Roger Wilkie

John Walz

SOAR
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Michael Nowak, Conductor
Roger Wilkie, Violin & John Walz, Cello

Bartok / Dance Suite
Brahms / Double Concerto for Violin and Violoncello

Sponsored by
Clifford Chapman & Don Shidler
Roy & Jane Gersten

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756–1791)
Symphony No. 36 in C Major, K. 425 (1783) 
 Wolfgang and Constanze Mozart must have breathed an enormous sigh of relief as their coach left Salzburg on October 27, 1783; they had just completed a three-month "duty" visit to Mozart's father Leopold and sister Nannerl—a visit that had been postponed multiple times since their marriage in August 1782.  We know that Leopold was extremely vexed at his son's marital choice, and he expressed himself forcefully enough in letters to his son that Constanze later destroyed their correspondence from this period.  At last, though, after dragging their heels for nearly a year, the newlyweds had properly paid their respects, and they could finally head home to Vienna. 

To break up their journey, Mozart and Constanze stopped in the town of Linz, where they visited Johann Joseph Anton (the Count Thun) who was a friend of long-standing.  The count insisted that they stay in his palatial home rather than an inn, and Mozart, writing to Leopold, said, "I really cannot tell you what kindnesses the family are showering on us."  In fact, the count arranged for Mozart to give a concert in the local theater—but the problem was that the concert was scheduled to take place five days after their arrival, and of course Mozart had to provide music for it.  He told his father, "As I have not a single symphony with me, I am writing a new one at breakneck speed," adding, probably unnecessarily, "Well, I must close, because I really must set to work." 

The result was Symphony No. 36, K. 425, and naturally enough, it was soon nicknamed "Linz" in recognition of its origin.  Scholars believe that Mozart simply must have already been carrying around ideas for a symphony in his head, since the beautiful craftsmanship of the Linz gives no hint that it was hurriedly written over four days' time.  In fact, many critics rank the Linz among Mozart's finest masterpieces; the speed of its completion merely adds to its legendary status. 
 For anyone who had been following Mozart's career up to 1783, the opening of the Linz would have been a big surprise—for it starts with an "Adagio."  Slow introductions occurred fairly often in works by Joseph Haydn, but Mozart had never before tried this device in a symphony.  The scoring was also a bit unusual, for Mozart called for trumpets but no flutes, apparently reflecting the idiosyncrasies of Count Thun's ensemble.  Another unexpected moment for 18th-century concertgoers would have been hearing the trumpets (and drums) in the second movement; scholar Neal Zaslaw describes the resulting effect as "almost apocalyptic intensity."  Certainly, it seems to have impressed Beethoven, who used a similar tone color in his first symphony's "Andante" movement sixteen years later. 

One imagines dancers in very heavy shoes during the minuet, but this slightly ponderous opening creates a nice foil for the trio at the center of the movement; the trio emphasizes winds in lightly intertwining lines.  The finale is a true "race to the finish," full of exciting dynamic changes and flourishes.

Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)
Double Concerto for Violin and Violoncello, Op. 102 (1887)  
Johannes Brahms came from a broken home.  Actually, Brahms' father did not abandon his wife until Brahms was 31, but the event was still quite upsetting.  We can only speculate about how this marital collapse affected Brahms' own views of marriage and relationships with women, but we cannot help but think that it must have made him cautious.  The fact remains that Brahms never married any of the women who attracted his interest, even though he teetered on the edge more than once.

Brahms' own bachelor state did not keep him from having strong opinions about other people's marriages.  For many years, he had been a close friend of the violin virtuoso Joseph Joachim.  In fact, it was Joachim who persuaded the shy twenty-year-old Brahms to go meet Robert and Clara Schumann in 1853—and Robert's laudatory praise of Brahms in his influential music journal was a huge boost to Brahms' reputation.  Joachim had worked closely with Brahms on his violin concerto, and Joachim had been an active proponent of Brahms' music all over Europe.  However, Joachim became suspicious in 1880 that his wife Amalie was having an affair with a music publisher, so he sued for divorce.  The couple had six children by this point, and Brahms—like many others in the Joachims' social circle—felt that Amalie was being wronged.  Brahms wrote to tell her so, and she produced his letter in court.  The testimony of so famous a Viennese citizen swayed the jury, so Amalie was victorious, but the marriage nevertheless collapsed.  The couple separated, and Joachim stopped speaking to Brahms altogether.  (He did, however, continue to perform Brahms' music.)

