioso
Adagio - Piu andante - Allegro non troppo, ma con brio

Brahms’ approach to folk music was more like Karlowicz’ than Bartók’s. He had a deep love for German folksong and mimicked the style often in his lieder, the two sets of Hungarian Dances and many other compositions. Brahms’ first symphony is neither a collection of folk tunes nor a reflection on the struggle of a people. It is far more abstract, with the folk-inspired sections included as a sort of indication of contentment and triumph over darker times.

Although Brahms was desperate to get out from under the shadow of Beethoven, he couldn’t help but reference the giant’s work. The key of this symphony, C minor, and the struggle between darkness and light are archetypical of Beethoven. When asked if the chorale in the last movement was related to Beethoven’ s Ninth Symphony, Brahms gruffly replied, “Any ass can see that!”

The premiere of the First Symphony was given in Karlsruhe, with Otto Dessoff conducting, on November 4, 1876. It was a triumph, and the influential conductor Hans von Bulow did not hesitate to proclaim it “the Tenth”. It was a tribute given in good faith but Brahms had mixed feelings. Even though he had created the most important symphony since Schumann, he was still connected to Beethoven.

The introverted turbulence of the first movement is established immediately by an insistent tympani line and an searing motive in the strings. Thematic material is jagged and eventually takes shape but the nervous drive of the opening doesn’t fully resolve until the very end.

In the second movement, the prevailing mood is one of heart-easing calm and solace. There is no need for a display of technical fireworks, merely serenity. The main thematic motive, while not a folk tune as such, is reminiscent of one. It is introduced by a solo violin and then echoed in turn by various wind soloists.

Easy cheerfulness and gentle restraint are the hallmarks of the third movement. More an intermezzo than a scherzo, it is not without its moments of autumnal melancholy courtesy of the clarinet. A short-lived trio is more animated but it is not long before the more relaxed pace of the opening section returns.

Without a doubt, the massive finale is the jewel of this symphony. The previous movements have set up the drama and now all will be resolved in the last act. A slow introduction full of suspense creates a sense of deep expectancy. All the uncertainty of the previous movements is washed away as the horn bursts through the clouds like a ray of sunshine with an Alphorn tune. The melody is one Brahms sent Clara Schumann on a birthday card in 1868 after he heard it played in the mountains while on holiday in Switzerland. After a benedictory brass chorale, the strings enter with the majestic theme of the finale proper. The mood becomes progressively more exultant, culminating in a blazingly assertive reincarnation of the introductory brass chorale.

Like this? Why not try:

• Program Notes Catalogue
• Schubert: Symphony No.5 in B flat major D485
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Piano Concerto No.1 Op. 45 (1969)
Con grandezza
Andante
Molto Vivace

Like most composers who have been afforded the luxury of sixty plus years in which to refine their craft, Einojuhani Rautavaara has gone through a complex stylistic development over the course of his career. As Sibelius’ natural successor, Rautavaara is universally considered to be Finland’s most important composer. The connection with Sibelius is something the elder composer endorsed and it was he that made it possible for Rautavaara study for a year in America with Vincent Persichetti at Julliard as well as Roger Sessions and Aaron Copland at Tanglewood in the summer of 1955.

Rautavaara’s early works were neo-classical in style, which then evolved into a period of intense work with twelve-tone writing that culminated in a series of serial experiments. In the 1960s, his style set off in the direction of a freely-tonal, richly Neo-Romantic idiom. It was during this time, that one of his most popular pieces, Cantus Arcticus for orchestra and taped Arctic birdsong, was composed.

Synthesis became the main focus of his work in the late 1970s and most of his works since that time are a combination of various stylistic elements under an overarching banner of Neo-Romanticism. Rautavaara describes this evolution in style by paraphrasing Churchill, “If an artist is not a Modernist when he is young, he has no heart. And if he is a Modernist when he is old, he has no brain.”

Rautavaara is, like Messiaen, keenly interested in the mystical, once stating “I firmly believe that compositions have a will of their own, though some people smile at the concept.” For Rautavaara, compositions already exist in some spiritual realm. His job is to simply transfer them, as intact as possible, to the planet Earth.

