“Everyone is afraid to do a ninth. It is a jinx that people think about.”

— Phillip Glass

Imagine, for a moment, that you are a composer. You’ve written eight excellent symphonies and have just received a commission for another. As you read the request, your stomach twists with nerves. A ninth symphony? Do you dare?

There are two major fears associated with a ninth. First, there’s the pressure—several composers have already written monumental ninth symphonies. The weight of expectation is immense.

Then, there’s the curse. How many composers have died after completing their ninth symphony? Beethoven, Schubert, Bruckner, Dvořák, Vaughan Williams. Mahler was so afraid of the so-called “Curse of the Ninth” that he avoided numbering what would have been his ninth symphony altogether, instead calling it Das Lied von der Erde. He thought it might have worked, too, so he did number his next symphony as the Ninth and even began a tenth. And then, of course, he died. One would have to be exceptionally confident in their luck—and their health—to tempt fate like that.

As you get up for another cup of coffee, still contemplating whether you have enough audacity to start down this path, you curse the picture of Beethoven that hangs in your study. After all, wasn’t it he who started all this trouble in the first place?

Symphony No. 9 in E-flat major (1945)

Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975
Run Time: Approx. 24 minutes

Shostakovich was likely wrestling with this very quandary as he approached his own Ninth Symphony. Living in the 20th century, he was undoubtedly aware of the great Ninths that preceded him, and he was a huge lover of Beethoven and Mahler.

And then there was Stalin. Shostakovich spent most of his creative life trying to balance his artistic voice with the often-difficult task of staying alive through the Great Purge. Survival meant writing the kind of music that Stalin wanted to hear. But in the words of the great American conductor and composer Leonard Bernstein, Shostakovich was “a great nose thumber.” He always found a way to slip an act of defiance into the subtext of his music.

In the years leading up to the composition of the Ninth Symphony, Shostakovich was riding high. He enjoyed good standing with the Soviet government, and his global recognition had boomed following his enormous seventh and eight symphonies.

In 1945, the USSR ended the Battle of Berlin by capturing the city, playing a major role in the defeat of the Nazis, and bringing World War II to a close. What Stalin wanted now was Russia’s own “Beethoven’s Ninth”: a nationalistic masterpiece that could become synonymous with Soviet greatness, just as Beethoven’s magnum opus had come to symbolize the ideals of Western Europe.

Publicly, Shostakovich promised exactly that. He hinted that the work would be his grandest yet, possibly including a full chorus—a clear nod to Beethoven that Stalin so desperately desired. So, with the Soviet machine and the ghost of Beethoven looming over him, he set about his Ninth Symphony. In the end, what he delivered was nearly the exact opposite.

At 24 minutes, the Ninth Symphony is Shostakovich’s shortest and lightest, representing a sharp left turn for the composer whose works had been steadily expanding in scope. It’s also exceptionally playful, full of musical jokes and unexpected interjections.

The first movement features a main theme reminiscent of an upbeat military-style march—the sort that might be heard in a parade. Buoyant and campy, it’s first announced by the trombone with two bombastic slides. When the theme recurs towards the end of the movement, the trombone reenters several times—all in the wrong place—before finally coming in correctly on the seventh try. It all seems quite silly, even childish, but his choice of a militaristic march as the foundation for these antics raises the question: is this a moment of Shostakovich’s nose-thumbing? He certainly would have found Stalin’s claim of victory over fascism to be a tad hypocritical, to say the least. “Here’s your anthem,” Shostakovich seems to say—and then sticks out his tongue.

The second movement is more serious, even lonely, beginning with a sparsely accompanied clarinet solo. Bernstein found this particular brand of melancholy to be uniquely Russian, noting what he called “that peculiarly spare quality of brooding resignation,” which he believed characterized the works of authors like Chekhov as well. This is interspersed with an eerie waltz, eventually arriving at a bittersweet climax before fading once more into that characteristic Russian bleakness.

The final three movements are played without pause. First, the scherzo stirs up a flurry of woodwind activity that recalls the exuberance from the first movement. But the energy soon fades, like someone slowly turning down the volume on a stereo. Then comes a menacing pronouncement from the low brass, announcing the fourth movement and a new central character: the solo bassoon, who embarks on two extended cadenzas. They are contemplative and operatic, and they have a message.

The first begins with material taken from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and after another jolt from the brass, the second expands on a short quote from Mahler’s Ninth. It conjures an image something like the famous Fearless Girl sculpture, in which a small child gazes defiantly up at a charging bull. The weight of expectation storms through the horns. “No,” Shostakovich seems to say. “My Ninth will be written on my own terms.”

From the second cadenza, the bassoon slyly transforms its melody into the final movement’s theme, which rounds out the symphony with the same quirky levity with which it began. Though there are moments of darkness amid the festivities, they’re never allowed much purchase, and the work comes to a prompt and flamboyant close.

So, did Shostakovich successfully avoid the Curse of the Ninth? He certainly did! And in every one of his fifteen symphonies, if his thumb wasn’t directly on his nose, it was certainly nearby.

Symphony No. 9 in D Minor “Choral”

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Text by Friederich Schiller (1759-1805)
Run Time: Approx. 80 minutes

Joy, bright spark of divinity,
Daughter of Elysium,
Fire-inspired we tread
Within thy sanctuary.
Thy magic power re-unites
All that custom has divided,
All men become brothers,
Under the sway of thy gentle wings.

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is enormous. The orchestra is big, the chorus is big, and there are four soloists to boot. It runs far longer than any other symphony of its time, and its influence on all music that followed cannot be overstated. It’s also lodged itself firmly in our collective subconscious—who hasn’t heard the famous Ode to Joy, the crown jewel that defines the work?

Beethoven was also big. In response to the claim that he forever changed music, one must first ask: “Which time?” His third symphony marked the transition from the Classical to the Romantic era; his sixth symphony pioneered programmatic storytelling. His late string quartets redefined the genre, and anyone present at ASO’s previous masterworks concert experienced the raw emotional power of his fifth. He didn’t just redefine how music was written, he revolutionized what it could be—its emotional bounds, its narrative potential, its political power, and its role in people’s lives. As the musicologist Maynard Solomon wrote, “What Beethoven created was not just music—it was myth, it was cosmos, it was revolution.”

So, what is the titanic final symphony from a giant of a composer about? It must be something big… mustn’t it? The answer is yes—and no. Beethoven indeed crafts a narrative of epic scope, exploring the existential forces that define the human experience—a musical odyssey touching nearly every emotional realm. A hero’s journey for the entire human race. What could be bigger than that?

But the salvation he offers in the conclusion of the symphony—the part everyone knows—is startlingly simple, even small: Joy. Joy, unity, and brotherhood for all mankind.

