Overview

Alabama Symphony OThe French Connection: April 23, 2026, Carver Theatre

In the early 20th century, there was no more happening place for an artist than Paris. In the years after the First World War, the city attracted a veritable who’s who of creatives—Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, Claude Debussy, Cole Porter—all of whom called Paris their home, as did the three composers featured on this program.
Arts culture in early 20th-century Paris was very different from that of other major European centers at the time. While the long-standing musical meccas of Germany and Austria grappled with something of an identity crisis—where could music go now that Mahler and Strauss had pushed tonality to its limits?—Paris emerged as a hub of internationalism and creative cross-pollination.
Take the Ballets Russes, for example: the famous company founded by Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev, who sought to present Russian ballet tradition to the western world. At the Ballets Russes, you might have seen stars like Vaslav Nijinsky and Anna Pavlova dancing choreography by George Balanchine (later the founder of the New York City Ballet), accompanied by scores from composers like Igor Stravinsky and Claude Debussy, with costumes by Coco Chanel and sets designed by Pablo Picasso. Ballet in general played a large role in uniting artistic disciplines. Each of the composers on this program wrote extensively for ballet, and the influence of dance on their music is apparent.
For American artists in particular, a stint in Paris came to be seen as a kind of rite of passage, with figures like Aaron Copland and George Gershwin spending significant time studying there. But there was another import from the United States that would make an enormous mark on French art: jazz.
Jazz first came to Paris via American military bands during the First World War. After the war, many African American servicemen chose to remain in France rather than return to the racial segregation of Jim Crow America, and before long Paris had become something of an outpost for the Harlem Renaissance, attracting artists like Langston Hughes and Josephine Baker. Parisians weren’t entirely sure what to make of this new art form. Many saw it as low brow and elementary compared with more traditional European art music. But those who understood the true complexities of jazz harmony quickly became enamored. Jazz clubs grew to be central pillars of Parisian artistic life, serving as meeting places where artists could rub elbows and exchange ideas. Before long, these new sounds moved from dark, smokey rooms to concert halls, ballet stages, and art exhibits.
The influx of international voices, coupled with already-established trends like Impressionism and the rise of Neoclassicism, amalgamated into a distinctly French sound characterized by lightness and transparency that was often seen as a rejoinder to what was perceived as the bombastic and pretentiously academic music coming out of Germany. Whether or not that assessment is merited, the resistance to it produced an eclectic and charming collection of music emblematic of this unique time and place.

Eight Instrumental Miniatures (1921/1962)

Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971)
Run Time: Approx. 8 minutes

Of the three composers on this program, Igor Stravinsky is likely the most well-known. For many, the name immediately conjures monumental works like The Firebird or The Rite of Spring. These have undoubtedly become his greatest hits, thanks in no small part to Disney’s Fantasia and Fantasia 2000, but these large-scale works represent only a sliver of a career defined by reinvention. Over the course of his life, Stravinsky’s output moved through several clearly defined phases. There was his early Russian primitivist and avant-garde period, his Neoclassical phase, and later an interest in twelve-tone serialism, each marking a distinct shift in his musical voice.
The Eight Instrumental Miniatures were originally written as easy piano exercises for students entitled The Five Fingers. The melody of each movement, played in the right hand, is made up of only five notes, so the player never needs to shift their hand position. The original left-hand accompaniment was very simple, usually limited to one or two notes at a time, providing basic harmonic support. The simple pieces offer a glimpse of Stravinsky at his most whimsical and understated, and the composer was clearly quite proud of them; he played them on his very first recording in 1925. However, when he returned to the work and orchestrated it in 1962, he was a very different composer. He had recently returned to Russia for the first time in nearly 50 years, and his style had undergone several significant evolutions in the interceding years. The orchestration, with its added voices and harmonies, offers a greater breadth of color and style, and flashes of his various explorations and reinventions shine through the texture.
While Eight Instrumental Miniatures retains the charm and playfulness of The Five Fingers, the choice of instruments and the way they are employed bring out aspects of Stravinsky’s more avant-garde periods. Perhaps most strikingly, he chooses an exceedingly odd collection of instruments: pairs of winds, one horn, and three pairs of strings. At times, this unusual voicing hints at his Russian primitivist voice. For instance, in the third movement, the tessitura of the horn sits higher than the flute and clarinet, resulting in a wailing quality not unlike the opening of The Rite of Spring. The angular, surprising rhythms in the final movement, too, sound more jarring and avant-garde when voiced by winds than in the solo piano version.

La création du monde, op. 81 (The Creation of the World) (1923)

Darius Milhaud (1892-1974)
Run Time: Approx. 19 minutes

Darius Milhaud took his interest in jazz a step further than many of his compatriots, traveling to America and the streets of Harlem in search of real authenticity. While there, he found inspiration not only in the music, but also in the broader African cultural and mythological traditions. Upon his return to Paris in 1923, the first major work to emerge from his experience was the ballet La création du monde (The Creation of the World).
Milhaud was not the only one interested in African culture and art. Losses from the war had shaken many people’s belief in the superiority of Western Civilization, sparking an interest in the exoticism of the French colonies. La création du monde draws on author Blaise Cendrars’ Anthologie nègre for its retelling of African creation legends. Cubist painter Ferdinand Léger, who was himself interested in primitive African art, designed the sets.

The ballet unfolds in five continuous sections, each depicting a stage of creation: chaos before the world’s beginning; the birth of plants and animals; the creation of man and woman; their awakening desire; and finally, a springtime scene of renewal, birth, and healing.
Perhaps the most obvious jazz transplant is the addition of the saxophone to the traditional orchestral complement. Its warbly voice infuses the music with an exoticism signaling that the Western world has been left behind. Throughout much of the work, a steady pulse, passed between the percussion, piano, and low strings, underlies the music, evoking the beat of a heart—the very essence of humanity.