From the very first moment, the piano concerto is a struggle for consonance. Running figures that would not be out of place in any of the high Romantic piano concerti bubble underneath tone clusters that have replaced the customary soaring melody. The mood mellows somewhat as the orchestra enters but not for long, as the piano soon rears its strident head. Dissonances abound but they are warm and on the whole, pleasing rather than distressing. An outburst of angular chords leads to a livelier tempo although the reflective mood doesn’t last for long before the soloist is off again in a dissonant WORD.

The second movement, Andante, allows the Jekyllian side of the soloist a chance to be heard although the sustained pedal note in the violins reminds us that Hyde is loitering with intent behind the scenes and it is only a matter of time before he bursts onto centre stage. He makes a feeble attempt at an appearance after a tam-tam topped crescendo but is kept under control until the cadenza.

Brushes on the snare drum, jazzy cymbal work and piano lines that are more about texture and colour than tune give the third movement a feel that is not unlike Gershwin’s American in Paris. Spanning just three minutes, it is over almost before it starts and gives the concerto a real toe-tapper of an ending.

Like this? Why not try:

• Program Notes Catalogue
• Beethoven: Piano Concerto No.4 Op 58
• Beethoven Piano Sonata Op 111

When asserting that Messiaen was one of the most influential composer of the 20th century, there is very little danger of overstating the matter. There is simply no other composer that had such a profound influence over such a broad spectrum of artists. Stockhausen, Boulez, Pärt, Grisey, Takemitsu and others have all had their work enhanced by Messiaen’s ideas of synthesis and mysticism.

It impossible to get very far in a discussion of Messiaen without talking about his deeply held religious convictions. Messiaen’s brand of Catholicism was highly mystical, which resulted in works that are intensely spiritual even if they are not based on overtly religious themes. He was greatly influenced by the panentheistic view that God is in all things and as such valued birdsong and nature as highly as he did the Eucharist and other sacraments.

The rhythmic patterns of Greek verse, Hindu music and Western composers including Claude Le Jeune, Stravinsky and Debussy were enormous influences on Messiaen. Although not an enfant terrible in the style of Stockhausen or Boulez, Messiaen’s singular approach to subdivision and time signatures caused shock and alarm in the early days of his career. This was not his intent. He viewed his compositions as “shedding light on the theological truths of the Catholic faith.” It didn’t take long for his contemporaries and the public to recognize his brilliance and Messiaen quickly became a composer esteemed in France and abroad for his extraordinary vision.

Les Offrandes Oubliées (The Forgotten Offerings) was completed in 1930 in a version for two pianos and was first performed in its orchestral incarnation the following year. The piece is a single movement triptych with unevenly divided sections representing the Cross, the descent of Man into Sin and the Salvation offered through Eucharist.

A passage marked Presque lent, douloureux, profondément triste (Close to slow, sorrowful, profoundly sad) opens the piece and features a unison string melody over a pedal points in the brass. The melody is wandering and contemplative, tragically angular but also peacefully resigned to the necessity of Christ’s suffering.

The ferocious burst of sound that begins the section marked Vif, féroce, désespéré, haletant (Lively, fierce, desperate, gasping for breath) is a clear indication that Messiaen didn’t regard Man’s fall with the same sense of compassion. The short units of rhythm contrast dramatically with the elongated units of the first section and the scoring brings to mind the out-of-control violence of the Dance of the Witch’s Sabbath from Hector Berlioz’Symphonie Fantastique.

Bacchanalian excess is replaced with ethereal calm in the last section, marked Lent, avec une grande pitié et un grand amour (Slow, with great pity and great love). The melodic motif from the first section is heard again perhaps to emphasize the role of Christ’s suffering in Eucharistic redemption. One of Messiaen’s tricks with rhythm was to elongate it so much that it was impossible to keep track of the pulse, a technique he uses in this movement to great effect. When, after six minutes, this section finally floats away into the air, it seems impossible to remember if it had been going for three minutes or thirty.

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• Nico Muhly - Interview Extras
• Program Notes Catalogue
• Ottawa International Chamber Music Festival 2008 Highlights

If you’ve got an emergency and need ready-made notes, please drop Miss Mussel a line and she’ll see what she can do.

Here’s a list of what’s already in the catalogue.

