Egmont Overture (1810)

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

Run Time: Approx. 8 minutes

In the years following the French Revolution, Beethoven was a great admirer of Napoleon Bonaparte. He saw him—as many did at first—as a self-made revolutionary who would bring democracy to Europe. On the cusp of the Napoleonic Wars, Beethoven was completing his third symphony, which he had reverently inscribed with the subtitle “Intitolata Bonaparte.” The story goes that when, in 1804, Beethoven learned that Napoleon had declared himself Emperor of France, the composer flew into a fit of rage, violently scratching “Bonaparte” from the top of his manuscript, and replacing it with the word “Eroica” or “Heroic.” “Now he, too, will tread underfoot all the rights of man,” he declared, and “indulge only his ambition; now he will think himself superior to all men [and] become a tyrant!”

Unfortunately, Beethoven’s original biographers Anton Schindler and Ferdinand Ries were somewhat prone to exaggeration. We can never know if this is what truly happened, although the surviving manuscript certainly bears the evidence of one very scratched out “Bonaparte.”  What we do know is that Beethoven was strongly inclined toward democratic ideas, once writing, “To do good whenever one can, to love liberty above all else, never to deny the truth, even though it be before the throne.”

Beethoven was right to be upset; Napoleon spent the next decade invading all over Europe, including twice in his home of Austria. The 1809 attack on Vienna forced the composer to evacuate, sending him to his brother for refuge, where he spent much of the event with pillows over his ears desperately trying to protect what little remained of his hearing.

Just a few months later, Beethoven was approached to compose the incidental music for a play by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe about the heroic life of Lamoral, count of Egmont from the Low Countries (now known as the Netherlands,) who takes a valiant stand against oppression, laying down his life in the name of liberty. It must have been a no-brainer.

With his overture, Beethoven provides a perfect preparation for Goethe’s politically charged tale. The heavy weight of oppression bears down on the orchestra as it sounds the opening chords—plodding and constrained, the music is wrenched out as if shackled. Sighing figures in the woodwinds impart a sense of lament. When the main theme begins, it’s tentative at first, just the spark of an idea—the faint suggestion that a better world may be possible. Gradually, it gathers energy and strength, becoming a force to be reckoned with, until, in a burst of joy and triumph, it resolves from the minor key in which it began to the major. Now, the plodding figures from the opening have transformed into stately declarations, and a flurry of strings whip the orchestra into an exhilarating and victorious ending.

The work has become symbolic of populist movements all over the world, even serving as an unofficial anthem of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. Valiant brass fanfares proclaim Enlightenment ideals to be victorious above all else. As Patrick Henry put it just 20 years earlier, and half a world away, “Give me liberty or give me death.”

Orchestral Suite No. 4, “Mozartiana” (1887)

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

Run Time: Approx. 26 minutes

In his own program note for the premiere of Mozartiana, Tchaikovsky wrote:  “A great many of Mozart’s short pieces are, for some incomprehensible reason, little known — not only to the public but to musicians as well. The author who has arranged this suite, entitled ‘Mozartiana,’ had in mind to provide a new occasion for the more frequent performance of these pearls of musical art, unpretentious in form, but filled with unrivaled beauties.”

The practice of reworking, re-orchestrating, or otherwise tinkering with the works of fellow composers has existed for as long as music has been written. Sometimes, a reworking bears the stamp of someone who clearly thought he could do it better than the original. That is decidedly not the case here. This reimagining of Mozart’s music is carried out with unmistakable love and reverence, as one would only expect for the composer Tchaikovsky referred to as “my god, Mozart.”

Over the course of the set, Tchaikovsky grows increasingly bold with his interpretations, his own voice appearing more and more as the movements progress. The first two movements are based on two short dance forms: the Gigue in G Major, K 574—which Mozart left inscribed in the guest book of an organist he was visiting in Leipzig—and the Minuet in D major, K 355. Both of these works are sweet on the surface, but they are strikingly ahead of their time, full of bold dissonances that Tchaikovsky eagerly highlights in his orchestration. Here, he remains quite faithful to Mozart’s originals, even scoring them in a manner that could pass for a Classical-era orchestration.