 

Sinfonietta (1947)

Francis Poulenc (1899-1963)
Run Time: Approx. 28 minutes

Francis Poulenc was a late arrival to music. His father was a successful manufacturer who wanted his son to join the family business, barring him from entering conservatory training. He did study piano privately, and when his parents died, his piano teacher and mentor Richardo Viñes introduced him into the world of Paris’s burgeoning young musicians. Eventually, he joined up with a group of prominent composers that called themselves Les Six. Amongst his five compatriots was Darius Milhaud.
Poulenc was often dismissed by his contemporaries for writing music they viewed as “unserious,” that hewed too closely to the types of popular songs heard in saloons and burlesques. Poulenc, for his part, admitted to a love of what he referred to as the “adorable bad music,” owing, he said, to his mother’s affinity for it. Guilty pleasure though it may be, the infusion of this bubbly style gives his music a pleasing approachability. And if I may inject a personal observation: composers accused of unseriousness or kitsch are often guilty of nothing more than the power to write a really catchy tune.
I am, however, hesitant to describe this music as entirely unserious. The first movement is lush and earnest, with an intriguing combination of Broadway-esque flare, warm romanticism, and glassy Impressionistic textures colored by satisfying harp glissandos. The third movement, too, offers a gentle and contented Andante that employs the varied timbres of the wind section much like the impressionist painters deployed color.
Easy listening as it may be, the piece seems to capture the intrinsic spirit of the city—or at least our American view of it. It saunters by, effortless, unhurried, perhaps a little indulgent, and endlessly charming.

—Notes by Valerie Sly, 2026

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Overview

On the heels of our previous Masterworks concert highlighting some of America’s most definitive composers, A London Landscape of English composers in the modern era is a look now across the pond at their English counterparts. Many of the works on this program are contemporary to those from the previous concert, making this a unique opportunity to compare how orchestral writing developed in each nation during the modern era, particularly as they emerged from disruption of the world wars.

Just like the Americans, British composers turned to the natural world for solace and inspiration. Nature has always gone hand in hand with the development of positive national identity. How could it not? If we find hope and meaning in the natural world by going outside and, to borrow a phrase from the kids, touching grass, then the particular grass we touch is as intrinsic and fundamental to our identities as any other part of our culture. Just as the American landscape was reflected in the music on our previous program, here we encounter the exquisite character of the English countryside: fecund meadows, lush forests, crags and cliffs, and, of course, the perilous splendor of the sea.

 

 

Orb and Sceptre (1953)

William Walton (1902-1983)

 

Run time: Approx. 8 minutes

Orb and Sceptre, written by William Walton for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, is the successor to his earlier coronation march, Crown Imperial, composed in 1936 for the coronation of her father, George VI. For both works, Walton took their titles from a speech in Shakespeare’s Henry V, and he once remarked that he was reserving the phrase “bed majestical” for King Charles III, though he may never have imagined how many years it would be until the monarchy next changed hands. The speech reads as follows:

I am a king that find thee, and I know

‘Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,

The farced title running ‘fore the king,

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp

That beats upon the high shore of this world,

No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,

Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave.

 

The orb and the sceptre are references to two key pieces of the Coronation Regalia, part of the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom. The Sovereign’s Orb and the Sovereign’s Sceptre with Cross were both made in 1661 for the coronation of Charles II and used in every coronation since. The sceptre contains the largest colorless cut diamond in the world.

Orb and Sceptre was commissioned by the Arts Council of Great Britain, and Walton obtained permission to dedicate the piece to the Queen, a considerable honor, as such permission was rarely granted.

Musically, the piece is exactly what one would want in a coronation march. It’s celebratory, poised, and joyful, but never over-excited. The structure is straightforward, with a brisk opening, a stately middle section, and a return to a triumphant conclusion.

 

 

The Lark Ascending (1914)

Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958)

 

Run time: Approx. 13 minutes

 

The Lark Ascending

By George Meredith

 

He rises and begins to round,

He drops the silver chain of sound,

Of many links without a break,

In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake.

 

For singing till his heaven fills,

‘Tis love of earth that he instils,

And ever winging up and up,

Our valley is his golden cup

And he the wine which overflows

to lift us with him as he goes.

 

Till lost on his aerial rings

In light, and then the fancy sings.

 

Ralph Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending is a single-movement work for violin and orchestra, inspired by the poem of the same name by George Meredith. In his poem, Meredith describes the unique visual and auditory experience of a lark taking flight, while also capturing the sense of awe inspired by witnessing such a scene.

Larks, which are ubiquitous throughout the United Kingdom, possess one of the most unique songs of any bird. Their bright, high-pitched, fluttering sounds as they hover in the air like a helicopter, unlike most birds, which sing from a perch. Remarkably, they can continue for up to fifteen minutes seemingly without pause for breath. As Meredith wrote, they “drop the silver chain of sound, / Of many links without a break.” Sometimes they hover so high that they are almost invisible. For many, the skylark’s song is the quintessential sound of the English countryside.

In his lyrical interpretation of the poem, Vaughan Williams captures all the elements Meredith extolls: the lark’s song and flight, the beauty of the pastoral English landscape, and the well of emotion stirred in the observer of this small miracle of nature. The violin begins as the bird itself, rising from the earth and gradually ascending into its high register, where it hovers before descending again. Just like the lark, the violin plays extended passages without pause. Vaughan Williams captures it without resorting to mimicry, ebbing and flowing seamlessly between soaring lines evoking its majestic ascent, and fluttering passages that echo its song. Gradually, the scope of the music opens to include an English folk song, evoking a sense of place and reflecting the lark’s intrinsic connection to the English countryside.