Andriessen, Louis
9 Symphonies of Beethoven

Bach, JS
Sinfonias and Inventions: BWV 791, 792, 793, 796, 797
WTC BWV 885, 892

Bartok, Bela
Op 114 Music for Strings, Percussion & Celeste

Beethoven, Ludwig Van
Piano Sonatas: Op 2 No. 1 | No. 2 |No. 3 |Op 7 | Op 10 No. 1 | No. 2 | No.3 | Op 27 No 1 | No. 2 ‘Moonlight’ | Op 54 | Op 57 ‘Appassionata’ | Op 81 ‘Les Adieux’ | Op 109 | 110 | 111
Symphonies: No.1 Op 26;
Concerti: Triple Concerto Op 56 | Piano Concerto No. 4
String Quartets: Op 59 No.2 ‘Razumovsky’ | Op 95 ‘Quartetto serioso’

Berg, Alban
Op 1 Piano Sonata;

Brahms, Johannes
Piano: Op 116
Chamber: Op 8 Piano Trio [original score]
Voice: Wo bist du, meine Konigen? Op 32 No.9 | Lerchengesang Op 70 No.2;
Orchestra: Wo0 1 Hungarian Dances Nos 1, 3 and 10

Britten, Benjamin
Op 20 Sinfonia da Requiem; Phantasy for Oboe & Strings

Chabrier, Emmanuel
Feuille d’Album

Chopin, Frederick
Concerto: Op 21 F minor
Impromptu: Op 36
Mazurka: Op 24 no.2 | Op 50 Nos 1&3
Nocturne: Op 62
Polonaise: Op 44
Waltz: Op 64

Debussy, Claude
Piano: Nocturnes |Cathédral engloutie | Ondine | General Lavine | La plus que lente

Hadyn, Joseph
String Quartet: Op 54 No.2
Symphonies: 13 | 26 ‘Lamentione’

Holst, Gustav
Op 32 ‘The Planets’

Ibert, Jacques
Flute Concerto

Ireland, John
Op 3 Piano Trio

Jacob, Arnold
Quartet for Oboe and Strings

Ligeti, Gyorgy
Romanian Concerto

Liszt, Franz
Valse Oubliée | Mephisto Waltz No.1

Mayer, John
Mandala ki Raga Sandeet [Flute Concerto]

Mendelssohn, Felix
Valses Sérieuses Op 54 | Piano Trio No.2 Op 66

Messiaen, Olivier
Offrandes Oubliées | Turangalila Symphonie

Mozart, W.A
Chamber: K370 Oboe Quartet | SQ Eb+ K428 | Piano Trio C major K548 | K570 Adagio for cor anglais & strings;
Symphonies: K551 ‘Jupiter’

Rameau,
Arias and Dances from Dardanus

Rautavaara
Piano Concerto No. 1 Op 45

Ravel, Maurice
Daphnis & Chloe (complete)

Rebel, Jean Fehry
Le Cahos

Saint-Saens, Camille
Op 110 Valse Nonchalante

Scarlatti, Domenico
S481, 492

Schubert, Franz
Sonatas: D840 ‘Relique’; D959
Impromptu: D935 1-4
Chamber: Piano Trio B flat major Op 99

Shostakovich, Dmitri
Op 60 Symphony No. 7 ‘Leningrad’

Stravinsky, Igor
Pulcinella Suite

Weber, Carl Maria von
Op 65 Invitation to the Dance

Webern, Anton
Five Movements for SQ Op 5 | Piano Variations Op 27

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• Ottawa International Chamber Music Festival 2008 Highlights
• KW Symphony 2008/09 Season Highlights
• Schubert: Symphony No.5 in B flat major D485

Beethoven still had five years left to live when he wrote this sonata but in many ways it feels like a definite end. The thirty two piano sonatas has spanned nearly thirty years of his life and transformed the genre from an at home entertainment to a vehicle of intimate, personal expression. Pianist Robin Taub describes Op 111 as , “a work of unmatched drama and transcendence … the triumph of order over chaos, of optimism over anguish.”

The work is only two movements, something he did in four previous sonatas but still unusual enough for Beethoven’s publisher to assume that the final sonata-rondo has been lost in the post. A sketch was made for the last movement but, with every second counting, it was put aside in favour of the Missa Solemnis.

Beethoven had managed to solve the problem of unity between movements by resolving the conflicts of one in the other. The two-movement format also results in an interesting binary comparison representing the opposing forces of major/minor, allegro/adagio, appassionato/semplice, sonata form/variation form, turmoil/ecstatic serenity, earthly/spiritual prevalent in much of his work.