The third movement is based on Mozart’s Ave verum corpus, K 618, originally written for string orchestra and chorus. But for his version, Tchaikovsky turned to an organ arrangement by Franz Liszt. Here, Tchaikovsky begins to loosen his restraints a bit, and this is the first movement of the set that sounds more like Tchaikovsky than Mozart—especially with the use of the harp. The music takes on that unmistakable balletic, almost fairytale quality that Tchaikovsky does so well.

The fourth and final movement is based on a Mozart work that is itself already a reworking of another composer: 10 Variations on the Arietta ‘Unser dummer Pöbel meint’ by Christoph Willibald Gluck. Though Tchaikovsky does not add any new variations of his own, he fully transforms Mozart’s music into the world of the late-Romantic Russian orchestra. By this point, we are entirely within Tchaikovsky’s sound world, complete with grand trumpet fanfares, warmly singing violin solos, and densely layered orchestral textures.

As one final note, Tchaikovsky’s orchestration features the clarinet in a prominent soloistic role, which in itself offers a small nod to Mozart, who loved the instrument and played a significant role in securing its permanent place in the orchestra.

Symphony 3 in F Major, Op. 90 (1883)

Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)

Run Time: Approx. 38 minutes

Johannes Brahms is a somewhat elusive character in music history. He was intensely private about his inner world, burning many personal correspondences, destroying works with which he was not satisfied, and eradicating all evidence of his compositional process. He never married, but he did have a tight-knit circle of friends with whom he shared his life; what we know of the enigmatic composer comes largely from their memories and from letters that did survive. Besides that, we have his music. So, in cases like the Third Symphony, those of us who analyze music get to engage in a fascinating combination of detective work and armchair psychoanalysis. At times, it can feel a bit overreaching, but in a letter to one such friend, Brahms did say, “I speak through my music.” Very well, I will take that as an invitation.

In the summer of 1883, Brahms took up lodging in Wiesbaden, a picturesque city along the Rhine River—not his usual workplace. The Rhine, whose myth-inspiring drama bisects Western Europe from the Alps to the North Sea, had long served as a muse for German artists, and Brahms, always finding inspiration in nature, was no exception. Earlier that spring, he had turned 50, a milestone to be sure, no matter the era. The work is, in my view, one of deep introspection and nostalgia, sprinkled with references to the most important characters in his life, and anchored upon two main ideas. One is the Rhine, which is depicted throughout the work. The other is the musical cryptogram F–A–F, the three notes upon which the entire work is built, and a nod to two of his dearest friends, violinist Joseph Joachim, and composer Robert Schumann.

Thirty years earlier, the up-and-coming young Brahms was introduced to Robert and Clara Schumann by violin superstar Joseph Joachim. The Schumanns were about as close as one could get to a 19th-century musical power couple, with Clara herself an internationally renowned pianist. They immediately recognized the young man’s talent and took him under their wing, inviting him to stay with them in their home in Düsseldorf—another city on the Rhine.

During this time, Robert Schumann organized a collaborative sonata written jointly by himself, Brahms, and another friend Albert Dietrich. Conceived as a gift for Joachim, the sonata was based on the notes F–A–E after Joachim’s personal credo, “Frei aber einsam” (“Free but lonely”). The young Joachim believed that the artist must eschew all attachments in order to properly fulfill his purpose as an artist.

Brahms, for his part, agreed with this notion of the unfettered artist, but felt that this independence led not to isolation, but to fulfillment. As a response, he took on his own motto, “Frei aber froh” (“Free but happy”), which he outlined with the notes F–A–F, which appears in scattered works throughout his life.

Robert Schumann’s mentorship was very meaningful to Brahms, but unfortunately it was cut short by the former’s fraught mental health. Just two years after they met, Robert attempted suicide by jumping into the Rhine. Although he was rescued by fishermen, he never recovered from his breakdown and voluntarily entered an asylum, where he died in 1856. After Robert’s death, Brahms and Clara remained extremely close, her daughter later recalling that it seemed he was always part of the family. Their letters reveal a deep love for each other, but by all accounts they kept their relationship platonic. Many pages could be written about Brahms and Clara Schumann, but that’s a story for another time.