Some seven years later, Brahms had an idea: he could write a new violin concerto for Joachim.  He composed a solo violoncello part as well for Robert Hausmann (the cellist in the Joachim Quartet); there has been speculation that this "dual" dedication was intended to make it harder for Joachim to reject the work, since he would hurt Hausmann in doing so.  In a letter describing the projected concerto, Brahms assured Joachim that all he had to do was send a postcard in reply, saying, "I decline," and Brahms would abandon the project.  Joachim, however, accepted, and gradually, through the course of rehearsals, the two estranged friends were reconciled. 

The Double Concerto for Violin and Violoncello was to be Brahms' last work for a large ensemble, and it is truly a splendid finish.  Orchestra players are often a bit bored during concertos; certain composers place all the musical interest in the hands of the soloist, limiting the orchestra to an extremely subordinate accompanying role.  Brahms wrote true symphonic music for the orchestra, however, even while he crafted a beautifully balanced pair of featured lines for the soloists.  Each gets a cadenza near the beginning of the concerto, and their dialogue continues throughout.  The slow movement contains thoughtful, flowing lines against a backdrop of shifting orchestral color.  The finale is exuberant; perhaps it conveys Brahms' joy over the renewed friendship.

Copyright 2008 by Dr. Alyson McLamore

	Owen Burdick

POWER
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Michael Nowak, Conductor
Owen Burdick, Composer
Paul Woodring, Organist

Barber / Overture to the School for Scandal
Albinoni / Adagio in G minor
Burdick / "Phoenix" for Organ, Orchestra and Choir
Strauss / Der Rosenkavalier Suite

Dr. Burdick's world premiere composition will be performed on the new Forbes Pipe Organ, generously donated to the PAC by Bert and Candace Forbes.

Concert Sponsored by
Aaron & Lyn Baker
Patricia McNamara, In Memory of Francis McNamara

(To read Dr. Burdick's personal recollection of 9/11, which inspired "Phoenix", click here.)

Samuel Barber (1910–1981) - Overture to the School for Scandal, Op. 5 (1931)
A listener who did not catch the title of Barber’s Overture to The School for Scandal might well be forgiven for imagining that the work depicts a swashbuckling adventure, for Barber takes his audience through a wide-ranging drama of emotional states.  Theater buffs, however, will recognize The School for Scandal as the title of a 1777 comedy of manners by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and they might realize that the energy of Barber’s overture captures the tangles woven by the maneuvering of the play’s characters—such as Snake, Careless, Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Candour, Sir Benjamin Backbite, and Sir Peter Teazle—as well as the beleaguered Charles Surface and Maria who loves him through it all.

Barber was still a student at the Curtis Institute when he composed this overture, and two years later it earned him $1,200 when it won the Bearns Prize.  Barber missed its premiere by the Philadelphia Orchestra during the summer of 1933, since he was studying in Italy at the time.  Nevertheless, it developed a sizable following, and it’s not hard to hear why: it combines an astringent, almost dissonant opening fanfare with a subsequent lyrical melody for oboe, and when the strings take over the oboe’s theme later in the overture, the effect is downright sumptuous—a better tune than most of us will ever craft in our lifetimes.  Not bad for a twenty-one-year-old!

Tomaso Albinoni (1671–1751) - Adagio in G minor (arr. 1945 by Remo Giazotto) 
Is the Albinoni Adagio really by Albinoni?  The musicologist Remo Giazotto says so; he claims that he found fragments of a trio sonata by Albinoni in a Dresden archive and that he simply fleshed them out in 1945 into a fuller arrangement that is the work to be played this evening.  Other scholars, however, have noted that the resulting piece has virtually nothing in common with Albinoni’s style in the slow movements of his other sonatas.  Even more problematic is the fact that no one since 1945 has been able to locate the bass line and bits of a violin part that Giazotto said he used as his foundation, leading some to wonder if they had ever existed.  However, regardless of its hazy origins, the Adagio quickly rose to “hit” status, standing alongside other genuinely “Baroque” favorites such as Bach’s Air on the G String or Pachelbel’s Canon.  It juxtaposes a flowing melodic line—that seems at times to weep with anguish—over a steady, almost relentless bass line.

