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Symphony No. 1 in D Major, Op. 25, Classical Prokofiev was a composer caught between two cultures. Born into an affluent musical family, he left the Soviet Union in the summer of 1918, shortly after the 1917 Revolution. For the next seventeen years he lived in Paris and toured the United States, returning to his native country in the mid-1930s never to leave again. The year 1917 was a traumatic one for Russia. The February Revolution deposed the Tsar, and the October Revolution brought the Bolsheviks to power. Meanwhile, on the international front, Russia was losing disastrously in its war against the central powers, Germany and Austria. In the spring and summer of that year Prokofiev retired to a village not far from Petrograd (now and formerly St. Petersburg) and, as if oblivious to the earth-shattering turmoil around him, composed at a furious pace. Among the creations of that period was his sunny Symphony No. 1, which he subtitled “The Classical.” The Symphony was an experiment. An accomplished pianist, Prokofiev routinely composed at the piano, although he noticed: “…thematic material composed without the piano was often better in quality…I was intrigued with the idea of writing an entire symphonic piece without the piano…So this was how the project of writing a symphony in the style of Haydn came about…it seemed it would be easier to dive into the deep waters of writing without the piano if I worked in a familiar setting.” This delicate, nostalgic Symphony premiered in Petrograd in April 1918 with the composer on the podium amidst civil war and social upheaval. The overall Classical style of the Symphony makes it easy to forget that it is a twentieth-century creation. The opening Allegro conforms to the standard first movement sonata allegro form, with occasional twentieth-century harmonies.  The second theme is a caricature of the eighteenth-century Rococo style, played on the tips of the violin bows “con eleganza” like a mincing dancing master – but with a less than elegant surprise sforzando at the cadence. The graceful Larghetto theme in the second movement, introduced first by the violins then joined by a flute, shows what a little musical creativity can do with a simple descending scale. A middle section introduced by the solo bassoon and pizzicato strings emphasizes the constant sixteenth-note pulse that pervades the entire movement before the full orchestra joins in, then slowly fades to return to the opening theme. The short Gavotte replaces a traditional minuet/trio movement. Prokofiev’s is a clumsy dance, whose melody contains awkward octave leaps and strange grace notes in the bassoon. The Trio is accompanied by a bagpipe-like drone. Prokofiev loved this movement, recycling and expanding it some 20 years later in Act I of his ballet Romeo and Juliet.The Molto vivace finale is in sonata form, rather than the usual rondo, but has the same persistent dynamic drive as the finales of so many Haydn symphonies. Like the opening of the Symphony, the first theme is certainly accessible but lacks the "singability" of Prokofiev's classical models. The brief second theme, which serves also as a closing theme, provides the sole "tune" in the movement. In composing it, Prokofiev played a game with himself, trying to eliminate all minor chords, a restriction that makes it extremely difficult to do much with a development section. So he didn't. | ||||||||||
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Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 14 The lyricism of Samuel Barber and other Neo-Romantics – including William Schuman, Howard Hanson and Leonard Bernstein – were sidelined after World War II by the academic dominance of atonality and serialism in American classical music. Although Barber and his “retro” colleagues eschewed the avant-garde in favor of old-fashioned tonality and lush melodic lines, they introduced into their music harmonies and intervals that would have shocked the audiences of the late nineteenth century. Barber showed early on a prodigious talent for composing –at ten he composed his first opera. He was encouraged, but not pushed, by his family, especially his aunt and uncle, contralto Louise Homer and composer Sidney Homer. The two served as his mentors for more than 25 years and profoundly influenced his aesthetic development. At age 14 he enrolled in the newly founded Curtis School of Music in Philadelphia, where he studied voice, piano and composition, graduating in 1934. Two of his early compositions, a Violin Sonata in 1928 and his first published large-scale work, The School for Scandal Overture (1931), won him prizes and, more importantly, public performances that brought him to the attention of the leading conductors of the day. During the height of the Depression in 1935, Barber won the prestigious American Prix de Rome, which gave him the opportunity of two years of study and work at the American Academy in Rome, where he rubbed shoulders with other young artists and an enlightened and progressive faculty. One of the first products of this sojourn was the Symphony No.1, completed in 1936. In early 1939, Samuel Fels, a wealthy Philadelphia soap manufacturer, commissioned Barber to write a violin concerto for his protégé and adopted son, the young violinist Iso Briselli. Barber’s commission was $1,000, a hefty sum at the time, half of which he received in advance. The Concerto was Barber’s first major commission, and he immediately set out to fulfill it. But commissions, while usually sought after by artists, clearly entail certain risks. Things did not go according to plan, and what actually happened depends on whose memory you trust. Since all the protagonists are deceased, there is no way to ascertain whose version is the correct one. According to Barber and some of his friends and colleagues, he sent Briselli the first two movements, written in a conservative lyrical and romantic style, by the end of the summer of 1939, but Briselli considered them “too simple and not brilliant enough” and refused to accept them. Barber apparently took his revenge by making the third movement fiendishly difficult. When he resubmitted it, Briselli declared it unplayable, and Fels wanted his advance back. At that point, Barber summoned a young violin student from the Curtis Institute of Music, gave him the manuscript and two hours to prepare. Accompanied by a piano, the student demonstrated to Fels and his protégé that the movement was indeed playable. The verdict was that Fels had to pay the rest of the commission. Barber, however, forfeited the second half and, in