One last figure whose fingerprints can be found throughout the Third Symphony is Richard Wagner. Wagner and Brahms were not well acquainted, but Brahms’s career was largely defined by him—or perhaps more accurately, against him. Music critics had declared a rift in compositional aesthetics that we now affectionately call the “War of the Romantics,” which pitted the progressive Wagner against Brahms’s more conservative tastes. This wasn’t just a theoretical schism; critics and fans who fell into Wagner’s camp would regularly show up to Brahms’s premiers just to boo. But despite their differences, Brahms had great respect for Wagner’s talent, and even possessed a piece of the original manuscript for his opera, Tannhäuser. Wagner, too, has intrinsic ties to the Rhine, having set his monumental Ring Cycle on its waters. In February 1883, just a few months before Brahms arrived in Wiesbaden, Wagner died.

So, what does any of this have to do with the Third Symphony?

The very opening chords of the symphony present Brahms’s signature F–A–F theme, the striking three-note idiom that stretches dramatically skyward as it reaches from the lower F to the upper octave. This figure serves as the primary theme of the first movement, but it is not confined there. It returns throughout the symphony and reemerges in a particularly powerful way at the close of the final movement. Here, Brahms has slightly altered the notes of his credo to F–A-flat–F, which changes the figure from major into minor, and presents one of the principal conflicts of the work: the dichotomy between major and minor. Throughout the piece, the music slips between the two constantly, never able to stay rooted in one for long. Could this struggle between darkness and light, particularly where it colors this extra-musical theme, reveal complex feelings around his chosen life of freedom?

Coming directly out of the opening F–A–F chords, the strings play a descending passage that bears a striking resemblance to the opening of Robert Schumann’s Third Symphony, known as the Rhenish—Rhenish, of course, referring to the Rhine. Next, as the energy begins to lull, Brahms adds a direct quote from Wagner: the siren song from Tannhäuser. It’s even been suggested that the easy, folk-like clarinet solo that follows these chords sounds an awful lot like Liszt’s song “Die Lorelei”, based on the Heine poem about the famous siren of the Rhine. Beneath it all, a constant motion in the accompanying instruments seems almost irresistibly to suggest the rush of water.

With the inclusion of these references, it’s difficult not to wonder if Brahms might have been reflecting on several touchstones in his life—the friendships of his youth, the loss of his mentor, his inescapable rivalry with Wagner, and perhaps above all, his choice to remain alone—all somehow subtly linked to the majestic river on which he now stayed.

The second movement is more tender, but retains that distinctive flow, reminding us that we haven’t strayed far from the water. Clara Schumann described the movement as “pure idyll; I can see the worshipers kneeling about the little forest shrine, I hear the babbling brook and the buzz of insects.” Indeed, there’s a sense of reverence—almost liturgical—in some of the chords, particularly in the movement’s final moments.

The third movement seizes on the C-major chord that concludes the second movement, only to immediately transform it into C-minor, reinforcing the symphony’s central tension between the two. On the surface, it presents as a somber waltz, but the main melody rises and falls with a sweeping motion that swells and ebbs like waves breaking against the shore, perhaps presenting a glimpse of the darker, more dangerous potential of the Rhine.

The symphony’s conclusion begins where the first movement started: in F-minor, presenting an uncertain, agitated, and rhythmically intense version of the F–A–F theme before shifting back to the major. Much of the movement alternates between these two, but in the end, major triumphs as the final iterations of F–A–F, played first in the solo horn, then the strings, are transposed up to a different part of the scale, allowing the theme to fit into the F-major chord—cleverly done! From there, the work closes in quiet reverence, swelling into a final echo of Schumann’s Rhenish theme, the strings oscillating in gently flowing passages beneath tranquil chords in the winds.

Many analyses of this work get caught up in the F–A–F theme, which is understandable; it’s significant, and musical ciphers are undeniably exciting. But I believe the true heart of this symphony is the Rhine. In my view, this is Brahms’s Rhenish Symphony, but it’s not the idyllic fairytale Rhine of Schumann, nor the Gods and Monsters world of Wagner. This is the Rhine of Brahms’s inner world, the vein connecting the pillars of his life: love, loss, solitude, friendship, and above all, art. Or maybe none of that is true. Maybe it’s just a symphony in F-major. As was Brahms’s way, he’s left it up to us to decide.

—Notes by Valerie Sly, 2025

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

 “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