Pavane pour une infante défunte

Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)

Run Time: Approx.  7 minutes

Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte (Pavane for a Dead Princess) was originally written for solo piano in 1899. Ravel revisited the work in 1910, resetting it for orchestra as he did with many of his piano works.

In English, the translated title of “Pavane for a Dead Princess,” usually alludes to somber funeral music, however this translation is somewhat misleading. Ravel’s intended meaning might better translate to something like “bygone princess” or a princess of another era. In discussing the work, Ravel admitted that he chose the words “infante défunte” because he liked how they sounded together, and implored listeners to not “attach any importance to the title. It is not a funeral lament for a dead child, but rather an evocation of the pavane which could have been danced by such a little princess as painted by baroque artist [Diego] Velásquez.”

The pavane to which Ravel refers is a popular court dance of the 16th and 17th centuries. It was a stately couples’ dance characterized by a slow two-step pattern in which lines of female and male dancers weave in and out of one another. In fact, the modern translation of the French word pavane is “strut.” Many have postulated (though Ravel denied it) that the little princess to whom Ravel alludes may have been Margarita Teresa of the House of Hapsburg, who features heavily in Velásquez’s paintings.

Pavane pour une infante défunte has become one of Ravel’s most beloved works and is frequently performed by both pianists and orchestras. The piece highlights both Ravel’s gift for sublime melody and his incredible skill as an orchestrator, evoking at once the unmistakable sound of the French impressionists and the timbres of the baroque era—a bygone musical world. The piece opens with shimmering lines from the horns and woodwinds woven together over pizzicato (plucked) strings, instantly conjuring a regal musical portrait of a young princess from the Spanish Golden age.

 

Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, Op. 37

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

Run Time: Approx. 34 minutes

In the first part of his compositional life, Beethoven diligently studied the works of other masters like Mozart and Haydn. The influence of these classical-era composers is apparent in his earlier music, but shortly after 1800, around his 30th birthday, he began to explore his own more liberal path. His music grew more expansive, he injected more drama, enlarged the orchestra, and began exploring grand humanistic ideas. Sometimes known as Beethoven’s middle period, the years between 1802 and 1812 were extraordinarily productive for the composer, and during this time he produced some of his most famous works including the Eroica (Heroic) Symphony, and the famous Fifth Symphony. The Third Piano Concerto, written in 1803, stems from the early years of this exploration, and showcases some of Beethoven’s first exploration into the grandeur that would come to define his compositional output.

Beethoven selects C-minor for the work, a favorite key of his and one that carries particular weight. Beginning in the Classical Era, certain key centers became associated with specific thematic material; C-minor was often reserved for works of great turbulence and dramatic arc. For Beethoven, the key seems to encompass the depth of human struggle and sorrow, often exuding a particular expressive urgency. Notably, his most famous and turbulent Fifth Symphony also employs this key.

The first movement of the concerto features two diametrically opposed themes. The opening immediately introduces the ominous first theme which increases in insistence throughout the movement until it is finally played by the timpani. The second theme, introduced first by the clarinet, is more serene, a calm answer to the impassioned cries of the opening.

The second movement contrasts the drama of the first with an air of reverence. The piano begins alone with an elegant and understated melody. As with much of Beethoven’s music, the magic is in the harmonies he selects, and with the opening of the second movement, he creates an intimacy that seems to dare the audience to make a sound.

The concerto concludes with a rondo, a lively galloping form typical of the classical concerto. Here, Beethoven returns to C-minor and, like the first movement, alternates between his ominously percolating main theme and episodes of lighthearted, almost humorous music.

 

Overture to Don Giovanni

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Run Time: Approx. 6 minutes

One of Mozart’s most famous operas is a darkly humorous retelling of the legend of Don Giovanni (Don Juan in Spanish), the infamous romantic trickster of Seville. The work features some of Mozart’s most dramatic writing and continues this program’s exploration of opposing musical subjects—light and dark, love and tragedy, and in the case of Mozart’s opera, comedy and menace. Mozart begins with four stormy chords, perhaps offering a glimpse into Don Giovanni’s ultimate fate, before embarking on a romping main theme. His characterization of Don Giovanni as a carefree lothario, flitting about on fast string passages and bright chords is colored often by glimmers of more menacing music, reminding us there is a price to pay for a life lived in pursuit of personal pleasure.

 

Romeo and Juliet Overture-Fantasy

Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

Run Time: Approx. 20 Minutes

Shakespeare’s cherished story of star-crossed lovers has been explored throughout the arts, inspiring countless books, movies, paintings, and, of course, musical compositions. The timeless tale has attracted many composers including Prokofiev, Berlioz, Gounod, and Bernstein. But perhaps the most famous musical retelling is from Tchaikovsky.

One of his greatest works, the ill-fated love story between Romeo and Juliet is vividly borne out in just 20 minutes of music. Tchaikovsky begins the tale with an extended introduction, setting the scene and introducing Friar Lawrence. The somber opening chords played by the woodwinds state the friar’s theme and are written in the style of a four-part church hymn. As Tchaikovsky develops this concept, the tone grows ominous and foreshadowing. The music builds and with a strike of the timpani, transitions into a fiery episode colored by fast passages in the strings and great strikes by the brass and percussion. This new music represents the conflict between the Capulets and the Montagues. Tchaikovsky was a prolific composer of ballet music and here one can clearly envision dancers sashaying across the stage in an epic sword battle.

But the frenetic interlude quickly dissipates, and we finally arrive at the tender love theme between our two main characters. The sweeping melody is brilliantly juxtaposed over a tentative ostinato which echoes the nervous heartbeats of the young lovers. The theme is passed around the orchestra but always played in pairs of instruments, fittingly representing the star-crossed couple’s first encounter.

Soon their moment is interrupted, and the conflict returns, first subtly stated by the horns but then building until it takes over. The two themes continue to chase each other around the orchestra, one interrupting the other as the lovers try desperately to unite amid the turmoil of their circumstances. The conflict grows more persistent and the love theme more desperate until they come to a head—the low strings and percussion bringing the orchestra to a halt with a dramatic descent.