Some things to listen for on the journey:

The very opening of the symphony is often interpreted as a depiction of creation. The music seems to emerge from nothing, as if marking the beginning of time. Suddenly, mighty, raging chords explode over the stark backdrop—a musical big bang. The foundational intervals give the music an elemental, almost primordial quality, as though the universe itself is being born in sound.

Listen closely to how Beethoven uses harmony throughout the first movement. When the harmonies are open and simple, with the notes spaced far apart, they evoke a pastoral quality, grounded and earthly. But when the harmonies thicken—layered, dense, and crunchy—that’s where the existential angst creeps in, as if some malevolent higher power is interfering. Here lies the clash between the vast and the intimate, the cosmic and the human.

Throughout the work—but especially in the second movement—pay attention to the timpani. It’s a bit of a havoc-wreaker, bursting in at unexpected moments, like Zeus’s thunder—a divine power throwing the world off balance. Those familiar with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (perhaps some recent Masterworks attendees) might recall how he used the timpani to symbolize fate’s relentless meddling. Perhaps he’s up to something similar here?

In the third movement, listen to how he weaves together a tapestry of distinct voices, especially in the woodwinds. Often, multiple completely different yet equally poignant melodies sing against each other, all fitting into the broader harmony. It’s remarkable craftsmanship, but it also feels like a nod to individualism—a popular idea in Beethoven’s day—and a perfect setup for the symphony’s imminent call for unity and brotherhood.

The fourth and final movement begins with a statement that Wagner called the “fanfare of horror.” Today, we are used to such sonorities, but in 1824, it may well have been the most jarring sound ever heard at an orchestra concert. Beethoven was fond of these “wake up and pay attention” moments, but this one was by far his most daring.

He begins his final chapter by repeating a bit from each preceding movement—the fire and brimstone of the first, a glimpse of the bacchanal from the second, and the tender hymn of the third. He makes clear that what comes next is a response to what has been.

Notice that when the famous Ode to Joy theme finally arrives, the chorus and vocalists are still absent. The orchestra begins the declaration in a whisper, but even when it gains confidence, it’s not enough to ward off one final eruption. Only the addition of voices, singing together in unity, can fully defeat the darkness.

It’s a tale both cosmic and deeply human—enormous, yet so very ordinary. Perhaps this is why Beethoven’s Ninth has made such a lasting mark. Its dichotomy transcends time and place, speaking to all of us, not just across the world but throughout the ages. We feel Beethoven’s call for peace and brotherhood as acutely today as he did more than 150 years ago. “Whoever has achieved the great feat / Of being a friend’s friend…” Schiller’s text declares, “Join in our jubilation!”

—Valerie Sly, 2025

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

This unique program is the only one in the ASO’s 2024–25 season dedicated entirely to a single composer. Fittingly, it comes just after the 185th anniversary of Tchaikovsky’s birth on May 7. The first half of the program features two of his lesser-known works, while the second showcases one of his most celebrated symphonies.

Born in Votkinsk, Tchaikovsky was the first Russian composer whose music had significant influence in the West. As with many composers, he displayed exceptional talent on the piano from an early age, but at the time, musical career paths in Russia were limited. The few available roles— teaching or working in state theaters—were considered low in social status, and most Russian composers of the time had another primary vocation. As a result, Tchaikovsky initially studied to become a civil servant.

He hit a stroke of luck, however, with the timing of his graduation. Just as he was finishing his studies, Tsar Alexander II launched a nationwide effort to grow Russian arts culture. As part of this movement, the Saint Petersburg Conservatory was established, and Tchaikovsky enrolled in one of its first classes.

His training at the conservatory developed his skills considerably, but it also introduced an unexpected conflict in his musical voice. Tchaikovsky grew up immersed in the traditional music of Russia, but the conservatory taught a western approach to music.

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 somewhat 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.

As a Russian artist who was trained in Western compositional practice, Tchaikovsky wrestled with his musical identity but ultimately forged a unique voice that blends the highly satisfying harmonic language of Western Classical music with the rich melodic depth of his roots.

Following the premiere of the fifth symphony, he remarked “On Saturday I took part in a Russian Symphony concert. I am very glad that I could prove, in public, that I do not belong to any particular party.”

Among all his compositional assets, Tchaikovsky possessed a particular gift for melody. This is perhaps why he remains one of the most well-known and frequently performed composers today. Each year, millions of people celebrate the holidays with The Nutcracker, but his greatest hits extend far beyond the beloved Christmas staple. Tchaikovsky is responsible for some of the most iconic and recognizable melodies in the classical canon, including the love theme from his Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture–a piece so often used for romantic scenes that it has become almost a caricature of love at first sight. His other ballets, Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake have also had an enduring cultural impact. Disney’s “Once Upon a Dream” is directly adapted from Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty score, and the “swan theme” from Swan Lake remains one of classical music’s most famous melodies. Simply put, the man knew how to write a truly unforgettable tune.

Like many great artists, Tchaikovsky’s creativity was fueled, at least in part, by personal tragedy. His first composition was written following the death of his mother when he was just fourteen. He was also deeply affected by the death of his close friend and colleague Nikolai Rubinstein. Beyond this, his sexuality has been the topic of much discussion and debate. Most scholars agree that he was gay, but the extent to which this caused him distress remains unclear. Some believe he struggled greatly with his sexual identity, while others argue he may have reached a degree of private acceptance.

Regardless of his internal experience, being publicly outed as a gay man in Tsarist Russia would have been extremely dangerous, which must have caused at least a degree of worry. Part of the long-standing confusion surrounding his sexuality stems from the Soviet Union’s efforts to suppress it; Soviet editors actively censored letters and documents that referenced his romantic feelings for men, and members of the Russian Culture Ministry continued to deny it as recently as 2013.

His death, too, has sparked considerable debate. Just six days after the premiere of his Pathétique—or “Tragic”—Symphony, he succumbed to Cholera–the same disease that took his mother. However, many have speculated that he may have deliberately consumed contaminated water. I won’t add to the speculation surrounding Tchaikovsky’s personal life or death, but it’s easy to understand why it has drawn such intense interest. His music carries a sense of emotional turbulence that suggests inner conflict. Many composers have possessed a unique ability to capture specific emotional states—Mozart evokes a sense of serene contentment, Beethoven a restless intensity. For Tchaikovsky, it is a profound, heartbreaking longing. Perhaps this is why scholars have been so fascinated by his private life: his music expresses such exquisite yearning that one can’t help but wonder what it was that he longed for so ardently.