Vaughan Williams wrote a great deal of music that we might call pastoral, and at a time when many of his contemporaries were becoming increasingly avant‑garde, he held true to more traditional styles. The music critic John Alexander Fuller Maitland remarked that when listening to his music, “one is never quite sure whether one is listening to something very old or very new.” Witnessing scenes of nature can evoke a similar suspension of time—the sense that what is happening now could have unfolded in exactly the same way a hundred years ago; that hearing a lark today is much the same experience as it was when Vaughan Williams heard one in 1914. The Lark Ascending captures something of that experience.

 

 

Symphony No. 104 in D major, “London” (1795)

Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809)

 

Run time: Approx. 28 minutes

 

By the late 1700s, Haydn, now in his 60s, was enjoying the rewards of a fruitful career. He had become quite well-known, and though his long-time patron, Prince Esterházy, had died, he had left Haydn a generous pension. The new prince was wholly uninterested in music, so the court musicians were dismissed, leaving Haydn with fame, money, and quite a lot of free time.

Requests for commissions were coming in left and right, but the most interesting was an offer from conductor and music impresario Johann Peter Salomon, for not one, but twelve symphonies. Salomon was a significant player in various European music scenes. He was born in not just the same city as Beethoven (Bonn), but the same house! It’s also believed that he provided Haydn with the original model text used for The Creation, as well as bestowed the nickname “Jupiter” onto Mozart’s 41st symphony.

Haydn accepted the offer and set out for London, where he composed most of the works, and oversaw their premieres. The public adored him, and his time in the English capital was both well received and well compensated. In his journal he wrote that he made 4,000 gulden from the concert, saying, “such a thing is possible only in England.”

Though all twelve symphonies are collectively known as the “London Symphonies” (sometimes also called the “Salomon Symphonies”), Symphony No. 104 is the only one that today bears the official subtitle London, possibly because it is the final installment of the set and was used for the grand celebratory concert honoring Haydn’s time in the city. It’s unclear whether he knew this would be the last symphony he ever composed, but he certainly knew this was his grand adieu to London. He delivered a farewell for the ages.

Symphony No. 104 exudes the spirit of a composer who has made his mark and has nothing remaining to prove. It also joyfully capitalizes on the fact that London orchestras were larger than the troupes Haydn was used to writing for as a court composer. The piece is dramatic and experimental, full of exuberance, and most of all, shows off one of the things Haydn was best at—the element of surprise.

It begins with a big, dramatic opening, the orchestra playing declarative chords in unison, alternating with a more somber passage. Haydn writes a substantial introduction in this manner, long enough to convince even the most seasoned concert-goer that this will be a dark and angsty work. But just as you think you’ve got it pinned down, the music gives way to an easy going melody. Fooled you. And before there’s even time to finish a second phrase, it erupts into a triumphant, full-throated statement of the theme. Fooled you again. Here we have finally arrived at the true character of the first movement—lively, proud, and absolutely victorious. The crowd must have been delighted.

The second movement adagio is delicate, courtly, sweet, and unassuming, until—I almost feel a spoiler alert is warranted—the orchestra suddenly explodes in a great rapture. Where did this come from? It’s reminiscent of the fiery, thunderous passages of sacred oratorio; one almost expects a 300-piece chorus to appear. Then, just as quickly as it began, everything stops, and the music goes right back to its charming dance, like nothing ever happened, but only for a moment before another burst of energy takes hold. He got you again.

I won’t spoil every unexpected twist and turn, but the roller coaster ride continues all the way to the end. The exuberant third movement would be incomplete without a few unexpected halts, and the joyous finale meanders from its whirl once or twice to offer some rather poignant asides, echoing the disquiet of the work’s opening.

All of this points to a man who, nearing the end of a prolific career and having earned the full trust of his audience, was simply taking a victory lap. It also lays a trail of breadcrumbs that we can follow directly to Beethoven, who was profoundly influenced by the great composer. Consider all those Beethoven slow movements suddenly interrupted by an opening of the heavens—a strike of Zeus’s thunderbolt. One can imagine Haydn looking down from his eternal rest and saying, “He got that from me.”

 

 

Four Sea Interludes from Peter Grimes (1945)

Benjamin Britten (1913-1976)

 

Run time: Approx. 16 minutes

 

In the east of Suffolk, along the North Sea and some 87 miles from London, lies the small fishing village of Aldeburgh. Home to approximately 2,200 people—a population that has remained largely unchanged since the postwar years—the village is widely accepted as the setting for Benjamin Britten’s opera Peter Grimes. It was also home to Britten himself, as well as to George Crabbe, the 18th-century author of The Borough, the poem on which Benjamin Britten based his tale. Britten settled in Aldeburgh shortly after completing Peter Grimes. He first encountered Crabbe’s poem whilst feeling rather homesick in America during World War II, and later recalled that upon reading it, “In a flash I realised two things: that I must write an opera, and where I belonged.”

Peter Grimes is, at its heart, a story about otherness and the danger that can arise from fearing what we don’t understand. Peter is a fisherman whose volatile temper and antisocial ways have made him an outcast in his community. When his apprentice dies from harsh conditions at sea, he is put on trial, and the townspeople grow increasingly suspicious, eventually hunting him down in an angry mob and driving him to commit suicide by sinking his ship in the ocean.