exchange, Briselli relinquished his right to the first public performance and never performed the concerto in public. Briselli, some forty years later, told a different story. According to him, he was enthusiastic about the first two movements but found the third too lightweight and suggested that Barber expand it. The composer refused. We will probably never know for sure what really happened. But the Concerto was a popular success from the start. The first movement, Allegro, opens with an expansive, lyrical theme on the violin. The second theme functions also as a brief refrain throughout the movement. The whole ambiance of the movement suggests that of a quiet discussion, with only occasionally raised voices in the middle, and ending in a tranquil whisper after a short cadenza for the soloist.The aria-like second movement begins in melancholy, gradually building emotional tension, punctuated by almost threatening outbursts from the orchestra. It opens with an extended cantabile oboe solo over muted strings. The violin's entry is considerably delayed, more than three minutes into the movement; but shortly after its entrance there is a sudden intensifying of the drama. After a brief cadenza, the volume diminishes, but there remains a stubborn undercurrent of melancholy as the violin repeats a variation on the opening oboe melody. The movement concludes with orchestra and soloist sharing the climactic reiteration of the theme and a coda whose sadness is so intense as to become menacing. The rondo third movement, Presto in moto perpetuo, presents a stunning contrast. It is terse and fiery, placing tremendous demands on the soloist, who has to play at a breathless tempo for 110 measures without a break. Throughout the perpetual motion, Barber subtly changes the meter and every so often inserts a jazzy syncopated refrain. | ||||||||||
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Symphony No. 4 in A Major, Op. 90, “Italian” If ever there was a composer who did not fit the romantic picture of the struggling artist, unsure of where his next meal was coming from as he fought for acceptance of his new ideas, it was Felix Mendelssohn. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth and raised in affluence, he enjoyed encouragement and the nurturing of his precocious musical talent. His culturally sophisticated family was unusually enlightened in its support of his artistic aspirations – many other composers well into the twentieth century had to rebel and escape parents who wanted them to become doctors. The Mendelssohn household was a Mecca for the intellectual elite of Germany, and the many family visitors fawned over the prodigy and his talented sister Fanny. Fortunately for the development of his rare abilities, his carefully selected teachers were demanding and strict. One of the results of the financial security of the Mendelssohn family was Felix’s ability to travel extensively in what was then considered the "civilized" world – Western Europe and Italy. Some of his most successful orchestral compositions represent musical travelogues of such trips: the “Scottish” and “Italian” symphonies and The Hebrides Overture. An added perk to all this travel was that family connections, and Felix’s reputation as a Mozartian Wunderkind attracted the attention to his music throughout Europe. Queen Victoria herself had several audiences with the young composer, during which he play and she sang. Traveling to Italy in 1830, Mendelssohn stopped in Weimar, where he spent two weeks talking with the forbidding grand old man of German literature, the 80-year-old Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. It was a heady experience for the young composer, and he continued on to Italy in high spirits. He was at once completely captivated by the sights and sounds of the sunny country and wrote home “...what I have been looking forward to all my life as the greatest happiness has now begun, and I am basking in it.” He immediately set about composing the “Italian” Symphony, whose premiere he conducted in London in 1833 at the invitation of the London Philharmonic Society. The first movement, Allegro vivace, opens with a buoyant theme reflecting the sparkle of the Italian sunshine and the young composer’s rush of excitement . The contrasting second theme is a lilting figure for two clarinets playing in parallel thirds. The Andante con moto second movement is in a darker mood. It was composed after a visit to Naples, where Mendelssohn was greatly depressed by the poverty he saw. The doleful woodwinds and plodding staccato on the cellos and double bass may depict a religious procession he is known to have witnessed in the city streets. The charming and graceful the Con moto moderato third movement lightens the mood again and uses the traditional scherzo and trio form . The finale, Saltarello: presto with its driving triplets is based on the nineteenth-century folk version of a medieval Italian dance. In fact, Mendelssohn may have taken the two dance themes from folk music he had heard at a Roman carnival, in which he participated during his visit and described in detail in his letters & . But this is one of those assumptions that is more guesswork than demonstrable fact . Both themes provide a difficult staccato workout for the upper winds reminiscent of the scherzo from the Incidental Music to A Midsummer Night's Dream. The middle part of the movement, however, is dominated by a new melody for the violins, also in triplets. It is seldom that an audience has the opportunity to hear a composer’s early drafts of a work. But that is exactly what we do hear every time we attend a concert with this popular work on the program. Mendelssohn was dissatisfied with the Symphony, never again conducted it after the premiere and refused to publish it. It is not clear what displeased him in such a joyous work; perhaps its spontaneity went against the grain of his rigid academic training. In any case, he sat down in 1834 to revise it, rewriting the three last movements and commenting in a letter that he could not get the first movement right “In any way, it has to become totally different.” As part of the commission, the original score was left with the London Philharmonic, and it is this version, published posthumously in 1851 (hence the high opus number), that became the public favorite; the later version was included in volume 28 of the collection of Mendelssohn’s unpublished manuscripts and was performed for the first time in 1992 and first recorded in 1998. | ||||||||||
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| Copyright © Elizabeth and Joseph Kahn 2009 | ||||||||||