Overture to the Tempest (1873)

Run Time: Approx. 25 Minutes

The Tempest, written in 1873, was Tchaikovsky’s second work inspired by a Shakespeare play, following his earlier Romeo and Juliet. The story centers on Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan, who has been exiled to a remote island with his daughter, Miranda. Using his magical powers, Prospero conjures a storm that shipwrecks his usurping brother, Antonio, and his crew. Among the stranded sailors is Antonio’s son, Ferdinand, who meets and falls in love with Miranda. Fortunately, the young couple fares much better than Romeo and Juliet, and the play ends with all parties making amends. Prospero is restored to his rightful seat, and Ferdinand and Miranda are engaged.

Tchaikovsky follows the general arc of Shakespeare’s story, but he focuses most attention on the storm itself and the central love story. The work opens with the image of a calm sea, as strings create a foggy atmosphere over which horns play a plaintive melody. The open intervals suggest the vastness of the ocean, while the ominous harmonies hint at the calm before the storm. Led by blustery figures in the strings and woodwinds, the tempest begins. The timpani rolls thunderously over a frantic string section, while the brass section plays dark, terror-evoking chorales.

When the storm finally settles and the orchestra lulls, Tchaikovsky wastes no time in introducing Ferdinand and Miranda’s love theme. Innocent and tender, the melody is exchanged between the woodwinds and strings, tentatively at first, but eventually building into a passionate declaration. Tension returns, however, as the feuding families clash, led by an agitated woodwind section. But Tchaikovsky returns to the lovers’ theme with even greater insistence and passion.

Eventually, the music settles back into the seaside imagery from the opening, as the families reconcile, and Prospero prepares to leave the island. The work concludes just as it began, with a serene and stark image of the open ocean.

Piano Concerto No. 3 (1893)

Run Time: Approx. 19 Minutes

Written in 1893, Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 3 was initially conceived as a symphony, but upon receiving a commission for a new concerto, he abandoned what would have been his seventh symphony and reworked the music as a piano concerto. Although Tchaikovsky completed sketches for the entire work, he was only able to finish composition for the first movement before his death. The remainder of the concerto was later finished by Sergey Taneyev, however, most performances of the piece feature only the first movement composed entirely by Tchaikovsky.

The work carries the characteristic beauty and passionate complexity of Tchaikovsky’s oeuvre, while also displaying a sense of playfulness that foreshadows the music of later Russian composers such as Prokofiev and Shostakovich, who would follow in Tchaikovsky’s footsteps.

Symphony No. 5 (1888)

Run Time: Approx. 50 Minutes

Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony has become so universally beloved and frequently performed that it feels almost impossible to say something new about it. The work has been analyzed countless times, and most audience members have likely heard it—perhaps even studied it—before. So, for this final masterwork of our ASO season, allow me to step away from my usual academic lens and take a more personal approach.

As a horn player, this symphony holds a special place for me—it features one of the great horn solos in the entire orchestral repertoire. When coaching students on the excerpt, I often joke that “Tchaikovsky had a lot of big feelings.” As reductive as that may sound, I believe it’s the very reason this symphony has resonated so deeply with audiences for 137 years, and likely will for many more.

When listening to or playing this work, I’m always struck by the profound sense that Tchaikovsky had something he was urgently trying to express. We know from his own writings that he felt conflicted between the form-driven discipline of Western conservatory training, and his instinctive pull toward more dramatic, emotionally driven melody—more in line with the Russian tradition. As musicologist Leon Plantinga observed, “He struggled ceaselessly with the opposed demands of formal traditions he had learned in the conservatory and his own predilection for an emotional and expressive progression of events corresponding to an unspoken program.”

When we speak of an “unspoken program,” we’re referring to an underlying story or narrative arc, something traditional symphonies typically avoid. Indeed, when Tchaikovsky set about composing the Fifth Symphony, he began with the idea of “Complete resignation before Fate–or what is the same thing, the inscrutable designs of Providence.” Though the published work bears no written evidence of this conceptualization, the music practically demands such an interpretation.

The symphony opens with a somber clarinet theme that has come to be known as the “fate motif.” Introduced at the start of the first movement, it reappears throughout the work and ultimately becomes the main theme of the finale. Over the course of the final movement, this motif undergoes a remarkable evolution—heard as a stately march, a fiery and menacing outburst, flustered, bubbling turmoil, moments of unrestrained joy, and, finally, a resolute and victorious conclusion. The emotional journey is vast, and each transformation of the theme feels like a chapter in a story Tchaikovsky was determined to tell—even if only in music.

The second movement, which opens with the aforementioned horn solo, embarks on a similarly turbulent journey, full of longing, passion, and deep sadness. At the height of its drama, the orchestra erupts in a powerful and frustrated return of the fate motif, as if voicing the helplessness Tchaikovsky may have felt at the hands of destiny.

All of this, of course, is conjecture—Tchaikovsky never truly revealed the dramatic arc he may have intended. Yet the emotions evoked by this powerful work are undeniable. He achieves the remarkable feat of allowing us to feel what he felt–even if we’re not sure of the cause–offering a visceral window into his inner life and connecting us to another world, 137 years away. That kind of emotional power is timeless—and I doubt it will ever stop being celebrated.

-Valerie Sly, 2025

Entr’acte (2014)
Caroline Shaw (b. 1982)

Run Time: Approx. 13 Minutes

In 2013, Caroline Shaw made history as the youngest recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Music, awarded for her groundbreaking vocal composition Partita for 8 Voices. A multifaceted artist—composer, vocalist, violinist, and producer—Shaw is also a member of the Grammy Award–winning vocal ensemble Roomful of Teeth, known for their adventurous and genre-defying performances.

Entr’acte started out as a string quartet, written specifically for the Brentano String Quartet, and was later reworked for full string orchestra. Upon hearing Brentano perform Haydn’s Op. 77 No. 2, Shaw was inspired in particular by the group’s performance of the Minuet and Trio movement. Traditionally a lively dance in triple meter, the minuet and trio often provides an opportunity for levity within otherwise emotionally weighty works. These movements are usually lighthearted and playful, and can often shift agilely from one musical extreme to another.

Captivated by this quality, Shaw sought to capture and expand upon it in Entr’acte. The piece begins in a very recognizable classical style but quickly begins to veer off course. As Shaw describes, “I love the way some music (like the Minuets of Op. 77) suddenly takes you to the other side of Alice’s looking glass, in a kind of absurd, subtle, technicolor transition.” True to this vision, Entr’acte moves through an expanse of musical states and textures, from whimsy to tender melancholy, and even embracing moments of awkward silence. Shaw exaggerates these sudden shifts in color and character, sometimes to the point of the grotesque, inviting the listener on a journey that is at once disorienting, humorous, and inviting.