Britten himself knew a thing or two about being an outsider. He was a gay man at a time when homosexuality was illegal in England. Though his relationship with well-known tenor Peter Pears was something of an open secret amongst their artistic community, and the pair performed together extensively, they could never speak publicly of their relationship. The couple was together from 1939 until Britten’s death in 1976, but only nine of their 37 years together were spent legally. Britten was also a staunch pacifist. He and Pears officially registered as conscientious objectors during the war, a decision that was not altogether applauded by the British public.

Peter Grimes has essentially four principal characters. There is Peter, who wishes to be accepted by his community but cannot amend his volatile nature nor his isolationist tendencies. There is Ellen Orford, the schoolteacher whom Peter hopes to marry and the only member of the village who is sympathetic to him. There are the townspeople, whose fear of Peter leads to blame and hysteria. And then there is the sea itself.

In the opera, the sea is portrayed by the orchestra, which plays a series of interludes that Britten cleverly composed to cover scene changes, allowing time for the sets to shift while musically establishing the tone of each new day. Britten fashioned four of these interludes into the orchestral suite, offering short vignettes that encapsulate the turbulent story even without the text and actors.

In addition to providing an omnipresent and malevolent backdrop, the sea offers a metaphor for Peter himself—both his inner turmoil and his contradictory character. In the words of Peter Pears, who originated the character, Grimes is “neither a hero nor a villain,” but “an ordinary, weak person who, being at odds with the society in which he finds himself, tries to overcome it and, in doing so, offends against the conventional code, is classed by society as a criminal, and destroyed as such. There are plenty of Grimeses around still, I think!”

Just as people often contain contradictions, the sea has many conflicting characters: tranquility, violence, beauty, abundance, power. And like the inexorable resolve of the angry mob that ultimately seals Peter’s fate, a tide, when it has gathered enough force, can rarely be overcome.

 

—Notes by Valerie Sly, 2026

Symphony in B minor, “Unfinished” (1822)
Franz Schubert (1797-1828)
Run time: Approx. 26 minutes

The mystery surrounding Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony has frustrated scholars since the work’s premiere. The first and most obvious question—where is the rest of it?—has never been definitively answered. Did he try to write more and then abandon it? If so, why? Did the onset of his health problems have something to do with it? He likely began noticing symptoms of the illness that would eventually kill him around this time. Or maybe he simply got distracted and moved on to other material.
These questions are unlikely to be answered with any certainty, but perhaps that’s for the best. The music itself teems with an uncertainty that feels perfectly suited to this backdrop. Right from the opening bars, the minor theme played in the low strings, followed by a trembling melody in the violins, creates an air of unease that plagues the entire first movement, no matter how hard it tries to find solid footing. Even the second movement, whose main theme unfolds as a stately, reverent chorale, cannot help but slip back into the minor from time to time. Its yearning middle section, ushered in by a poignant clarinet solo, brings flashes of Beethovenian drama: those sudden, striking thunderbolts that break through the otherwise tender moments.

Discovery:
In 1822, Schubert gave the manuscript of the two completed movements to his friend Anselm Hüttenbrenner as a gift, thanking him for helping secure a membership in an Austrian musical society. This was an important step for a composer who was largely unknown during his lifetime and often struggled to get his music performed. After that, we can only assume the work sat in a drawer gathering dust. There’s no further mention of the symphony by Schubert, Hüttenbrenner, or anyone else. Oddly, Schubert seems not even to have mentioned it to his other friends.
When Hüttenbrenner finally brought the work to light decades later, Schubert had long been dead, but his music was beginning to gain widespread recognition. In 1865, Hüttenbrenner showed the manuscript to conductor Johann von Herbeck, who organized its long-delayed premiere. Why Hüttenbrenner waited nearly 40 years to share it remains another mystery. When he finally did, rumors of an unfinished B‑minor symphony were already circulating. Perhaps he had simply wanted to keep a piece of his friend—gone far too soon—for himself.

Possible additional movements:
Amongst Schubert’s belongings, scholars discovered the outline of a third movement Scherzo that has been definitively linked to this symphony. He did begin orchestrating it, but only managed to complete a few bars.
Some have posited that Schubert’s Entr’acte to the play Rosamunde, one of the only other works he wrote in the key of B-minor, may have been repurposed from music originally intended to be a Finale to the “Unfinished” Symphony, though this is highly contested.

Schubert’s mature style:
In addition to the former questions concerning the work’s history, there’s one more to consider: why are we so bothered that Schubert didn’t finish it? Surely artists abandon works all the time. Schubert himself left one or two other symphonies incomplete, yet we rarely dwell on those. So what is it about this one that keeps drawing us in?
Think for a moment of van Gogh’s Starry Night, a work that helped solidify the painter’s mature style. Imagine if he had abandoned it when it was nearly complete—the sketch done, the initial layers in place, almost realized. That’s what we have of Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony: two movements complete, a third waiting for its colors to be filled in. It’s within reach of something truly remarkable, and it’s cited more than any other work as the beginning of his mature compositional period. After this, he would go on to produce everything he’s most famous for, including his monumental genre-defining song cycles like Winterreise and Die schöne Müllerin, and, of course, his 9th and final symphony, “the Great.” And what we do have of the 8th Symphony is substantial: the first two movements alone last 26 minutes, hinting at a work of epic scale, echoing the might of romantic Beethoven. That such a creation was left incomplete remains an irresistible conundrum.

A life unfinished:
Schubert died at just 31, likely of syphilis, which plagued him for eight years—one of the most tragic early deaths in music. In that short life he produced a prolific body of work, largely defining 19th-century German art-song and song cycle, penning over 600 Lieder, numerous string quartets, and nine symphonies. With such a catalog, it’s impossible not to wonder what he might have done had he lived longer. Perhaps that’s part of the allure of the “Unfinished”: it feels like an allegory for Schubert himself—startlingly brilliant, poignantly expressive, and ultimately over far too soon.