As the story wraps up, Tchaikovsky returns to the music of Friar Lawrence, played once again by the woodwinds. Just as in Shakespeare’s story, the friar finds the pair after Romeo is already dead. When Juliet awakes and the friar realizes what has happened, he leaves her alone with Romeo’s dagger to decide her fate. Here, Tchaikovsky returns us to the tender, aching love theme, uttered one last time by the strings. The music ascends, seeming to float off into the distance, and with a roll and final strike of the timpani, Juliet dies, and the story is over.

 

Don Juan

Richard Strauss (1864-1949)

In 1888, the 24-year-old (but already quite successful) Richard Strauss was conducting a production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni in Munich. Over the course of rehearsals, he became quite taken by the opera’s female lead, Pauline de Ahna, whom he eventually married. Perhaps inspired by the opera and by his own amorous longing, he began work on his own version of the Don Juan legend, based on Nikolaus Lenau’s unfinished play, Don Juans Ende. 

The resulting work is one of the composer’s first forays into the Symphonic Poem, a musical form in which a specific narrative arc is depicted with no adherence to standard musical structures. Strauss would spend the rest of his career expanding on and perfecting the form, eschewing the traditional symphony and ultimately composing ten such poems in total.

In Don Juan, Strauss gets straight to the point, opening with a flurry of notes as the Don bursts onto the scene. After prancing floridly around the orchestra, he comes upon a beautiful woman with whom he is immediately taken, and Strauss introduces the first of several iterations of his love theme. First sounded by the violin, clarinet, and horn together, the melody begins with an ascending major 6th, an interval that has since been used by many composers to depict budding love. To hear an ascending major sixth, simply hum the first two notes of My bonnie Lies Over the Ocean. After the rising interval, Strauss pauses briefly—a small catch of the breath as the couple meets. Perhaps in a nod to Strauss, John Williams begins his iconic Han Solo and the Princess theme with the exact same figure.

As the story progresses, Strauss winds his themes together, the music becoming increasingly more passionate. But the climate is unexpectedly dark, perhaps hinting at Don Juan’s fate, or suggesting that his continued pursuit of pleasure is ultimately fleeting and unfulfilling.

Nevertheless, he presses on and soon encounters his next romantic entanglement, played tenderly by the solo oboe. Though Strauss never offered explicit narration, many believe that this iteration may be Donna Anna, the only woman with whom, in many versions of the legend, Don Juan had a true emotional connection. But the Don ultimately balks at their connection, interrupting the detente with an even more insistent hero theme played by four horns in unison.

The music then begins to spin out of control as Don Juan’s exploits get out of hand. People are starting to catch on to him, and he must continually elude angry fathers and husbands. The English horn reiterates the main love theme, but this time in a haunting minor. Perhaps his escapades have lost their delight?

Eventually, Don Juan tires of his endless cycle of seduction and allows himself to be bested in a duel by the father of one of his lovers. Unlike Mozart’s version of the story, Strauss forgoes the famous Last Supper scene in which the avenging ghost of the Commendatore drags him to hell. Instead, Strauss allows Don Juan to die a relatively peaceful death as trembling strings fade into two final, eerie chords.

Like many of Strauss’s scores, Don Juan is devilishly challenging for the orchestra. Famously, after a rehearsal for the premiere, one of the horn players cried, “Dear God! What sin have we committed for You to send us this rod for our backs!” Today, the work is a favorite for orchestral auditions, and just about every musician on stage will have played some passage from it as part of their audition for the ASO.

– Valerie Sly, 2024

Brandenburg Concerto No. 5, BWV 1050

Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)

 

Runtime: Approx. 19 minutes

The Baroque period was an era of rapid growth and innovation in both music and other arts. Commonly recognized as 1600 to 1750, the era shepherded music through a journey from relatively simple polyphony into an astonishing array of complex forms, counterpoint, and sophisticated harmony. Many of the techniques that continue to define musical composition today originated in the Baroque period, such as the use of key centers, and many standard forms, like the concerto, came to prominence in this era. Virtuosity, too, found a foothold in the early Baroque period as art became more ornate and expansive. If you’ve ever enjoyed watching Jimmy Page shred a guitar solo or Yuja Wang perfectly execute a cadenza, you must in part thank the Baroque-era composers for producing that practice.

Like any language, Western tonality — the way we choose to divide the octave in the West — has grammatical rules. Over the different musical periods, the rules have shifted just as our language has changed. In English, for example, words cannot simply be arranged in whatever fashion tickles one’s fancy. Rules exist which govern the order that nouns, verbs, and prepositions may be placed. In Western tonal music, similarly complex rules govern how harmonies should be linked and in what order they should occur, and any of the rules we still adhere to in music today were created in the Baroque period. But just as understanding grammatical rules does not grant the ability to write a novel in beautiful prose, understanding the structure of musical language does not a composer make. Maneuvering the rules of tonal harmony into appealing and virtuosic music requires incredible skill.

Arguably no composer was more skilled than Johann Sebastian Bach. Born into a family of musicians, Bach’s early life was deeply colored by tragedy. He was orphaned at the age of nine, and later lost his first wife unexpectedly. Growing up in Protestant Lutheran northern Germany, Bach believed, like Martin Luther, that music was a gift from God and an essential and powerful means of praise.

Whether or not Bach was truly the greatest composer who ever lived, what is certain is that he played a significant and lasting role in the development of Baroque music, and all subsequent Western art music. So important was Bach to music history and development that it is generally accepted that the Baroque musical era ended in 1750, the same year as Bach’s death.

Like many groundbreaking artists, Bach was underappreciated in his lifetime and he never saw much of his music performed. Although his music didn’t enter the popular zeitgeist until long after his death — the now famous Brandenburg Concertos, for example, were discovered in a library nearly 150 years after his death —  he was hugely influential to successive composers such as Beethoven and Mozart.