Knoxville: Summer of 1915 (1947)
Samuel Barber (1910-1981)

Run Time: Approx. 16 minutes

In 1947, American soprano Eleanor Steber approached star American composer Samuel Barber about writing a movement for her to perform with orchestra. For the commission, Barber turned to a text by American Writer James Agee, that recalled a summer evening from his childhood. In the poem, which would later become the prologue to Agee’s “A Death in the Family,” a young boy lies in the grass of his front yard in his hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee. As twilight falls, he observes the world around him—the murmured conversations from porch rockers, the trees, the birds, the distant rumble of a streetcar. The memory is filled with contentment and childhood wonder, but also with sadness; Agee was recalling the last summer before his father died in a tragic car accident. Afterward, his family left Knoxville and never returned. It was a pivotal time in his life, and Knoxville became symbolic of the last of his childhood innocence before everything changed.

Barber felt a great connection to Agee’s text, saying, “I had always admired Mr. Agee’s writing, and this prose-poem particularly struck me because the summer evening he describes in his native southern town reminded me so much of similar evenings when I was a child at home. I found out, after setting this, that Mr. Agee and I are the same age, and the year he described was 1915, when we were both five. You see, it expresses a child’s feeling of loneliness, wonder, and the lack of identity in that marginal world between twilight and sleep.” Agee’s story may have resonated with Barber even more deeply at that time, as his own father was gravely ill. Barber would later dedicate the work to him.

Steber, too, felt the text reflected her childhood memories of growing up in Wheeling, West Virginia. Upon reading the poem, she declared, “That is exactly my childhood!” Perhaps audience members who grew up in Alabama may also find their own childhood memories bubbling to the surface.

Berber’s composition is a work of stunning, visceral nostalgia, and one would be hard pressed to find a more perfect fitting of music and text. Agee’s prose conjures a vivid snapshot of the American south in the early 20th-century. As the young boy sits in the grass, he muses “It has become the time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently.” Barber sets the scene with a meandering folk-inspired melody played by the winds. Long chords in the strings evoke the thick warmth of summer air, while plucked strings and harp gently rock along with the porch-sitters in a swaying rhythmic pulse.

As the evening unfolds, shifts in the musical themes mirror the wandering attention of the child as he observes the surrounding flora, fauna, and machinery. The text itself has a distinct musicality, with descriptions of “garden hoses singing like violins,” and a horse and buggy producing a “hollow iron music on the asphalt.” At one point the boy is startled by “A streetcar raising its iron moan,” and the music responds with a surge of agitation. But as twilight deepens into night, the music softens once again. The boy watches his father readying the house for sleep: “Now is the night one blue dew, my father has drained, now he has coiled the hose.” 

Eventually, the boy lays down in the backyard with his father, mother, uncle, and aunt. At first, he’s excited, but as he begins to contemplate the vastness of the universe and his place in it, he begins to feel alone, desolate, and unsure of who he is. “And who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth, lying on quilts on the grass, in a summer evening, among the sounds of the night.” The feelings linger as he’s finally put to bed.

Symphony No. 4, “Romantic” (1878/1880)
Anton Bruckner (1824-1896)

Run Time: Approx. 70 minutes

Anton Bruckner, born in 1824, was an Austrian composer and organist best known for his expansive symphonies as well as his choral and liturgical works. To fully appreciate Bruckner’s music, it’s important to consider two significant influences on his work.

First, Bruckner was an exceptional organist, and his work was greatly shaped by both the characteristics of the organ and by the church music that makes up much of the instrument’s repertoire.

Unlike other instruments, the organ is unable to naturally taper dynamics; dynamic shifts are therefore achieved mechanically by pushing in or releasing stops. As a result, organ music often features abrupt and dramatic changes in volume and character. This quality is unmistakably present in Bruckner’s orchestral writing. While he does take advantage of the orchestra’s ability to contour dynamics more fluidly, his music frequently shifts suddenly between moments of quiet introspection and overwhelming grandeur.

Bruckner’s writing for the brass section is particularly iconic, marked by bold, radiant chorales that burst forth with joyful abandon. When the brass enters in these towering climaxes—just as thrilling to play as they are to hear—it evokes the feeling of sitting in a great cathedral, reveling in the sonic power of an organ at full tilt.

The key element to consider when listening to Bruckner’s music is his deep adoration for his Austrian and German predecessors and contemporaries. He revered Beethoven, Schubert, Liszt, Mozart, and most especially Wagner–and all their voices can be heard throughout his work. In the Fourth Symphony, however, it is perhaps Beethoven’s influence that stands out most clearly, particularly in the way Bruckner evokes elements of nature.

Given the subtitle “Romantic” by Bruckner himself, the Symphony opens with an expansive horn call. Long associated with the outdoors due to its origins as a hunting instrument, the horn carries a rich symbolic weight in orchestral music. It has often served as a signaling device—from ancient ritual instruments like the shofar, to the post horn announcing the arrival of the mail, or military bugle calls marking the beginning or end of the day. Throughout the symphony, Bruckner taps into all these associations, using the horn to conjure scenes of nature, the hunt, and to announce triumphant arrivals.

Bruckner describes the first movement as a sort of historical snapshot. “Medieval city–Daybreak–Morning calls sound from the city towers–the gates open–On proud horses the knights burst out into the open, the magic of nature envelops them–forest murmurs–bird song–and so the Romantic picture develops further…”

The second movement is a slow, mournful lament, carried by steady, plodding rhythms that give it the character of a funeral march. Yet even within this somber atmosphere, Bruckner cannot resist moments of transcendence: the music builds to a shimmering brass chorale before gently receding back into repose.

The third movement is a vivid evocation of the hunt, driven by bold horn calls that subtly nod to Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony. In the Finale, Bruckner brings the work full circle, returning to the noble horn calls of the first movement—now inverted into a descending figure, as if answering a question first posed at the symphony’s opening. The movement builds, culminating in an earth-shattering conclusion that transforms the symphony’s opening material into a mighty ending.

-Valerie Sly, 2025

Overview

This program features four pieces that were all composed in America in the 20th century. The 20th century was a period of rebuilding and reimagining of symphonic music. In the aftermath of giants like Strauss and Mahler, many were confused about how music would progress. Was there still a place for traditional Western tonality, or had the time come for a new musical language? Composers like Arnold Schoenberg and Paul Hindemith devised entirely new systems for organizing pitches, while John Cage famously challenged the very notion of music with his piece 4’33”. While the United States had been established for nearly 150 years, the 20th century saw the first significant exploration of what an American musical sound might be.

This program highlights three composers who, in the face of uncertainty about music’s direction, elected to give traditional harmony another go, and in doing so, played significant roles in the development of what we have now come to think of as uniquely American orchestral music. These composers blended the rich European traditions of their predecessors with the new sounds of Americana—colored by jazz influences, American folk songs, and eventually, the powerful impact of cinema—to create a unique American musical language, one which would eventually give rise to the iconic Hollywood sound we know today.