In the first movement, a trill fading to pianissimo, which eventually leads to successive suspensions, repeatedly tempers the aggressiveness of the fortissimo dotted rhythm. A tremolo in the left hand introduces a fugue theme that is never fully realised, instead being treated as a free-form sort of canon. The two main thematic motives are tossed about between registers without ever getting completely off the ground. Beethoven manages to make it sound impressive without formally doing anything. The classic Beethoven dichotomy between c minor and C major is very much present here as final fortissimo statement of the theme in the home key in c minor mysteriously leads to a C major cadence.

The final movement in Beethoven’s piano oeuvre is a mammoth variation set, nearly twenty minutes in length. In contrast to the staggeringly intense Grosse Fugue, Beethoven’s last string quartet movement, this is simplistically cheerful. In C major, the key he used most often to indicate triumph and happiness, Beethoven finally lets go of tension and instead concentrates on writing joyful, exuberant music.

It is significant that he chooses a variation set. A master improviser, Beethoven could vary any theme almost indefinitely even if he had only heard it once. He had no shortage of skill or imagination and would gleefully accept the challenge given by his friends or members of the nobility. Although it is impossible to say with any certainty, it is certainly plausible that it was in these situations that Beethoven felt the least tormented by his personal afflictions and frustrations and was able to truly be content.

Like Op 109, there are six variations in this set. The theme is so simple that it is fit for a child’s piano lesson. Making something out of nothing is one of Beethoven’s trademarks and here it serves as a reminder of his incredible skill. With what seems like no effort at all, the contentedness of the opening theme is built up into a wild euphoria by the third variation. Complex subdivisions of metre in the first two variations slowly increase the excitement until all of the sudden it seems as if Beethoven has discovered jazz. The dotted rhythms of the third variation have resulted in it being nicknamed the boogie-woogie variation.

Things calm down a little in the fourth variation with the theme remaining relatively intact accompanied by a murmuring left hand. For the fifth variation, Beethoven chooses to present the original opening theme with the variation occurring in the accompaniment. Trills indicate the beginning of the final variation, which moves the theme to the upper register. A G major pedal is heard throughout in the form of a constant trill. The mood becomes more otherworldly and reflective as the trill is moved to the upper register and the piece ends quietly and contentedly, without fanfare.

Like this? Why not try:

• Beethoven Piano Sonata Op 109
• Beethoven Piano Sonata Op 57 ‘Appassionata’
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On paper, Op 110 is a traditional four-movement sonata. In reality however the work is a further example of the dissolution of sonata form within the outer movements as well as any sense of the usual order of the movements themselves. The cantabile theme of the first movement is more reminiscent of a Haydn string quartet adagio than a Beethoven sonata opening. The melody is unadorned in the right hand and accompanied by repeated chords in the bass. With the expected sonata form abandoned, the next six minutes are taken up with a sort of meandering through the movement with periodic restatement of the opening theme. Secondary themes are short and mostly motivic and the development section is practically non-existent. After a decorated version of opening theme appears, the movement ends with a quiet cadence.

Although less than three minutes long, the third movement is a fully formed scherzo and trio. The extreme dynamics and uneasy accents are almost comical. Especially amusing is the ending, where a string of fortissimo chords end with a pianissimo resolution of the final cadence.

A contemplative recitative beings the final movement of Op 110, further illustrating Beethoven’s preoccupation with song during this period. The basic structure is arioso, fugue, arioso, fugue with the opening recit soon transformed into the single line melody of the first arioso. Simple, repeated chords in the bass create a transparent texture. The fugue theme is stated quietly at first and increases in volume and intensity as the other two voices make their entrances. Its sturdy, no-nonsense feel is in stark contrast to the delicate beauty of the arioso. This time, beauty wins and the fugue fades back to arioso before reaching any sort of climax. Insistent G major chords begin the second fugue, the subject of which is the first fugue theme upside down. Beethoven really goes to town here and uses diminution—cutting the note values in half and half again—to increase intensity and bring the movement to an unexpectedly joyful close.

Like this? Why not try:

• Beethoven Piano Sonata Op 111
• Beethoven Piano Sonata Op 109
• Beethoven Piano Sonata Op 57 ‘Appassionata’