But what makes Bach so great? His music is bewildering both in its complexity and density as well as its emotional breadth. He was extremely harmonically sophisticated, employing sonorities not commonly seen until nearly the 20th century. He was also a master of counterpoint — the way independent lines play against each other. In chordal harmony, (think voice and piano, for example) a melodic line is colored by accompanying chords. In counterpoint, multiple voices, all melodic themselves, are juxtaposed against each other, resulting in horizontal harmonies. Bach was a master of weaving such voices together, sometimes even hiding additional melodies within the resulting harmonies, and creating intricate musical puzzles that fit together to produce exquisite and highly emotional works. The English author Douglas Adams perhaps put it best when he said “Beethoven tells you what it’s like to be Beethoven and Mozart tells you what it’s like to be human. Bach tells you what it’s like to be the universe.”

Bach was also a remarkable improviser, which may be why many prominent Jazz artists also cite him as a significant influence. Simply put, no other composer before or since has earned the adoration of such a wide range of subsequent artists. He is to hundreds of years of composers what The Beatles were to rock bands, except that Bach’s influence also extends to The Beatles.

Not much is known about the circumstances surrounding the writing of the Brandenburg Concertos. The pieces were composed separately but sent as a collection to Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg-Schwedt. While the exact reason behind the musical offering is unconfirmed, historians have guessed that Bach was simply looking for a job and sent along a musical resume.

The instrumentation — solo violin and flute, orchestrated over obbligato harpsichord and strings — may appear odd, but it was typical of the time for a composer to simply write for the musicians who were currently in residence at court. Bach’s deft orchestration highlights the unique characteristics of each instrument and ensures that each voice shines through the dense texture. The three movements follow the typical fast-slow-fast form with the center movement scored for soloists alone.

All the aforementioned qualities of Bach’s writing are on sparkling display in all six of the Brandenburg Concertos, with No. 5 providing a compelling example of both the stunning emotional range and razor-sharp skill that defines his music.

– Valerie Sly, 2024

 

 

 

Birmingham Concerto No. 1

Brian Raphael Nabors (b. 1991)

 

Birmingham Concerto No.1 is a significant move in an ongoing commitment to create a catalogue of contemporary Classical art music “home-grown” in Alabama. Birmingham Concerto I is the culmination of about twenty months of work from the advent of the concept to the debut performance. In the summer of 2023, Music Director Carlos Izcaray and I began to be interested in commissioning new works that will function as companion pieces to five of J.S. Bach’s Brandenburg Concerti. This number of companion pieces is significant because an illustrious prototype for pairing Bach with a new piece has been around for almost 100 years.

This existing (sixth) companion is Stravinsky’s Concerto in E-flat, inscribed “Dumbarton Oaks.” “Dumbarton Oaks” was commissioned in 1937 by Mr. & Mrs. Robert Woods Bliss, an eminent American couple who held salon events regularly at their Washington, D.C. estate, named Dumbarton Oaks. Igor Stravinsky wrote “Dumbarton Oaks” to function as a companion to Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. He hoped the piece would inspire new appreciation for the old master (Bach), and he intended the piece as a gesture of respect, a love letter, to Bach. Bach can easily be regarded as the father of Western music as his mastery of fugal textures and contrapuntal writing is imitated daily while seldom matched.

Birmingham Concerto I is a part of ASO’s multi-year exploration of the Brandenburg Concertos. In recent years, the orchestra has offered Concertos Nos. 2 and 6. For our December 5 concert, we offer Brandenburg No. 5 with its complement (Birmingham No. 1), both of which feature performances by Concertmaster Daniel Szasz and Principal Flautist Lisa Wienhold. The Orchestra is joined by guest keyboardist Dr. Lester Seigel on harpsichord.

It is our hope over the next few seasons to offer Brandenburg Concertos Nos. 1 and 4 as well as to commission companions for these pieces. Eventually the orchestra would like to offer the six Brandenburg Concerti, three newly composed Birmingham Concerti, and “Dumbarton Oaks” in festive concert together at UAB’s Alys Stephens Center. The continued championing of our artistic endeavors by the Mr. and Mrs. William J. Rushton, IV Sound Investment Series will be invaluable as we achieve these goals.

– Clay A. McCollum, Director of Artistic Administration

 

Word of Thanks

I am elated to once again work with my amazing hometown artistic collaborators, the Alabama Symphony Orchestra. It has been an honor to be a part of many beautiful concerts, projects, and initiatives that continue to enhance the artistic vibrancy of our Birmingham community. This season, I’d like to extend a special thanks to the members of the Mr. and Mrs. William J. Rushton, IV Sound Investment Series for their support in bringing our new work, Birmingham Concerto No. 1, to fruition. Thank you to ASO President Mark Patrick, Music Director Carlos Izcaray, musicians, staff, and patrons who continue to bring world class experiences to our region.

– Brian Raphael Nabors

 

 

 

Ancient Airs and Dances, Suite No. 1

Ottorino Respighi (1879-1936)

 

Runtime: Approx. 17 minutes

Ottorino Respighi was a composer, violinist, and musicologist best known for his exuberant trilogy of tone poems, Pines of Rome, Fountains of Rome, and Roman Festivals. Writing and playing in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, much of Respighi’s compositional output adheres well to the expected sounds of late Romantic music with its overt emotional scope, large scale, and narrative arch. But there was a growing interest during the early part of the 20th century in looking back at music from the distant past. Up until this time, orchestras were mostly interested in performing the compositions of contemporary composers and commissioning new works. The practice of treating arts organizations essentially as live museums, presenting works from a huge range of historical periods did not begin until the late 1800s.

This historical reflection gave rise to an arts movement known as neo-classicism. Also sometimes referred to as the “Back to Bach” movement, the backward reach extends beyond just the Classical era and can include music influenced by Baroque and Renaissance writing as well. Neo-classisicm generally refers to music that uses elements from pre-romantic eras, but sets them in an unmistakably modern way.

The three Ancient Airs and Dances suites were born out of Respighi’s interest in late Renaissance lute music. In Suite No. 1, he borrows several existing melodies from that period and sets them for a modern orchestration. While many neo-classical composers went so far as to drastically alter the harmonic and rhythmic elements of the music, Respighi opts to preserve nearly all of the melodic source material, choosing instead to explore the sound of early music played on truly modern instruments in a modern-sized ensemble. He does, however, opt to use Harpsichord rather than piano, an instrument that was mostly unused by the 20th century, and one that instantly evokes the sound of eras past.