As you listen to this program, imagine the musical lineage that leads directly from these works to the iconic film scores you love. For instance, Rachmaninoff’s lush orchestration and emotional depth can be heard in the music of John Williams. Samuel Barber’s famous Adagio for Strings has been used in more than a dozen films from Platoon to Amelie. Leonard Bernstein was equally at home as the internationally renowned conductor of the New York Philharmonic, and one of the preeminent Musical Theatre composers of the mid-20th century.

Second Essay for Orchestra (1942)
Samuel Barber (1910-1981)
Run Time: Approx. 12 minutes

Samuel Barber is one of the most celebrated American composers and, unlike many, he was able to enjoy that acclaim during his lifetime. The Second Essay for Orchestra was written at a time when Barber’s fame was on the rise; Adagio for Strings had been recently premiered, and he was receiving commissions from many top orchestras.

On the same radio broadcast as Adagio’s premiere, Barber’s First Essay for Orchestra was also performed. The piece caught the attention of Bruno Walter, prompting him to commission a similar work for the New York Philharmonic. Barber would eventually complete a Third Essay in 1978.

The Essays are single-movement works, a new model that marked a departure from traditional forms. At the time, most orchestral works that were neither concertos nor ballets still adhered to the long-enduring multi-movement symphonic form. The Essays, in contrast, are tightly crafted, self-contained explorations of a single theme – a concept that felt fresh and modern in the early 20th century, particularly as many composers of the era were expanding the symphonic structure, not contracting it.

The work’s title, Essay, is unique and a bit unusual, but describes the work rather aptly; much as a literary essay introduces a central argument and develops it through supporting points, Barber’s orchestral essay presents a clear musical thesis and continually reinforces it throughout the work. The main theme appears immediately in the opening bars, played by the flute, and is built on fourths and fifths—open, stable harmonies that he frequently employed. These intervals, which evoke a sense of spaciousness and clarity, are hallmarks of the early American orchestral sound and are also frequently employed in film music, often to convey a sense of awe or vastness.

Throughout the piece, Barber demonstrates exceptional skill in thematic development. As the work progresses, this theme is reshaped and reinterpreted through changes in mood, tempo, instrumentation, and texture. Yet, no matter how varied the expression, the motif remains identifiable. It never dissolves into abstraction or meanders off-topic, but instead evolves organically, much like a well-argued essay where the central point is never lost, only refined.

Leonard Bernstein

The modern American orchestra has been shaped by several monumental figures, but perhaps none so much as Leonard Bernstein. While his name recognition may have faded somewhat in the recent decades, films, such as Steven Spielberg’s adaptation of West Side Story and 2023’s Maestro, have helped to reintroduce his legacy to the public. Bernstein was the first American-born conductor to lead a major American orchestra (The New York Philharmonic), his compositions graced both concert halls and Broadway stages, and over the course of his career he won seven Emmy awards, two Tony awards and sixteen Grammys. He was also a dedicated music educator, with broadcasts of his Young People’s Concerts beloved by many. Bernstein’s eloquence in championing the importance of the arts was profound, and he had a deep understanding of why art matters and must endure.

“Art never stopped a war and never got anybody a job. That was never its function. Art cannot change events. But it can change people. It can affect people so that they are changed… because people are changed by art – enriched, ennobled, encouraged – they act in a way that may affect the course of events… by the way they vote, the way they behave, the way they think. It is the artists of the world, the feelers and the thinkers, who will ultimately save us; who can articulate, defy, insist, sing and shout the big dreams.”

-Leonard Bernstein, 1963

Missa Brevis (1988)
Leonard Bernstein (1918-1990)
Run Time: Approx. 9 minutes

Missa Brevis was written in 1988 to commemorate the retirement of long-time Atlanta Symphony Music Director Robert Shaw. Shaw had founded the Atlanta Symphony Chorus in 1970 and by the time of his retirement, it had grown into a nationally acclaimed ensemble

True to its name, Missa Brevis is indeed brief, with some of its movements clocking in at under one minute. The mass follows the full liturgical Ordinary text, with the exception of the “Credo,” which Bernstein chose to omit.

Much of the music was repurposed from Bernstein’s incidental score for Lillian Hellman’s play The Lark, a retelling of Joan of Arc. Because of its subject matter, the music carries distinct medieval and renaissance-era influences. It is sometimes told that Robert Shaw, upon hearing the score, suggested to Bernstein that it might make a good short mass, but this story remains unsubstantiated.

Missa Brevis features a unique orchestration – boy alto soloist, 6-part chorus, timpani and percussion. The influence of medieval plainchant is evident in the way the soloists interact with the rest of the chorus, yet the lively, sometimes punchy, off-kilter rhythms bear an obvious jazz influence, giving the work an energy that might fit into a Broadway musical as comfortably as it does the concert stage.

Chichester Psalms (1965)
Leonard Bernstein (1918-1990)
Run Time: Approx. 20 minutes

Commissioned by Walter Hussey, Dean of Chichester Cathedral in Sussex, Chichester Psalms was premiered in 1965 with Bernstein leading the New York Philharmonic and the Camerata Singers, before receiving its English premiere at Chichester Cathedral. Hussey offered Bernstein free reign in his writing, but he did note that he thought “many of us would be very delighted if there was a hint of West Side Story in it” (West Side Story written in 1957.) Bernstein was happy to comply and added to the work music from West Side Story’s prologue.

Before the premiere, Bernstein—well known for his whimsy—published the following poem in The New York Times, reflecting on the unexpected tonality he had settled on in his composition, and considering the possibility that it may “sicken” supporters of more modern, avant-garde music.

For hours on end, I brooded and mused
On materiae musicae, used and abused;
On aspects of unconventionality, 
Over the death in our time of tonality, …

Pieces for nattering, clucking sopranos
With squadrons of vibraphones, fleets of pianos
Played with forearms, the fists and the palms — 
And then I came up with the Chichester Psalms.

These psalms are a simple and modest affair,
Tonal and tuneful and somewhat square,
Certain to sicken a stout John Cager
With its tonics and triads in E-flat major,

But there it stands — the result of my pondering,
Two long months of avant-garde wandering —
My youngest child, old-fashioned and sweet. 
And he stands on his own two tonal feet.

Despite Leonard Bernstein’s assertion that Chichester Psalms is a “simple and modest affair,” the work is anything but. With its challenging harmonies and intricate rhythmic meters, this composition is a complex challenge for orchestra and chorus. Bernstein, born into a Jewish family, believed that singing brought one closer to God, and this spiritual connection can be deeply felt in the work. Set entirely in Hebrew, the text is extracted from the Old Testament. Each movement includes a complete psalm plus a fragment of another.