 

Symphony No. 45 in F-sharp minor, “Farewell”(1772)
Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809)
Run Time: Approx. 27 minutes

The story of Haydn’s “Farewell” Symphony is one of the most charming in classical music, and, somewhat unusually, it is verifiable—the composer himself later recounted the work’s origins to his biographers.
It goes like this: Haydn served as Kappelmeister for the Esterházy court, a job title that essentially made him composer-in-residence, orchestra conductor, occasional violinist, and orchestra personnel manager. The Esterházy party had been staying at one of the Prince’s favorite country residences, located far from the musicians’ families. What was intended to be a temporary stay dragged on longer than expected, and the orchestra grew increasingly unhappy. Eventually, the musicians appealed to Haydn for help. But, this being pre–French Revolution Europe, Haydn could not simply approach the Prince and lodge a complaint. So, he devised a plan to put the grievance into music instead.

What he created is one of the most unusual endings in the symphonic repertoire. At the conclusion of a fiery final movement, the music unexpectedly subsides into a calm, extended coda, during which, the musicians were instructed to stand and quietly leave the stage one by one, until only two violins remained to finish the symphony.

What makes this story especially satisfying is that it worked! According to Haydn, Prince Esterházy remarked to him after the performance that he understood the message, and that they would depart the following day.
The famous theatrical ending is certainly the most affecting part of the work, but it doesn’t come out of nowhere. Haydn sets it up with a number of other oddities, leaving breadcrumbs throughout the symphony that would have raised eyebrows in the audience, and perhaps primed the message’s intended recipient to listen more closely.

The first of these clues is the work’s key. F-sharp minor was an extraordinary choice in the 18th century, so unusual that Haydn had to commission special horn crooks from the Esterháza blacksmith in order for the horns to play in it at all. At the time, horns and trumpets lacked valves and could only play in specific keys by adding different lengths of tubing, called crooks. Why go to such trouble? Perhaps to announce that this would not be just an ordinary symphony.
From the outset, the work is undeniably dramatic. The opening material is driven by an urgent, pulsing accompaniment in the violas reminiscent of trotting horse hooves—a nod to the journey the musicians so earnestly desired. Throughout the work, there is a pervasive sense of melancholy and longing that sets it apart from the more conventional symphonies of the period.

The Minuet, too, is just a bit strange. It starts lightly, almost cute, but then introduces chords that are strikingly dissonant. One might momentarily wonder if someone played a wrong note, if the effect didn’t recur. Then, a sudden outburst of dramatic and turbulent minor-key material further disrupts the expected courtly dance. An audience accustomed to the typically lighter symphony of the time must have been jarred to say the least. And the Prince, who was well versed in music, would surely have been wondering what on earth Haydn was up to.

Imagine, then, how stirring the scene must have been—a nighttime concert near the water, the musicians one-by-one snuffing out their candles as they quietly left the stage. While modern orchestras are rarely able to recreate that unique atmosphere—the unavoidable consequence of modern fire codes—the evocative and poignant ending makes this work a fan favorite, and a unique testament to the power of music to change minds. —Notes by Valerie Sly, 2026

King of kings,

And Lord of lords,

And He shall reign forever and ever,

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

The holiday season wouldn’t be complete without some timeless traditions, and few are as enduring as Handel’s Messiah. Whether you’ve attended every year to hear the ASO perform this holiday classic or you’re experiencing the grand spectacle for the very first time, we’re confident you already know this work. You’ve almost certainly sung along to parts of it! After all, the “Hallelujah” Chorus is among the most recognizable works of art in history, right alongside the Mona Lisa or Michelangelo’s David. It’s credited in over 500 films! So today, we’re not here to introduce this piece—you’ve met before. Instead, we offer a bit of insight into how this unforgettable work was created, the composer behind it, and how it became such a lasting part of the Christmas season.

Who was George Friedrich Handel?

Handel composed some of the most well-known music of the Baroque era, but the sheer fame of his works has somewhat overshadowed the man himself. Today, he’s less of a household name than Bach or Vivaldi, although his music remains widely recognized. Handel was actually born in the same year as Bach—1685—in Germany, but he led a much more international life. He spent his childhood in Hamburg but received much of his musical training in Italy before establishing his career in London. He eventually became a naturalized British citizen and is often considered more an English composer than a German one.

After settling in London, Handel became a favored composer of the British crown, creating a great deal of ceremonial music for royal events. You may know works like Water Music, composed for King George I and performed by musicians floating in boats on the River Thames. Handel produced many pieces for such celebrations and, as a result, gained significant popularity and fame during his lifetime—a rare achievement for any artist.

What type of music did he compose?

Handel is renowned for three main achievements: his music for grand public celebrations (such as Water Music or The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba), his monumental oratorios like Messiah, and his highly successful operas. All of these share a sense of spectacle, something Handel was particularly skilled at creating. He had an exceptional instinct for drama and impact; as Mozart observed, “Handel understands effect better than any of us—when he chooses, he strikes like a thunderbolt.”

How did Messiah come about?

In the years before composing Messiah, Handel mainly focused on composing Italian opera, which for decades was considered the highest form of musical art in Europe. But by the 1740s, opera started to fall out of fashion. It was very costly to produce (as it still is), and aristocratic support was decreasing. So, Handel decided to shift his focus to music that could be enjoyed by the general public.