The first movement, Belletto detto Il Conte Orlando, is taken from a work dating from 1599 by Italian composer Simone Molinaro. It begins in a stately fashion with the full orchestra playing a melody evocative of 16th century court life.

The second movement, Gagliarda, is a setting of a piece written in the 1550s by Vincenzo Galilei, father of the famous Galileo Galilei. The galliard, as it is known in English, was a popular dance of the Renaissance and early Baroque periods.

The lovely and poignant third movement is based on a renaissance-era lute piece by an unknown composer. It begins with a singing oboe melody that is later harmonized and then taken over by the strings. The harp colors the movement throughout with broken chords slightly evocative of early strummed string instruments like the lute.

The piece concludes with the lively Passo mezzo e mascherada. This movement is based on two forms, the passo mezzo, an Italian folk dance, and the mascherada, music intended for use at masquerade balls. In this movement, the regal sounding masquerade music is juxtaposed with the more earthy folk dance melodies to create a whirlwind of energy. Here, Resphigi introduces a single trumpet to the tapestry. The trumpet was an entirely outdoor instrument until very late in the Baroque period. Respighi holds true to his source material in this way by saving the instrument for movements that would most likely have originated as outdoor music.

Perhaps Respighi’s interest in music of the past was in part due to his broad personal interests. In an increasingly specialized 20th century world, he was somewhat of a renaissance man. A self-taught pianist, he developed a keen interest in geography and science, collected books, and became fluent in eleven languages, all of which he read in. Whatever sparked Respighi’s curiosity, what is certain is the lasting influence of early music on subsequent artists, which continues still today.

 

– Valerie Sly, 2024

Leonore Overture, No. 3 (1806)
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

Runtime: Approx. 13 minutes

Beethoven wrote only one opera during his storied career, and it isn’t terribly difficult to see why. The writing of Fidelio, which occupied about ten years of Beethoven’s life, was enough to make him swear off the genre for good. By the time of the final version’s premiere in 1814, the opera had gone through extensive rewrites, multiple editions of its libretto, two different titles, and no fewer than four overtures. Leonore Overture No. 3 is, unsurprisingly, the third such version and takes its name from Fidelio’s original, understandably replaced title, Leonore, or the Triumph of Marital Love.

The plot of Fidelio revolves around the themes of justice and triumph over tyranny, ideals that echoed Beethoven’s personal and political outlook during the Napoleonic years. The plot follows the heroine Leonore as she disguises herself as a man named “Fidelio” in order to rescue her husband Florestan from political imprisonment and execution.

Beethoven felt this iteration of the overture was too grand and overshadowed the opening music of the opera, so he removed it and repurposed it as a standalone work. While the fourth and final version of the overture to Fidelio contains no narrative or thematic connections to the opera proper, Leonore Overture No. 3 can be seen as a sort of micro-version of the full drama. The opening music sets the scene of Florestan’s prison cell, and much of the motivic material that follows is derived from his grand second-act aria. About half-way through, an offstage trumpet call sounds, signaling to Florestan that someone is coming to his rescue. A tender chorale is played by the woodwinds as Florestan realizes it was his beloved Leonore who came to his aid, and then the orchestra takes off in a gallant celebration of Florestan’s newfound freedom.

Symphony No. 8 in F Major, Op. 93 (1812)
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

Runtime: Approx. 26 minutes

By the time Beethoven began composing his Eighth Symphony, he had already made several significant contributions to the symphonic genre. His Third, “Eroica” (Heroic), expanded both the size of the orchestra and the duration of the symphony. His famous Fifth and Seventh pushed the limits of symphonic drama, and his Sixth, the “Pastoral,” introduced the idea of narrative to the symphonic form. However, one of Beethoven’s most important changes to the symphony was his abandonment of the classical Minuet and Trio movement in favor of the Scherzo.

Scherzo, which translates from Italian to “joke,” is similar to the Minuet and Trio form in that they are both lighter movements set in a triple meter. But while the Minuet and Trio has the air of an elegant dance, the Scherzo is a faster, more frenetic scheme in which the composer can jerk the audience around, pulling musical pranks and generally thwarting expectations with surprising rhythms and sudden dynamic changes.

In the Eighth Symphony, Beethoven seems to apply the concept of “Scherzo” to the entire work. Significantly shorter and more concise than any of his symphonies since the Third, he forgoes an introduction and instead jumps right into an enthusiastic main theme. But only a few measures into his exposition, the music comes to a halt and abruptly takes on a more contemplative tone. Beethoven continues toying with the listener’s expectations throughout each of the work’s four movements, flitting from exuberance, to levity, to somber contemplation in quick succession. But perhaps the grandest joke of the entire work is Beethoven’s choice to omit his beloved Scherzo movement and return to the long-abandoned Minuet and Trio for the work’s third movement, a template he hadn’t used in nearly ten years.

Perhaps with his Eighth Symphony, Beethoven was proclaiming that he could subvert any expectations of what his music would be, even those he constructed himself. Or perhaps he had so mastered the form that he could spin or the symphony into whatever he desired, even a bit of a joke on the audience. Either way, Beethoven’s Eighth shows us a less serious side of the composer who is so often depicted as glaring out from his portraits with taciturn seriousness.

Concerto for Orchestra (1943)
Béla Bartók (1881-1945)

Runtime: Approx. 38 minutes

Perhaps Bartok’s most beloved work, Concerto for Orchestra was produced at a very difficult time in the composer’s life. He was ill with what would eventually be diagnosed as leukemia, he and his wife had recently been forced to flee their home in Hungary from Nazi occupation, and, due to the ongoing war, paid commissions had become extremely rare. Finally, after a long period without writing, he received a commission from Serge Koussevitzky, Music Director of the Boston Symphony.