Symphonic Dances (1940)
Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873-1943)
Run Time: Approx. 40 Minutes

Sergei Rachmaninoff was born in 1873 in Staraya Russa, Russia. He achieved fame in his lifetime primarily as a virtuoso pianist; in particular, he had very large hands and was able to reach up to a 10th on the keyboard. Although he spent most of his career in Russia, he emigrated to the United States in 1917. Symphonic Dances was the first work he completed in his new country.

As a composer, Rachmaninoff is perhaps best known for his unapologetically lush, emotional melodies. His tunes, often prone to becoming earworms, have been adopted into popular culture, being turned into love songs and used in film. During his lifetime, many critics dismissed his music as overly sentimental, unserious, and too obviously tonal, but his florid melodies have endured, leaving a lasting influence on 21st-century music. Rachmaninoff’s compositions left a particularly large footprint in film scoring, where his characteristic grandiosity and dramatic scope lends itself perfectly to epic storytelling.

To fully appreciate the sweeping scale of Rachmaninoff’s composition, it’s perhaps prudent to consider the events that colored artistic creation at the time of its composition in 1940. The 1930s were marked by extreme human strife, particularly in America. The Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, and the rise of global fascism following WWI were felt heavily by artists. Yet, it was also a period of massive technological innovation, including the first technicolor films and sound films, known as “talkies.” Perhaps as a reaction to these factors, the 1930s saw a burgeoning interest in grandiose, fantastical storytelling which would come to define American arts for the next century. Notable works created during this decade include The Hobbit (1937) and Gone with the Wind (book 1936, film 1939), classic comics like Superman (1938) and Batman (1939), as well as films like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), The Wizard of Oz (1939), and King Kong (1933). Perhaps these outsized stories were a form of escapism badly needed by a demoralized population, or perhaps they were simply a reaction to a leap forward in technology. Either way, Rachmaninoff’s grandiose Symphonic Dances fits perfectly into this artistic landscape.

The first movement features two main themes. The first is built around a three-note descending motive, underscored by an insistent rhythmic pattern. It conveys the swashbuckling spirit of a hero off on a grand adventure. The second theme, in contrast, is more romantic, initially introduced by the saxophone—an unusual feature of the work’s instrumentation. If the sweeping saxophone melody reminds you a bit of the iconic “Across the Stars” music from Star Wars Episode II, you are not alone! Many have speculated that it had a significant influence on John Williams’ renowned score.

The second movement, a minor-keyed waltz, has a distinctly Russian sound to it. Evocative of the types of Russian aristocratic scenes from famous stories like Anna Karenina, it features enigmatic harmonies characteristics of Rachmaninoff’s Russian contemporaries like Prokofiev and Shostakovich, though it remains decidedly more tonal than their works.

The third movement begins with an ominous lament before bursting into fiery action. The placement evokes the traditional 3rd act conflict in a book or movie, with music that feels perfect for an action-packed sword flight. A galloping rhythm drives the action throughout, spurring the hero on. The movement builds relentlessly, maintaining its whirling energy, and ultimately brings the piece to a satisfying conclusion.

– Valerie Sly, 2025

Overview

Richard Strauss and Gustav Mahler are two composers who often occupy the same space in our minds and our textbooks. Born just four years apart in the mid 19th century, both played pivotal roles in the evolution of symphonic music. Many view them as the final figures of Romanticism, ushering in the modern era of composition. Both expanded on traditional symphonic forms, pushing the boundaries of orchestration, scope, and tonality. By the end of their careers, they had stretched western tonality to its limits, leading some to declare that there was nothing left to explore in tonal music, and sparking the modern quest to explore new ways of organizing pitches.

Both composers are known for writing monumental works, some lasting over an hour, exploring grand stories and wringing enormous sound from the orchestra. They were also deeply invested in vocal music, with Strauss composing many operas and Mahler writing numerous song cycles. Both held prominent positions as conductors of major orchestras.

But they differed greatly in their approach to art and life. Strauss gravitated towards epic narratives and myths from Greek and Biblical traditions, while Mahler’s music was more personal, less programmatic, and focused on exploring grand conceptual themes rather than telling stories. Strauss preferred his music to have narrative arch, while Mahler focused more on evoking particular feelings or moods. Strauss’s compositions are intricate and highly contrapuntal, reflecting his technical skill, while Mahler crafted simpler melodies, often drawing from his Jewish roots, and offering an intimate look into his inner world.

Even their personalities contrasted; Strauss was extremely confident in his abilities while Mahler grappled with self-doubt his entire life. Nevertheless, the men had a close, if complex friendship, keeping in regular contact for more than 20 years, and proving on repeated occasions to be staunch advocates for each other’s music. Of their relationship, Mahler once said, “Strauss and I tunnel from opposite sides of the mountain. One day we shall meet.”

In this program, the two great composers ruminate on death. Even in their ends, their paths diverged: Mahler, plagued by health issues, died at just 51, while Strauss lived well into his eighties. Both were born during the active years of Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and other romantic greats, but Strauss lived to see the end of World War II and the profound shifts in the world that accompanied it. Yet in their distinct reflections on mortality, both demonstrate a profound nostalgia, lingering on tender melodies that seem to capture the beauty of a life remembered.

Four Last Songs
Richard Strauss (1864-1949)

Run Time: Approx. 24 minutes

Though it is unclear whether Strauss knew the Four Last Songs would be his final composition, the works—named posthumously for their place in his catalog—are undeniably songs of farewell. Near the end of his life, Strauss had become increasingly unsettled by the rapidly changing world around him. The end of World War II had ushered in new post-romantic tastes, and though his own groundbreaking writing had played a large part in developing this new sound, he felt his own work had become less relevant than it once was. He was also extremely distraught by the destruction of the Munich National Theatre, where his father had once played horn and where he had seen the premieres of many of his own operas. Perhaps aware of his age and growing nostalgic for his earlier years, Strauss turned away from the experimentation that defined his late period and returned to the lush Romanticism of his youth.

His imagination was first captured by the poem “Im Abendrot” (“In the Evening Glow”) by Joseph von Eichendorff, which became the final song in the set, after which he added “Spring,” “September,” and “While going to sleep,” all by Hermann Hesse. Both poets address death with delicate metaphors—the changing of the seasons, the closing of one’s eyes for rest—and Strauss illustrates the texts with an equally light touch, coloring phrases like “Leaf upon leaf drops golden” with gently descending phrases but never becoming overwrought. The songs unfold like a curtain slowly closing on the final act, beginning in “Spring” with energy and a bit of anticipation and gradually laying down in a tranquil slumber.