The idea for the Messiah was brought to him by his collaborator, the librettist Charles Jennens. Jennens was a writer and arts patron who, in addition to his work with Handel, authored several influential critical editions of Shakespeare plays.

Once Handel received the text, he completed the Messiah in just 24 days. It was first performed in Dublin on April 13, 1742, during a public charity event that raised funds for prisoners’ debt relief, Mercer’s Hospital, and the Charitable Infirmary. The performance was so popular that a request was made for women not to wear hoops in their skirts to make sure there was enough space.

What is an Oratorio?

An oratorio is a large-scale work for chorus, soloists, and orchestra that features a dramatic or narrative arc. Similar to opera, it tells a story through music, but unlike opera, it lacks staging, costumes, or acting. Oratorios are almost always centered on religious or liturgical texts, and although secular oratorios exist—such as Handel’s The Choice of Hercules—they are quite rare.

Was the Messiah written for Christmas?

No. The Messiah was originally written for Easter and was premiered during Lent.

So, how did it become a Christmas tradition?

We hope this doesn’t disappoint too many, but like many of our cherished traditions, the story of Messiah becoming a Christmas staple primarily comes down to marketing. Messiah sold tickets and drew crowds, so it started being used for various holidays and celebrations. Then, in the late 1800s, a mix of commercialization, Victorian focus on family, and popular works like Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol turned Christmas from a modest observance into the major holiday we celebrate today. In the United States, for instance, Christmas was made a federal holiday in 1870, just as this shift was taking shape. In short, Christmas became more profitable and a part of mainstream culture, giving Messiah a new place.

Some notable performances

Messiah was an immediate success in Britain and received repeated performances right after its premiere. In fact, the last time Handel attended a performance of his music before his death was of Messiah at Covent Garden in 1759.

Messiah had its American debut on Christmas Day in 1818, performed by the Boston Handel and Haydn Society.

The “Hallelujah” Chorus was performed at the Grand Jubilee Concert honoring Abraham Lincoln singing the Emancipation Proclamation on New Year’s Day, 1863.

Starting in 1750, Handel conducted yearly performances to raise funds for the Foundling Hospital, a tradition that lasted until the hospital was demolished in 1935.

Where did the tradition of standing during the “Hallelujah” chorus come from?

The story is that during a performance in London, King George II was so moved by the famous “Hallelujah” Chorus that he couldn’t help but stand, and the rest of the audience followed suit. Unfortunately, we don’t have concrete evidence that this actually happened, but it’s such a great story that we can let it slide. If you are similarly moved, please stand when we reach the beloved chorus.

—-Notes by Valerie Sly, 2025

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Born in 1756 in Salzburg, Austria, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is probably best known as a quintessential child prodigy. He composed his first piece at the age of five, and during his short 35-year life, he produced over 800 works. But he wasn’t just quick off the mark and impressively productive, he was also a hugely innovative, progressive, and bold composer, making him one of the most influential figures in classical music history.

He’s also become well known today for his boisterous personality, thanks in large part to the 1984 film Amadeus and the unforgettable laugh of Tom Hulce. While the film does take many historical liberties, as most do, it nevertheless presents a delightful and surprisingly truthful portrayal of Mozart the man. Exuberant, playful, and at times even childish, he was by all accounts a joyous, deeply feeling person, brimming with humor, mischief, and vitality. He loved a good laugh, as well as a well-timed practical joke.

All of this shines through in his music. The range of emotions he conjures and speed at which he sometimes bounds from playful levity to tender love, to dramatic angst (and back again) is truly captivating. Perhaps this is why instrumentalists, when learning Mozart in school, are so often reminded by their teachers: “Remember, Mozart was an opera composer.” Of course, that’s not all he was. He wrote some 41 symphonies, 27 piano concertos, and countless other solo and chamber works. But we think of him first and foremost as a composer of opera precisely because he wore his heart on his sleeve—and in his manuscripts. He wrote for every instrument as if it were a singing voice, and there is always a sense that this is the lens through which he approached all his music.

Overture to Le nozze di Figaro (1786)

Run Time: Approx. 5 minutes

Mozart’s opera The Marriage of Figaro is based on the play The Mad Day, or the Marriage of Figaro by French playwright Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais. Written in 1778, the comedy had become rather popular across Europe, in part because of its risqué content. The story combines sharp political satire heavily criticizing aristocratic privilege, with overt sexual themes; it angered Louis XVI so much that it was banned in France for three years. Though fairly tame by today’s standards, it rather scandalized the 18th-century bourgeoisie, so naturally, audiences were clamoring to see it.

And so, when Mozart was seeking a story on which to base a new opera, he and librettist Lorenzo Da Ponte were unsurprisingly drawn to the alluring tale. Da Ponte, with whom Mozart would go on to collaborate on two more operas, removed much of the political commentary, likely to avoid provoking King Louis’s censorious quill, but the raciness remained, providing just the right amount of ridiculous sauce to delight the then-29-year-old Mozart.

The story unfolds over the course of a single day. Figaro—now a valet in Count Almaviva’s household, years after the events of Rossini’s The Barber of Seville (based on another play by the same author)—is preparing to marry a maid named Susanna. The trouble is that the Count is bent on seducing her first, and when the Countess discovers his plan, she sets out to teach him a lesson. Naturally, chaos ensues. The farcical comedy has much the same sense of humor as Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, full of mistaken identity, poorly executed disguises, and all sorts of ridiculous antics.