The title, Concerto for Orchestra, is used in only a few other works, all from 20th century composers. Here, Bartók treats the orchestra not only as a mechanism for carrying out tunes, but as an amalgam of different and excitingly colored instruments, each deserving to be highlighted for their own unique characteristics. He passes melodies around the group like a painter trying to incorporate every possible color. No instrument is restricted only to supportive roles, and nearly every sound possibility for each instrument is explored.

Despite Bartók’s rich and progressive use of the orchestra, the work is quite accessible. Bartók’s melodies are often inspired by folk music from his beloved Hungary and are infused with a spectrum of emotion perhaps only made possible by the unique circumstances of his life.

The piece is organized into a musical palindrome which centers around the striking third movement. In his program note from the premiere, Bartók described the central movement as a “death-song.” It is surrounded on either side by two scherzos, and then finally bookended by the more robust outer movements.

The first movement is typical of the orchestral form; after a slow introduction, Bartók embarks on a fast-paced, insistent theme which is then juxtaposed with a gentler second melody lead by the oboe.

For his second movement, “Game of Pairs,” Bartók marks Allegro scherzando, or literally translated, “cheerful, joking.” Here, the musical joke happens in the intervals between the pairs of instruments passing around the melody. He begins innocently enough with the bassoons stating the melody in sixths followed by the oboes in thirds—two harmonies which feel quite secure to most ears. But soon things start to get a bit off: two clarinets enter in sevenths, sounding a bit off-kilter, then flutes in fifths, an awkward and hollow harmony, and finally two muted trumpets in crunchy seconds—perhaps one of them is playing the wrong notes? A brass chorale intervenes, offering a moment’s respite from the gag, but soon enough the pairs return.

The fourth movement, “Interrupted Intermezzo,” gets up to even more mischief than the second. It begins with a wistful melody in the woodwinds, but the meter changes nearly every measure, lending it a limping, tipsy quality. As the strings enter, the tune expands into a broader, mournful theme, but the moment is fleeting, and the oboe quickly resumes its pensive motif. The first interruption comes in the form of a quotation lifted from Franz Lehár’s operetta, The Merry Widow. The clarinet enters with the whimsical melody accompanied by march-like off beats in the strings and begins to speed up, growing in confidence, but is again interrupted, this time by aggressive trills in the woodwinds followed by farcical exclamation from the trombones. For a few moments, the various themes compete for attention before the music is finally allowed to return to its melancholy woodwind songs—but The Merry Widow manages to get in one quick final word.

After a boisterous fanfare from the horns, the fifth and final movement takes off in a flurry of perpetual motion that builds to a triumphant theme led by regal calls in the trumpets. It veers off course only for a few moments to allow the woodwinds to explore a fugue on the theme presented by the horns but is urged back to its original course by the insistent brass in a grand restatement of their earlier melody.

Bartók’s own program notes stated that “the general mood of the work represents… a gradual transition from the sternness of the first movement and the lugubrious death-song of the third, to the life-assertion of the last one…” Indeed, the writing of Concerto for Orchestra seemed to give the ailing composer renewed energy at the end of his life. Fortunately, he was able to attend the premiere just nine months before his death. “We went there for the rehearsals and performances,” Bartók wrote of the experience, “after having obtained the grudgingly granted permission of my doctor for this trip…The performance was excellent. Koussevitzky says it is the ‘best orchestra piece of the last 25 years’ (including the works of his idol, Shostakovich!).”

Fanfare from La Péri (1912)
Paul Dukas (1865-1935)

Runtime: Approx. 3 minutes

Paul Dukas was a French composer, teacher, and music critic, known in his lifetime as an excellent composer and a particularly deft orchestrator. But today he has become what we might affectionately term a one-hit-wonder after Disney’s popular adaptation of his symphonic poem, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, launched the work into the popular zeitgeist. Dukas’ rather small catalog of enduring works was partially of his own making; he was exceptionally self-critical and destroyed much of his music later in life for fear that it wasn’t good enough. La Péri was nearly one of those lost works, but he was ultimately persuaded by a friend to allow the piece to remain.

La Péri is a one-act ballet written originally for Paris’s famed Ballet Russes, and was to feature the company’s star danseur Vaslav Nijinsky alongside ballerina Natalia Trouhanova. Unfortunately, the Ballet’s director Sergei Diaghilev felt that Trouhanova’s dancing was not strong enough to feature alongside the famous Nijinsky and the production was canceled. The work was finally given its premiere a year later by the Théâtre du Châtelet and starred Trouhanova and another male lead.

The Fanfare was added after the completion of the rest of the music and mostly served to startle and hopefully quiet down the typically rowdy 1912 audience. Just three minutes long, it uses only the orchestra’s brass section and is perhaps Dukes’ only work that comes close to rivaling The Sorcerer’s Apprentice in popularity, frequently serving the same purpose in today’s concert halls for which it was originally intended: to start the show.

In addition to composing, Dukas taught both orchestration and later composition at the Paris conservatory where his pupils included significant young composers Maurice Duruflé, Olivier Messiaen, and Manuel Ponce. He also wrote extensively as a music critic and scholar, authoring some of the most thorough essays written on the music of Rameau, Gluck, and the composer featured on our second half, Hector Berlioz.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (1897)
Paul Dukas (1865-1935)

Runtime: Approx. 11 minutes

Most people will immediately recognize The Sorcerer’s Apprentice from Disney’s Fantasia, but may be surprised to learn that the beloved animation comes exceptionally close to Dukas’ original conception of the story. The work is based on German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s “Der Zauberlehrling” (“The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”), a popular setting of a long-enduring folk tale. The cautionary tale about a young magic student who creates havoc when he tries to cut corners on his chores by enchanting his broomstick has become well-known in German speaking countries. One particularly keen line—“The spirits that I summoned / I now cannot rid myself of again”—has even earned its place as a popular adage.

Premiered in 1897, (exactly 100 years after the publication of Goethe’s ballad) Dukas’ symphonic poem is a textbook example of “programmatic music,” an approach to composition that was rapidly gaining ground during the Romantic era. In a charge led by Richard Wagner and his contemporaries, proponents of programmatic music sought to move away from traditional symphonic forms in favor of music that carried a narrative arch. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice does just that, depicting each of Goethe’s turns of phrase through deft musical painting.