In the final line of “Im Abendrot”, the soprano asks, “Is this perhaps – Death?” Her question is answered in the orchestra with a quote from Strauss’s own tone poem Death and Transfiguration, written when he was just 20 years old. It’s widely believed that these were the last notes he ever committed to paper. “It’s a funny thing,” he later remarked on his deathbed, “dying is just the way I composed it in Death and Transfiguration.” For a composer whose catalogue includes epic tales like Don Quixote, Alpine Symphony, and A Hero’s Life, in which he casts himself as the swashbuckling protagonist, it seems only fitting that he would compose himself such an exquisitely rendered closing scene.

If readers will indulge a personal note: Four Last Songs appears on the bucket list of many orchestral musicians, including mine. While countless artists have captured the nuances of the human experience, this work occupies a higher plane. The melodies seem to simply float away—heartbreakingly wistful plumes of sound—rising from earth, the sonic embodiment of saying goodbye. One cannot help but hope that Strauss was indeed correct in his assertion that death is just as he composed it.

Symphony No. 5
Gustav Mahler (1860-1911)

Run Time: Approx. 75 Minutes

Mahler once remarked that a symphony should contain the universe. His monumental fifth symphony certainly achieves that lofty goal and offers a snapshot of the composer’s inner universe. Often characterized as a brooding, turbulent man, Mahler certainly reflects his own personality in his music, which consistently reaches the outermost edges of human feeling.

The composition of the Fifth Symphony, which took place between 1901 and 1902, was influenced by two contrasting events. First, Mahler fell seriously ill and nearly died, forcing him to confront his own mortality. Second, he entered a whirlwind courtship with Alma Schindler, whom he married after just four months. Although Mahler generally eschewed narrative arcs in his music, this symphony vividly illustrates the inner turmoil and emotional journey he likely experienced following such a dramatic brush with death.

The work unfolds in five movements, grouped into three parts. Part One, consisting of the first and second movements, begins with a Trauermarsch (Funeral March), announced by a solo trumpet that introduces one of the movement’s most significant themes. The motif, built upon a rhythmic pattern of three fast, repeated notes followed by a longer note (short-short-short-long), bears a striking resemblance to the famous theme from Beethoven’s fifth symphony. These repeated figures, reminiscent of a knock at the door, often evoke the sense of fate or the inevitability of death. The movement develops in this vein, until after another repetition of the trumpet’s opening call, it erupts in a great burst of protestation. But it quickly quells, seeming to resign itself to its fate.

The second movement unfolds in nearly the opposite manner. Clinging to the violent outburst of the first, it the orchestra ignites in a fit of fiery rage before giving way to tender moments of deep longing. However, the calm cannot last, and each time, it succumbs once again to frustration. Strikingly, after the tumult of the preceding movements, Mahler introduces the first moments of triumph and true joy near the end of Part One with a brass chorale. So different is this from anything heard so far that it seems to ask the first hint of a profound question: what is the human response to mortality?

The third movement, which occupies the entirety of Part Two, is the longest of the work. Marked Scherzo, it represents a dramatic shift in mood, offering an exuberant dance inspired by both Austrian peasant dances and the more refined Viennese waltzes Mahler would have conducted. The movement is also a profound expression of his Jewish heritage. Due to the rampant anti-Semitism of the era, Mahler had to convert to Catholicism to assume the position of director at the Vienna State Opera. Nevertheless, his Jewish roots found their way into his music, often in klezmer-inspired melodies, and, in the case of the fifth symphony, the use of the horn section to emulate the shofar. The shofar is an ancient rams-horn instrument used for Jewish rites and is most closely associated with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, during which it is to be sounded 30 times per day. The sound of the horn, for many, is reminiscent of a human cry and is said to be symbolic of the soul’s desire to return to its creator.

The joyful dances begin to spin into a frenzy, becoming untamed and perhaps a bit dangerous until they are interrupted by wild calls passed around the horn section—the sounding of the shofar. As the section falls away, the calls continue in the solo horn, who plays a prominent role throughout the work. Though the call of the horn sounds a bit ominous, the movement on whole is an exuberant declaration of his desire to, in the face of death, turn towards the joy of life. This movement ultimately turns the tide of the entire symphony; everything that follows is colored by a new profound determination to live.

The fourth movement offers a respite from the grand drama of the previous three. It is also one of Mahler’s most well-known and beloved works and is often performed as a standalone piece. It was written as a declaration of love to Alma, whom he married during the work’s composition. Here, all but the strings and harp take rest.

The fifth and final movement begins with a triumphant solo horn, setting the stage for a conclusion bursting with energy. It culminates in a powerful reiteration of the moment of triumph from the second movement, perhaps offering an answer to the question it posed earlier: Yes, indeed, the response to death is an unwavering embrace of life.

The triptych Mahler lays out leaves no doubt that in the face of his brush with death he was deeply shaken but determined to combat the sorrow of mortality with an unrestrained zest for life. While he would go on to experience further tragedy and continue to grapple with these grand existential questions, the Fifth Symphony stands as a triumphant ode to the human spirit.

-Valerie Sly, 2025

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

Gesang der Geister über den Wassern (Song of the Spirits Over the Waters)

Franz Schubert (1797-1828)

Run Time: Approx.  12 minutes

Schubert’s Song of the Spirits Over the Waters is based on the 1779 poem of the same name by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Schubert set more than 80 of Goethe’s texts during his short life, ultimately creating four different versions of this piece, indicating a deep connection to the text.

The poem, which likens the journey of the human spirit to the cycle of water, reflects the profound impact of the Enlightenment on 18th-century artists. Inspired by a newfound understanding of the water cycle, precipitation, and evaporation, Goethe offers a striking allegory for the cyclical nature of the soul’s descent to earth, humanity’s struggles, the intervention of fate, and the ultimate return to heaven.

Echoing Goethe’s use of metaphor, Schubert masterfully employs his unparalleled gift for musical imagery to bring the poet’s words to life. The music unfolds with three symbolic characters: the water, portrayed through the strings; the spirits, captured by the voices; and the wind, represented by the recurring long-short-short rhythm that opens the piece.

The music mirrors the imagery in the text, beginning with a series of cyclical modulations and unexpected harmonic resolutions as the chorus introduces the premise: “The soul of man is like water.” In the opening verses, the voices descend chromatically on the words “from heaven it comes,” then climb again with “to the heavens it climbs,” only to descend once more (And again downward / To earth it must / Eternally changing), portraying the constant ebb and flow of nature’s forces. The strings, too, weave their way up and down, illustrating the perpetual exchange between the heavenly and the earthly.

As the poem progresses, the music conveys the contrast between the agitated, fallen water and its calm, ethereal evaporation—symbolic of earthly turmoil and the reprieve offered by heaven. The cello’s whirling motion, in particular, evokes the foaming turbulence of a whirlpool, representing the trials and struggles of human life. Yet, even as the turmoil is depicted, the music resolves into a more hopeful mood, and the voices begin to float upward once more.

