Alborada del Gracioso
Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)
Run Time: Approx. 7 minutes
Alborada del Gracioso began as a solo piano piece, the fourth of five in a set titled Miroirs, completed by Maurice Ravel in 1905. He later revisited Alborada, along with three other pieces from the set, reimagining them for orchestra in 1918.
Like so many of Ravel’s works—concert-goers may remember similar discussions this season about Pavane for a Dead Princess and The Grave of Couperin—the title is a bit curious. The direct translation of alborada from Spanish is “dawn,” but in music, it refers specifically to a “dawn song,” the Spanish equivalent of the French aubade and the German Morgenlied. These terms are descended from a popular genre of medieval lyric poetry in which a lookout, stationed outside the bedroom window of illicit lovers, serenades the couple to warn them that the night is ending.
The gracioso was a comedic figure from the 16th-century Spanish court, akin to a jester. The title, then, is usually rendered in English as Morning Song of the Clown, Dawn Song of the Buffoon, or The Jester’s Aubade. It’s unclear what exactly Ravel intended by this title, but if taken literally, one can imagine the warning would be anything but subtle.
Ravel had a deep fascination with Spanish culture, particularly the lavish court life of the 16th century, as depicted in the paintings of Diego Velásquez. Perhaps he envisioned a bumbling court jester on lookout for a philandering king, the music providing a playful, exaggerated portrayal of the ensuing chaos. But it’s more likely, given his other evocatively named works, that Ravel simply sought to whimsically capture the essence of the iconic Spanish era that so captivated him.
Either way, the short piece is a jovial romp which lovingly evokes its Spanish musical inspiration. Plucked strings and harp conjure the sound of a strummed guitar, and quick successions of repeated notes in the brass suggest the tapping of dance heels. Whether Ravel really was imagining a bombastic and ham-handed intervention or simply attempting a musical painting of a bygone era, the work is both a stunning addition to Ravel’s catalogue of music celebrating Spain, and a glittering showpiece for the orchestra.
Cello Concerto No. 2
Heitor Villa-Lobos (1887-1959)
Run Time: Approx. 24 minutes
Born in Rio de Janeiro in 1887, Heitor Villa-Lobos is widely regarded as the most significant Brazilian composer of classical orchestral music. Over the course of his career, he produced an astounding output of over 2,000 works and was also a skilled cellist and classical guitarist. His music offers a unique synthesis of Brazilian folk traditions and Western classical techniques, blending the rhythmic vitality and melodic expressiveness of his homeland with sophisticated forms and harmonic language.
In addition to his Brazilian roots, Villa-Lobos was heavily influenced by the works of French Impressionist composers like Debussy and Satie, as well as early 20th-century Russian composers, particularly those involved with the influential Ballets Russes, such as Igor Stravinsky. All these influences converge in his monumental Cello Concerto No. 2, a work that showcases his distinctive style, his grasp of the unique characteristics of the cello, and his ability to seamlessly paint folk idioms onto the canvas of western classical forms.
The work was commissioned by renowned Brazilian cellist Aldo Parisot in 1953 and premiered by Parisot with the New York Philharmonic in 1955. Since its premiere, the concerto has found a beloved place in the modern repertoire as one of the cello’s most important and challenging works written in the 20th century.
At various points songful, lush, heartfelt, and exuberant, the concerto takes the listener on a dramatic journey over four movements. From the declarative first movement to the rich, contemplative second, the frenetic scherzo, and the joyfully dancing conclusion, Vila-Lobos presents the cello as an instrument without limits—capable of expressing the full emotional spectrum and inhabiting every musical realm.
Symphony No. 10 in E minor, Op. 93
Dmitri Shostakovich (1907-1975)
Run Time: Approx. 53 minutes
Shostakovich’s Tenth Symphony is a significant and powerful artistic depiction of Soviet-era oppression, and one of the most beloved of the composer’s fifteen symphonies. Premiered just a few months after Stalin’s death in the spring of 1953, the work is inseparable from the circumstances which sparked its creation.
Shostakovich’s relationship with the Soviet regime was extremely precarious, and many people once believed the symphony was written as a response to Stalin’s passing, based on a now-debunked biography of the composer. However, a friend insisted she had heard fragments of the symphony as early as 1949. This account aligns more with Shostakovich’s working method—he tended to work on music for a long time, sometimes entirely in his head, before committing it to manuscript.
Regardless of the timeline, the Tenth Symphony most certainly comments on life under the Soviet regime. Shostakovich lived in constant fear for his life. Many of his family members and friends had vanished in the night without a trace, and he feared he would meet the same fate, especially after the premiere of his opera Lady MacBeth led to Stalin’s public condemnation of him and his music. Stalin demanded that music portray joy and strength, reflecting the supposed happiness of the Soviet people.