The music Mozart composed for his overture uses no material from the opera itself, yet it perfectly captures the tone of what the audience is about to witness. Right from the outset, it’s bustling and frenetic, evoking the mood of a busy household preparing for a lavish wedding. But Mozart, like his characters, gets up to a bit of mischief. The opening theme in the bassoons and strings almost seems to chase itself, scrambling after its own tail. Then—bam! The brass and timpani pounce and the orchestra comes barreling in. Everyone’s caught in a musical game of cat and mouse. Throughout the overture, the mood shifts at lightning speed. At times, there are unexpected accents on “wrong” beats that serve as little musical jump scares. Mozart is playing with the audience the same way the characters are about to chase each other around the stage. It’s a perfect prelude to the chaos to come, and a brilliant little microcosm of the opera itself.

Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major (1785)

Run Time: Approx. 31 minutes

Part of being a child prodigy in 18th-century Europe meant that Mozart spent much of his early life traveling and performing for aristocrats. As he began to add “composer” to his growing resume—alongside violinist and pianist—he started writing concertos for himself, mainly as a vehicle to demonstrate his own virtuosity.

The first movement is the perfect Classical concerto Allegro if there ever was one. It’s elegant and playful, full of vivid character contrasts and glimmering technical passages. True to the conventions of the time, the piano and orchestra alternate back and forth in a polite dialogue, they do not compete for the spotlight. Mozart makes us wait a while for the piano to enter, but when it does, the orchestra immediately cedes the stage and the piano takes over with long passages of little to no accompaniment. Here, Mozart the opera composer comes out—the movement is like a great soprano aria, full of drama and beautifully singing lines.

The film Amadeus contains one of my favorite passages about Mozart’s music. In this scene, rival composer Antonio Salieri begrudgingly fawns over a particularly exquisite passage:

“On the page it looked like nothing, the beginning simple, almost comic. Just a pulse. Bassoons and basset horns, like a rusty squeezebox. And then suddenly, high above it, an oboe. A single note, hanging there, unwavering. Until a clarinet took over and sweetened it into a phrase of such delight…This was a music I’d never heard. Filled with such longing, such unfulfillable longing. It seemed to me that I was hearing the voice of God.”

This quote refers to the third movement from the Gran Partita, but Mozart approached the second movement of this piano concerto quite similarly. It begins with a pulse, and then the violins present such a simple melody—just an arpeggio. Next, they’re joined by the winds, the oboe emerging from the texture with a descending line. Again, so simple, yet breathtaking. Then, the piano enters and plays the whole thing on its own. This ability to create arresting beauty from the simplest material is a particular gift of Mozart’s, one that he gives us in many of his adagios, and a magical example of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts.

The third movement is a spritely jaunt that wraps up the concerto on a high note and shows off the keyboard’s brilliant technical abilities. Its form is a Rondo, which Mozart used frequently for his concerto conclusions. A Rondo features a main melody, usually called the “A theme,” that returns after each episode of new material, similar to the way pop songs return to a main chorus after every verse. This structure is perfect for finales because it allows the composer to intersperse all kinds of virtuosic flash in between segments of a familiar, and usually very hummable, melody. That’s exactly what Mozart does here, and the result is a catchy resolution full of fireworks.

Symphony No. 1 in G Minor “Winter Daydreams” (1866)

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

Run Time: Approx. 44 minutes

One of the great struggles of Tchaikovsky’s musical life was the conflict he felt between the Western classical tradition in which he was trained and the Eastern European folk traditions that he grew up with and felt deeply connected to. Later in his life, when he reached the height of his compositional maturity, he achieved a balance between these opposing influences, blending them into a truly unique voice that produced  some of the most beloved and well-known music in the classical repertoire. This is the Tchaikovsky we know from the great ballets Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, and The Nutcracker, not to mention his final three symphonies. Hardly a year passes without most orchestras performing one of them.

His first symphony, however, comes from a different stage of his life. He was a newly minted professor of harmony at the brand new St. Petersburg Conservatory, and had only recently begun composing seriously. In this seminal work, you can hear him working through this conflict, exploring both voices, and working out how to bring them together.

There are many differences between the musical traditions of Eastern and Western Europe, but the most significant is the emphasis on structure versus melody. This difference is akin to a poet being focused more on the use of a specific rhyme scheme versus the meaning and sound of the particular words chosen. Western classical music is highly focused on form—both the architecture of the piece and the way that harmonies progress from one to another. Russian music, in contrast, is more concerned with melodic and dramatic expression. It tends to favor slightly different scales, asymmetrical folk-inspired meters, and often repeats melodic material with a new accompaniment, rather than developing a melody as is typical of Western tradition.

Perhaps as a nod to his Russian roots, Tchaikovsky gave his first foray into symphonic writing the subtitle “Winter Daydreams.” While not programmatic per se, the title does evoke an otherworldliness that the music echoes, like stepping into the inside of a snow globe. But even in this fantasyland, there is a hint of melancholy that so often pervades nineteenth-century Russian art.

The conflict between Tchaikovsky’s musical influences is most apparent in the symphony’s outer movements. The first movement begins with a theme in the flute and bassoon that has a distinctly folk-like feel before adding more rhythmic march-like material to his opening. Later, a triumphant theme emerges, closer to what you might expect from a typical Romantic-era symphony, which is contrasted by a minor section that feels unmistakably Russian. Here, the contrast between the two styles is quite striking, whereas in his later compositions, Tchaikovsky blends these influences more seamlessly.

The final movement opens with a distinctly Russian-flavored introduction before shifting into a more conventional Romantic-era style. The next theme, however, leans back into more Russian sounding motifs—but then Tchaikovsky develops it into a fugue, a Baroque form that represents perhaps the epitome of Western classical compositional technique. He’s clearly experimenting here, and it’s fascinating, if a little unusual. It doesn’t quite sound like the Tchaikovsky we know and love yet, but you can hear the composer he is on his way to becoming.