In his final verses, Goethe introduces the character of the wind, likening it to fate, which forever pulls at the soul of man: “Wind is of the waves / A loveable suitor; / Wind rises from the depths / Foaming billows. / Soul of man, / How you are like the water! / Fate of man, / How you are like the wind!” Unlike Goethe, Schubert introduces “fate” in his very first notes, and the motive—long-short-short, long-short-short—is present throughout the work, in both the strings and vocal parts. A popular subject in 18th-century art, fate permeates nearly every measure of the piece, blowing the water off its course—an inescapable force within the human experience.

Symphony No. 41 in C Major, K. 551, “Jupiter”

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Run Time: Approx.  35 minutes

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Symphony No. 41, affectionately known as “Jupiter” (a nickname given later by violinist Johann Peter Salomon), is his longest and final symphony. Composed in rapid succession with the 39th and 40th symphonies during the summer of 1788, this work represents the pinnacle of Mozart’s symphonic output, bringing it to a close with a resounding exclamation point. Its expansive scale would go on to influence many composers, notably paving the way for Ludwig van Beethoven, who, at 18 years old, was a great fan of Mozart’s music.

Written the year before Goethe composed his Song of the Spirits Over the Water, the scope and emotional depth of the work explore the same grand philosophical questions that so captivated Goethe and Schubert. It serves as a prime example of Sturm und Drang—the popular German art movement that emphasized emotional intensity and the individual experience.

The first movement opens with a bold, assertive statement. Confident and insistent throughout, Mozart appears to be showing off a bit, even quoting an earlier aria as a subtle boast of his unmatched skill.

The second movement paints a picture of serene contentment—an emotion Mozart evokes perhaps better than any other composer. However, Mozart disrupts the calm with episodes of undulating turmoil and longing, as the once-stately accompaniment transforms into a nervous, pulsating heartbeat.

The Minuetto offers a lighthearted dance in triple meter, with the woodwinds waltzing in playful conversation with the strings. The movement occasionally builds to a more energetic and boisterous atmosphere but never loses its levity.

The “Jupiter” Symphony is most remarkable for its finale, a fiery Fugato that presents perhaps the grandest of all Mozart’s symphonic conclusions. Mozart bases his main theme on a plainchant melody of unknown origin, dating back at least to the 13th century. He was fond of this theme and used it in several works, including his very first symphony, composed at the age of eight. Did Mozart intend this to be his final symphony? Perhaps he was deliberately bringing closure to his symphonic catalog. This question will go unanswered, as Mozart died in 1791 at the age of 35. However, all records indicate that he did not attempt any further symphonies during the last three and a half years of his life. Regardless, more than 200 years later, the “Jupiter” Symphony remains one of the crowning achievements of the symphonic repertoire, a lasting testament to Mozart’s genius.

La Damoiselle élue (The Blessed Damozel)

Claude Debussy (1862-1918)

Run Time: Approx.  20 minutes

Composed in 1887-1888, La Damoiselle Élue (The Blessed Damozel) is a cantata for soprano and contralto soloists, female chorus, and orchestra, that sets text by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Debussy was an Impressionist composer with a strong interest in the French Symbolist movement. Debussy’s cantata provides both a musical snapshot of the melancholy princess, and a visceral depiction of the emotions surrounding grief. Nearly 100 years after Schubert composed his Song of the Spirits Over the Waters, Debussy offers a further examination of the connection between earth and heaven.

The poem, originally in English, was partially inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, in which a lover, mourning the loss of his beloved, struggles with the painful realization that he can never forget her. Rossetti offers the opposite perspective: the damozel (an archaic form of “damsel”) gazes down from heaven at the love she has left behind, unable to find peace in her divine surroundings, knowing she will never see him again.

La Damoiselle Élue was written during a time in Debussy’s life when he was deeply influenced by the groundbreaking music of Richard Wagner. One of Wagner’s most significant contributions to music was his creation of the leitmotif — a short, recurring musical theme that represents a specific character or idea. One modern composer who makes great use of this technique is John Williams. The ominous Darth Vader theme from Star Wars, or the famous two-note shark theme from Jaws are both fine examples. Debussy incorporates leitmotifs throughout his cantata, but in keeping with his Symbolist tendencies, these motifs—with one exception—represent abstract ideas rather than characters.

Debussy uses four main leitmotifs to convey the story:

The Circling Charm Motive: A cyclical chordal pattern that opens the piece, this motif recurs throughout the cantata. It ultimately shapes the narrator’s phrase, “out of the circling charm,” and brings the piece to a close, completing the musical circle.

The Hope Theme: Introduced first by a chorus of strings, this rising motif expresses the damozel’s hope that she will one day be reunited with her love.

The Damozel’s Theme: Introduced first by a solo flute towards the end of the orchestral prelude, this motif represents the damozel gazing down from her perch in heaven. The high, airy pitch of the flute floating above the orchestra evokes the damozel’s distance, unreachable by earth and her lost love. The theme is echoed by the horn, perhaps symbolizing her lover on earth, calling back to her.

The Wish: Late in the text, the damozel vows to beg Christ to reunite her and her love. The musical representation of this wish, first heard in the opening words of the damozel (soprano), is based on a descending diminished arpeggio — a dark, ominous sounding progression that conveys her melancholy longing. It appears throughout the damozel’s song, but finally resolves at the end, suggesting that Debussy imagined the lovers finally reunited in heaven.

“Polovtsian Dances” from Prince Igor

Alexander Borodin (1833-1887)

Run Time: Approx.  12 minutes

Alexander Borodin was a true Renaissance man: By day, he was a respected chemist, contributing more than 40 papers to the field. By night, he was, along with Mily Balakirev, César Cui, Modest Mussorgsky, and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, a member of the “Mighty Handful,” a group of composers dedicated to creating a distinct Russian sound. He often referred to himself as a “Sunday composer” because of the limited time he had for composition. Despite this, Borodin authored some of Russia’s most beloved music, including his opera, Prince Igor.

Prince Igor tells the story of the titular character, a Russian prince who, along with his son, embarks on a military campaign against the Polovtsians, a nomadic Turkic people from southern Russia. They are eventually captured and imprisoned by Khan Konchak, the leader of the Polovtsians.

In the Opera’s second act, the recently captured Prince Igor is deeply depressed. The Kahn, fascinated by the man he has imprisoned, calls upon his slaves to provide entertainment. Their stories begin as mournful recollections of their lost homelands, but their nostalgia slowly begins to evoke happy memories. They gradually overcome their sorrow, and the music transforms into a lively and whirling dance.

– Valerie Sly, 2025