Following Stalin’s denunciation, Shostakovich’s composition split into two categories: works for public consumption in line with Stalin’s demands, and those he kept hidden away, hoping for a time when he could safely publish them. Unsurprisingly, most of his best-loved works come from the latter group.
One of Shostakovich’s favorite compositional techniques was the use of a musical signature. This practice, wherein composers spell out their names using notes, was not new—Bach famously employed his own musical signature in many of his works. Shostakovich used the abbreviation DSCH (for the German spelling Dimitri Schostakowitch) in his compositions, utilizing the German notation system, creating the theme D, E-flat (Es in German), C, and B-natural (H in German).
This motive appears throughout his compositions and is particularly prominent in the Tenth Symphony. While it could simply be a compositional flourish, it’s also possible Shostakovich embedded his signature so prominently as a way of ensuring that his music would be correctly attributed to him, should it be discovered after his death.
Shostakovich also had a deep admiration for the works of Alexander Pushkin, who similarly struggled against censorship. Resonating with Pushkin’s themes of suppression and resistance, he had set several of Pushkin’s poems for Soprano and piano several years prior, one of which tells the story of an artist whose work is blacked out in a barbaric act of censorship. Slowly, over years, the black paint chips away, and eventually the artist’s work is allowed to see the light of day.
Another poem in this set, “What Does My Name Mean to You?”, operates on two levels. On one hand, it’s a love poem, asking how the beloved will remember the poet after his death. On another level, it ruminates on the idea of legacy: what will endure of me, and how will I be remembered? Shostakovich incorporates a passage from his setting of this poem into the first movement of the Tenth Symphony. In doing so, he frames the central question of the work: What will my name mean?
The first movement immerses the listener in the 1950s USSR, creating an atmosphere that is lonely and desolate, with harmonies that evoke a sense of impending doom. The strings, joined by a solitary clarinet, paint a vivid picture of isolation. As the music builds, it takes on the quality of a horror film soundtrack—monsters lurking around every corner.
And then, it begins to waltz. The waltz, usually a lighthearted party dance, begins innocently, but soon turns grotesque. Here, its distortion hints at the darker realities lurking beneath the surface. The poet Osip Mandelstam’s haunting description of the time captures this duality: “We were capable of coming to work with a smile on our face after a night in which our home had been searched or a relative arrested. It was essential to smile. If you didn’t, it meant that you were afraid or unhappy. Nobody could afford to admit this.”
The second movement is widely thought to be a musical portrait of Stalin. The music evokes a military march—relentless, terrifying, nightmarish. The constant motion never ceases, never allowing rest, reflecting the oppression of the time.
In the third movement, Shostakovich introduces a new motif: the Elmira theme (E La Mi Re A), this time combining French and German musical notation. This theme, repeated twelve times by the horn, represents Elmira Nazirova, a student with whom Shostakovich was enamored. By the end of the movement, the two themes—the Elmira theme and the earlier DSCH motive—draw closer, but never fully overlap, emphasizing the composer’s unfulfilled longing.
Shostakovich himself noted that the Elmira theme resembled the call of the ape in Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde, a piece he had been obsessively listening to. The call in Mahler’s work symbolizes hope for humanity—perhaps something Shostakovich sought as well amid his struggles against tyranny. This movement provides a brief reprieve from the horrors of the first two, evoking both innocent, unrequited love and a glimmer of hope for the world.
The final movement opens with a long, plaintive oboe melody—surely the saddest of instruments—before passing through the wind section, always in solo voices. Echoing the despairing start of the first movement, there’s a sense that perhaps nothing will ever change. After all the tumult of the previous movements, perhaps we are right back where we started. But Shostakovich quickly rejects that notion. The music erupts into a jaunty march, led by the clarinet, filled with swirling melodies that are the happiest heard thus far. The music races, gathering confidence and energy, until it breaks into a massive eruption of the DSCH theme.
After the eruption, things calm, and the orchestra lulls, taking stock. Yet the DSCH theme will not abet. It lingers, echoing in subtle aftershocks that haunt the orchestra as it tries to move on. The clarinet resumes its flurry, but the DSCH theme continues to resurface, growing more insistent, until it’s repeated nine consecutive times, bringing the piece to its conclusion.
In the beginning of the symphony Shostakovich asks the question, “What is my name to you? Who will remember me when I’m gone?” An hour later, he practically screams his name, over and over, as if to defiantly proclaim “I will not be erased!” How vindicated he must have felt, finally getting to premiere the work just months after Stalin’s death.
–Valerie Sly, 2025