Upon the work’s premiere, the second movement earned particular praise with critics, and for good reason. Here, Tchaikovsky settles fully into his Russian roots, and in doing so displays his gift for melody. The plaintive tune, first introduced by the oboe, remains largely unchanged throughout the movement; it’s the accompaniment, the shifting colors, moods, and the contrasting voices around it that carry the music through an entire world of sound. This is a distinctly Eastern European approach, one that Tchaikovsky would go on to use to great effect in many of his later works.

—Notes by Valerie Sly, 2025

Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, BWV 1048

Johan Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)
Run Time: Approx. 11 minutes

In 1721, the six pieces we now know as the Brandenburg Concertos were sent by Bach to Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg-Schwedt, as a sort of job application. They were probably not conceived as a formal set; more likely, they were simply a collection of pieces for various ensembles that Bach felt best represented his abilities. That is essentially all we know about these iconic works. The Margrave appears never to have responded, and the works were lost for nearly 150 years. The only other piece of information we have is a letter that Bach enclosed with the manuscripts, a portion of which reads as follows:

“I have then in accordance with Your Highness’ most gracious orders taken the liberty of rendering my most humble duty to Your Royal Highness with the present concertos, which I have adapted to several instruments; begging Your Highness most humbly not to judge their imperfection with the rigor of the fine and delicate taste that the whole world knows Your Highness has for musical pieces; but rather to infer from them in benign consideration the profound respect and the most humble obedience that I try to show Your Highness therewith.”

My, how times have changed—but perhaps we might all try throwing a little “benign consideration” into our next cover letters and see where that gets us. I digress. It’s no wonder we now tend to think of the Baroque era as an extravagant parade of powdered wigs and formal bows, where feelings were cinched up as tightly as the corsets. But do not let Bach’s gilded prose fool you into thinking that Baroque music is a prim affair. No, in stark contrast to the nearly comical propriety offered by its composer, this music practically sizzles off the page.

Likely the most recognizable of the set, Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 opens with a stately theme that has become emblematic of our modern perception of Baroque court life. Its frequent use in film and television has rendered it a caricature of the era, but Bach’s familiar opening quickly sheds its pretenses, becoming a fiery, virtuosic tour de force—an energy it maintains for nearly the entire work. The relentless motion pauses only for an unusually brief adagio before dashing off to the races once again.

The concerto is full of Bach’s characteristically complex craftsmanship, with solo lines that dart around the ensemble, overlapping and interlocking like pieces of a tightly cut jigsaw puzzle. Three hundred years later, Bach’s apologies for his work’s “imperfections” seem almost absurd, given that we now consider his music to be the pinnacle of compositional perfection.

Concerto in E-flat “Dumbarton Oaks”

Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971)
Run Time: Approx. 16 minutes

Hearing the name Igor Stravinsky likely brings to mind a few of the composer’s most iconic works. Perhaps The Rite of Spring, the jagged, even caustic work popularized in Disney’s original Fantasia (the one with the dinosaurs). Or perhaps his most famous ballet, The Firebird, with its transcendental finale you may remember from Fantasia 2000 (the one with the forest sprite and the volcano). But throughout his career, Stravinsky was a bit of a musical chameleon, and his body of work shifted through several distinct styles. Dumbarton Oaks hails from his Neoclassical era, when he turned his attention to musical practices of the past.

In music, the term Neoclassicism has become a bit of a catch-all for works that look back on previous eras. While Stravinsky certainly drew from the actual Classical era for many of his compositional endeavors, a more apt term for what he created in Dumbarton Oaks might be “Neobaroque”. For this work, Stravinsky looked to none other than the master himself, Johann Sebastian Bach—and in particular, the Brandenburg Concertos—for inspiration.

Dumbarton Oaks was commissioned in 1937 by Washington, DC power couple and influential arts patrons, Robert Woods Bliss and Mildred Barnes Bliss, on the occasion of their 30th wedding anniversary. The piece takes its title from the couple’s beloved Georgetown estate, which hosted the premiere performance of the work. Now owned by Harvard University, the estate was also the site of the historic meeting that led to the founding of the United Nations.

What’s borrowed from the past?

The Form: This work is written as a typical Baroque concerto grosso. Unlike the modern concerto, which features a single soloist backed by the orchestra, the concerto grosso highlights a group of soloists that weave in and out of the ensemble texture. The hallmark of this form is the dialogue between instruments acting in a solo capacity and the full ensemble. You’ll hear each unique voice come out of the texture at various points, and then fold back into a supporting role.

Style: Stravinsky borrows many tricks from the Baroque playbook, including fugues, walking bass lines, rhythmic imitation, and ornamentation.

Rhythm: Through much of the piece, the melodies are often underpinned by a chugging rhythmic impetus, like a motor that keeps things moving along. This is a frequently used device in Baroque music as well, where rhythmic ostinatos— short, continuously repeated rhythmic patterns—create cohesion and flow. However, the constantly shifting meters are all Stravinsky and play a big role in giving the piece its modern sound.

Dialogue: The instruments frequently pass melodic material between one another, each playing a small part of the larger phrase. The melodies coalesce from short motives circulated among the instruments, creating intricate interlocking textures and evoking the feeling of an ensemble cast of equally weighted characters.

The opening: Stravinsky’s opening is a clear homage to Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. That iconic descending line you might recognize from movies and television is essentially the same here, though dressed in Stravinsky’s modern clothes. He builds the entire first movement theme around this motif, seamlessly melding Baroque tradition and modernist innovation.

—Notes by Valerie Sly, 2025