At the beginning of the piece, the sorcerer’s apprentice is left alone in his master’s workshop with the mundane task of fetching water from the well. Right from the beginning, the water is reflected in a gently cascading downward melody played by the violins. The drudgery of the chore and the boredom of the apprentice is borne out by a slow iteration of what will soon become the main melody, first played by the clarinet, and then echoed by the oboe and flute. Abruptly, a short burst of energy chimes from the woodwinds as the apprentice gets the first spark of his mischievous plan; he will enchant a broom into doing his chores for him—what could go wrong? He takes a quiet moment to think it through (though perhaps not long enough), heard in the contemplative flute melody and restated by the horn. Then, he gets to work, setting in motion magic he doesn’t fully understand. The music builds to a final strike on the timpani, and the spell is cast.

He waits in silence to see if it worked, and finally the broom starts to twitch. After a few moments testing out its newfound mobility, it sets about on its task, marched along by the bassoons. The apprentice is quite pleased with himself, and the orchestra steadily trots along as the broom dutifully completes its work. With the chores finished, the apprentice commands the broom to stop, but it continues on. The orchestra begins to pick up speed as the broom continues pouring more water into the now overflowing basin. Things become more and more desperate as water begins to flood the room. The trumpets sound dissonant chords as he desperately tries various magical commands to neutralize the broom, but nothing works. Not knowing what else to do, he grabs an ax, and with four explosive crashes in the orchestra, he chops the broom in half. Finally, all is quiet.

The apprentice thinks he’s out of the woods, but the disparate pieces of the broom stir to life once more as the bassoons and clarinets restart their diabolical dance. Each shard of the axed appliance has formed into a brand new broom and set about gathering more water. The room continues to flood, now exponentially faster as the music spins out of control. The apprentice is panicking, the workshop is in chaos, and everything is soaking wet. At the height of the madness, the sorcerer bursts through the door. The orchestra erupts into five final enormous crashes as the sorcerer takes command of the situation. When the broom is once again still and the water recedes, the now sheepish apprentice, rendered by a muted, tender orchestration, glances up at his teacher in shame. But the final mischievous chords make us wonder whether he has really learned his lesson.

Disney’s version of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice was originally conceived as a standalone short film and was recorded separately from the rest of the Fantasia soundtrack, which was added later. Famed Philadelphia Orchestra conductor Leopold Stokowski led Hollywood studio musicians in a three-hour recording session that began at midnight (the musicians were more alert late at night, or so claimed Stokowski.) The resulting short film produced the term “Mickey Mousing”—a film technique where music is precisely timed with actions on screen. Disney’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice became so beloved and iconic that it was the only short from the original film to also be included in its successor, Fantasia 2000.

Piano Concerto (2024 World Premiere)
Carlos Izcaray

Program notes to come from Carlos Izcaray soon!

Symphonie fantastique, Op. 14 (1830)
Hector Berlioz (1803-1869)

Runtime: Approx. 50 minutes

This concert’s exploration of programmatic music continues with Berlioz’s celebrated masterpiece, Symphonie fantastique. Berlioz was, for lack of a better word, a Beethoven super-fan, joining a long list of composers who revered and paid tribute to the composer, including Camille Saint-Saëns as discussed on our previous masterworks series concert. Beethoven is often considered to be the originator of the programmatic symphony with his groundbreaking depiction of various nature scenes in his Sixth Symphony, the “Pastoral.” Coincidentally (or perhaps not), the Pastoral Symphony appears alongside The Sorcerer’s Apprentice in Disney’s original Fantasia, and Berlioz pays homage to Beethoven in his work by adding an unusual fifth movement to the normally four-movement symphonic form, just as Beethoven did in the Pastoral.

In discussing Symphonie fantastique for his beloved Young People’s Concerts, conductor Leonard Bernstein declared it to be “the first psychedelic symphony in history…written one hundred thirty-odd years before the Beatles.” The semi-autobiographical story follows a lovesick artist who has poisoned himself with opium after his advances are rejected by the object of his adoration. In real life, Berlioz was desperately in love with Shakesperian Actress Harriet Smithson, whom he had never met but had seen performing in the role of Ophelia. He became obsessed with the actress and began to persistently send her letters, all of which she ignored until several years after the work’s premiere.

The Symphonie follows the artist down his drug-fueled rabbit hole, from a scene at a ball to the countryside where his idyllic fantasy is startlingly interrupted by a march to the scaffold for his own execution. It is then once again supplanted by a scene at a Witches’ Sabbath, the music whirling ever faster into a bacchanalia that conjures images akin to Heironymus Bosch’s famous painting, The Garden of Earthly Delights.

Berlioz provided his own program notes, which he instructed are to be read alongside the performance like the lyrics of a song. Prior to reading his notes, it may be useful to offer a bit of insight into some of the terminology Berlioz uses, which, at the time of its writing, might have been more commonly known.

Idée Fixe – In psychology, an idée fixe is a preoccupation of the mind—an idea that one cannot help but dwell on and return to over and over despite attempts to refocus. In music, it takes the form of a recurrent melody that represents a foundational idea to the work. The melody returns throughout the piece, played by different instruments, often interrupting other melodic ideas just as intrusive thoughts pop up in our own minds.

In Berlioz’s work, the idée fixe represents the object of his obsessional love, and appears for the first time about six minutes into the work after an extended introduction. Bernstein describes it as “haunting the symphony; wherever the music goes, she keeps intruding and interrupting, returning in endless forms and shapes.” In the introduction, which sets up the premise of the story, a reluctant protagonist first spots his love and the strings and woodwinds play halting, tentative melodies that build into flourishing excitement as his interest grows. One can almost taste the excitement and passion of early love. But passion soon morphs into a melancholic yearning as the artist’s affections go unreciprocated. The introduction culminates in two great, striking chords, echoed by two softer ones, after which the idée fixe is first presented by the violins. The deftly shaped tune first rises hopefully, pauses, and then rises once more before tumbling back down, echoing the dramatic arch of the artist’s longing and ultimate disappointment. Different iterations of the idée fixe melody can be heard in each of the work’s five movements as the artist’s obsessive love continues to haunt him, even after his own death.

Dies Irae – “Dies irae” (“day of wrath”) comes to us from the Requiem Mass, but in the case of Berlioz’s work, the “Dies irae” references a particular melodic setting of the text that likely dates back to the 16th century. The short melody has become a frequently used musical symbol of doom and the macabre and is quoted in a myriad of works, from composers like Holst and Mahler to movie soundtracks for The Shining, Nightmare Before Christmas, The Lion King, and Danny Elfman’s Batman. It appears in the final movement of Symphonie fantastique, first as a haunting chorale played by the trombones and tuba, then joined by the rest of the brass, creating a stately and persistent platform on which the witches (woodwinds and percussion) gleefully dance. It returns at several points in the final movement, perhaps supplanting the original love theme as a new idée fixe.

On a somewhat happier note, Harriet Smithson did eventually take notice of Berlioz’s affections. Two years after the premier of Symphonie fantastique, Smithson attended a performance of the work’s less-performed sequel, Lélio, and realized that the compositions were indeed about her. She wrote to the composer, finally agreeing to meet him, and the two were married in 1833.

In his final summation of the work, Bernstein quips, “I can’t honestly tell you that we have gone through the fires of hell with our hero and come out nobler and wiser, but that’s the way it is with trips, and Berlioz tells it like it is…You take a trip, you wind up screaming at your own funeral.”

– Valerie Sly, 2024

Read Symphonie fantastique in the composer’s own words, from the 1845 edition of the score:

Part one
Daydreams, passions

The author imagines that a young musician, afflicted by the sickness of spirit which a famous writer has called the vagueness of passions (le vague des passions), sees for the first time a woman who unites all the charms of the ideal person his imagination was dreaming of, and falls desperately in love with her. By a strange anomaly, the beloved image never presents itself to the artist’s mind without being associated with a musical idea, in which he recognises a certain quality of passion, but endowed with the nobility and shyness which he credits to the object of his love.

This melodic image and its model keep haunting him ceaselessly like a double idée fixe. This explains the constant recurrence in all the movements of the symphony of the melody which launches the first allegro. The transitions from this state of dreamy melancholy, interrupted by occasional upsurges of aimless joy, to delirious passion, with its outbursts of fury and jealousy, its returns of tenderness, its tears, its religious consolations – all this forms the subject of the first movement.

Part two
A ball

The artist finds himself in the most diverse situations in life, in the tumult of a festive party, in the peaceful contemplation of the beautiful sights of nature, yet everywhere, whether in town or in the countryside, the beloved image keeps haunting him and throws his spirit into confusion.

Part three
Scene in the countryside

One evening in the countryside he hears two shepherds in the distance dialoguing with their ‘ranz des vaches’; this pastoral duet, the setting, the gentle rustling of the trees in the wind, some causes for hope that he has recently conceived, all conspire to restore to his heart an unaccustomed feeling of calm and to give to his thoughts a happier coloring. He broods on his loneliness, and hopes that soon he will no longer be on his own… But what if she betrayed him!… This mingled hope and fear, these ideas of happiness, disturbed by dark premonitions, form the subject of the adagio. At the end one of the shepherds resumes his ‘ranz des vaches’; the other one no longer answers. Distant sound of thunder… solitude… silence…

Part four
March to the scaffold

Convinced that his love is spurned, the artist poisons himself with opium. The dose of narcotic, while too weak to cause his death, plunges him into a heavy sleep accompanied by the strangest of visions. He dreams that he has killed his beloved, that he is condemned, led to the scaffold and is witnessing his own execution. The procession advances to the sound of a march that is sometimes somber and wild, and sometimes brilliant and solemn, in which a dull sound of heavy footsteps follows without transition the loudest outbursts. At the end of the march, the first four bars of the idée fixe reappear like a final thought of love interrupted by the fatal blow.

Part five
Dream of a witches’ sabbath

He sees himself at a witches’ sabbath, in the midst of a hideous gathering of shades, sorcerers and monsters of every kind who have come together for his funeral. Strange sounds, groans, outbursts of laughter; distant shouts which seem to be answered by more shouts. The beloved melody appears once more, but has now lost its noble and shy character; it is now no more than a vulgar dance tune, trivial and grotesque: it is she who is coming to the sabbath… Roar of delight at her arrival… She joins the diabolical orgy… The funeral knell tolls, burlesque parody of the Dies irae, the dance of the witches. The dance of the witches combined with the Dies irae.

– Hector Berlioz, 1945

Festive Overture, Op. 96 (1954)
Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)

Runtime: Approx. 6 minutes

When thinking about the life and music of Dmitri Shostakovich, the predominant narrative that comes to mind is the composer’s tenuous relationship with the Soviet Union. Shostakovich spent much of his life skating on a razor’s edge of Stalin’s approval, a ledge that on one side meant artistic favor and on the other bore the probability of imprisonment or even death. Such a monumental burden offers dramatic insights into Shostakovich’s impetus, but it also produces a story so overwhelming that it somewhat overshadows the legacy of his talent. While he existed in a world of extreme and emotional circumstances, he was also a composer of uncommon technical skill—comparable to masters such as Bach and Mozart.

Composing his first symphony at the age of 19, he produced an enormous collection of works unmatched by his contemporaries. But the lore around his political life often results in an omission of his more human traits: humor, playfulness, the capacity to convey endless emotion, and formidable musical skill both as a pianist and composer. Festive Overture is a perfect example of such abilities.

The story surrounding the composition of the overture seems as if it could have been plucked from the cutting room floor of the film Amadeus. Shostakovich’s friend, Lev Lebedinsky was at the composer’s home with him when he was paid a surprise visit by a conductor from the Bolshoi Theater Orchestra. The conductor explained that they needed an overture for a celebration taking place in just three days’ time. “The speed with which he wrote,” recalls Lebedinsky, “was truly astounding. Moreover, when he wrote light music he was able to talk, make jokes, and compose simultaneously, like the legendary Mozart. He laughed and chuckled, and in the meanwhile work was under way and the music was being written down.”

Indeed, Festive Overture is laced with the kind of frenetic energy that conjures familiar images of the genius who has thrown back one too many espressos and refuses to leave their desk until the work is done.

After beginning with a stately brass fanfare, the strings set off immediately and the music continues to percolate until finally the brass retake the wheel for a final exclamation point. It’s a six-minute firework show that has become one of the composer’s most beloved works, even being used as the musical theme for the 1980 Moscow Olympics. And while the work was created in rapid fire, it is one of only two works that Shostakovich ever chose to conduct himself. Perhaps he didn’t think it was too shabby.

Violin Concerto, Op. 14 (1939)
Samuel Barber (1910-1981)

Runtime: Approx. 22 minutes

In the summer of 1939, Samuel Barber was approached by wealthy businessman Samuel Fels to write a concerto for his adopted son, violin prodigy Iso Briselli. It was Barber’s first foray into concerto writing, and Briselli unfortunately hated the piece. There is no documentation of Briselli’s exact complaints, but stories suggest that he found the first two movements to be too easy, not violinistic, and lacking showmanship, while the last movement was either frivolous, as some have reported, or possibly unplayably difficult. Whatever the exact grievances, Briselli and his teacher asked Barber for extensive rewrites, but Barber was confident in his composition and refused to make the requested changes. Ultimately, Briselli rejected the piece, and it was not given a premiere until February of 1941, when Albert Spalding performed it with the Philidelphia Orchestra and Eugene Ormandy.

If Briselli was hoping for a flashy opening to his concerto, it’s understandable that he was disappointed. Barber was a prolific song and opera composer, and his approach to the concerto still leans heavily into his characteristic lyric sensibilities. The first movement forgoes an introduction, jumping right into an expansive melody. In this movement one can hear the development of the iconic “Americana” sound that was, at the time, being solidified by Barber, Aaron Copland, and their contemporaries with its simple folk-song inspired melodies colored by open, sprawling harmonies. We can also hear the beginnings of what we have come to know as the Hollywood sound. Anyone fond of the soundtrack to films like Out of Africa will find connection to this work.

The second movement takes on a more melancholic tone, offering a lamenting theme first presented by the solo oboe and then handed over to the violin, who continues its elegy in conversation with the oboe, horn, and clarinet.

The third movement, which seems to have been Briselli’s greatest point of contention, adopts a rather different air. Here, Barber offers a fiery antidote to the lyricism of the prior movements, presenting the audience with an opportunity to hear the violin’s full virtuosity on display. The movement is also evocative of Barber’s great Russian contemporaries, Shostakovich and Prokofiev, making use of both the sound world and relentless rhythmic whirlwind so often employed by those composers. In this way, Barber’s Violin Concerto serves as a bridge for this program, connecting Shostakovich’s blazing Overture with Saint-Saëns’ expansive tunefulness.

Despite the initial drama surrounding its composition, Barber’s Violin Concerto has found a secure place in the violin repertoire and has become one of the most beloved and oft-performed contemporary works for the instrument.

Symphony No. 3, “Organ Symphony” (1886)
Charles-Camille Saint Saëns (1835-1921)

Runtime: Approx. 38 minutes

In the latter part of the 19th century, a great debate sprang up amongst the German Romantics about the direction in which music should progress. In one camp, Richard Wagner and his acolytes sought to push the boundaries of music, incorporating story, grand theater, and expanding orchestral music in scale, duration, size, and form. In the opposite camp was Johannes Brahms who insisted on the continuation of absolute music—works that do not employ story or narrative. Brahms preferred the traditional symphonic forms of Beethoven and Mozart and used similarly sized orchestrations to the standard classical-era ensemble.

It was within this musical environment that French composer Camille Saint-Saëns produced his famous third symphony. The “Organ Symphony” was written in 1886 to fulfill a commission by the prestigious Royal Philharmonic Society for a new symphonic work, and while Saint-Saëns’ choice to use the traditional four-movement symphonic form seems to cast his vote firmly in Brahms’ camp, he does incorporate some novel elements which serve to refashion the work. In Saint-Saën’s view, traditional forms need not be totally abandoned (as Wagner suggested) to contemporize symphonic music.

The last composer to significantly amend the symphony was Beethoven, who added the grand spectacle of a full chorus to his triumphant Ninth. Saint-Saëns was a great admirer of Beethoven, and was likely inspired by the composer’s significant contribution to the symphonic genre. Much like Beethoven, he sought to reinvigorate the traditional symphony by expanding on the typical orchestration to one of a more modern size, including several auxiliary instruments. Most significantly, he added two keyboard instruments to the ensemble: the piano and the organ, from which the work takes its name. Perhaps as a further homage to Beethoven, Saint-Saëns chose to perform one of Beethoven’s piano concerti on the first half of the work’s premiere concert.

Despite its novel orchestration, “Organ Symphony” utilizes rather simple melodic material throughout. Readily hummable, the melodies each appear in more than one movement, giving them an air of familiarity by the end of the piece that evokes the experience of hearing folk song. Perhaps because of this, themes from the symphony have been the frequent subjects of adaptations by songwriters, including a reimagining of the final movement’s theme into the song “If I Had Words” by Scott Fitzgerald and Yvonne Keeley. This song was later used in several film soundtracks, including as the main theme for the movie Babe.

Again echoing Beethoven, who ended his symphonic catalog with his iconic Ninth, Saint-Saëns would never again revisit the symphonic form. He felt that the “Organ Symphony” was the pinnacle of what he could contribute to the genre. “I gave everything to it I was able to give,” he remarked. “What I have here accomplished, I will never achieve again.”

For those audience members curious to further explore the Brahms-Wagner debate, the ASO’s next Masterworks series concert (October 25 & 26) presents two works that fully embrace team Wagner: Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice and Berlioz’s monumental Symphonie fantastique.

– Valerie Sly, 2024