Owen Burdick (b. 1954) - “Phoenix” for Organ, Orchestra and Choir (2007) 
[Notes from the Composer:]  As the Organist and Director of Music at Trinity Church, Wall Street, I was just 600 feet from Ground Zero on 9-11.  A full account which I wrote in the days immediately following has been accepted by the Smithsonian Institution for its permanent collection as one of a hundred eyewitness recollections.  And so, although not exactly or formally a programmatic work, Phoenix is inextricably linked with my experience of the events of that tragic day.  I could not write or finish this work until now, some six years later. 
 
In the first movement, the opening theme, in the Dorian mode, is changed or “morphed” throughout the movement into a series of episodes.  These episodes, which are trios, quartets and sextets for winds, strings, and lastly, for brass, are meant to highlight the soloists of the orchestra and organ and contrast with the repeating theme which uses the entire orchestra.  It loosely represents the morning bustle of New York City with all its disparate elements within its unified whole in the days and hours before the attacks.
 
The second movement represents the moments of confusion following the crash of the first plane.  No one knew what had happened—could it have been a terrible accident?  Then as the second plane found its mark the gravity of the situation took hold: we were under attack.  The paper and debris floating in the air like confetti (the fast figures in the wind instruments) gave way to the sheer terror of the sight of people falling from the buildings, the flames and the realization of death (cantus firmus in the low brass and organ).
 
The third movement is the aftermath of collapse (which is not depicted).  The pile.  The smell.  The fires.  The silence following.  The sadness.  The anger.  The loss of life.  The sense of unsettled spirits.  The coming together of community (the return of the opening theme of the first movement) and the relief of those who survived.  And finally—peace and acceptance of the terrible reality.
 The fourth movement is anger turned to acceptance turned to energy turned to resurrection.  We are at last healed (the promise of the crowning chorale in choir and organ) and, at last, the triumph of the soul through reconciliation.  The Phoenix Rises.

Richard Strauss (1864–1949) - Suite from Der Rosenkavalier, Op. 59 (1909–10) 
Anyone who has ever attended a performance of a live Broadway show has seen the merchandizing booth that is ubiquitous in the lobbies of Broadway theaters.  All sorts of mementos can be purchased, ranging from coffee mugs to sweatshirts to bumper stickers, all emblazoned with the show’s logo.  In the case of musicals, it is usually possible to purchase a CD containing the show’s hit songs—and many, many people purchase these CDs (or later wish they had).  In a similar way, opera composers from the Baroque era onward have long been aware that “spin-off” sales can increase the profitability of their compositions: the overtures to Handel operas were released in keyboard versions, and Mozart moved quickly to produce “greatest hits” arrangements from several of his operas. 
 
Strauss’s opera Der Rosenkavalier also led to similar commercial efforts, primarily in the form of suites—some under Strauss’s own supervision, others not (sometimes to his annoyance).  No matter who had arranged a particular version, all of the suites showcase several of the waltzes that contributed so importantly to the opera’s popularity with its Viennese audiences.  As those who are familiar with the plot know, the mood is sometimes bittersweet, as an older woman realizes she needs to release her younger lover so he can find fulfillment in a relationship with a woman of his own age—but only after an exhausting and convoluted parade of disguises, revelations, and romantic gestures.  The suite follows an ebb and flow that resembles the opera itself: exhilarating dances, dreaminess, and (sometimes) unrequited passion.

	Rina Dokshitsky

SOUL
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Michael Nowak, Conductor
Rina Dokshitsky, Piano

Debussy / Petite Suite
Tchaikovsky / Serenade for Strings in C Major
Beethoven / Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Manor, Op. 58

Sponsored by
Clifford W. Chapman & Gene A. Shidler, In Memory of Adrienne Fissel

Claude Debussy (1862–1918)—Petite Suite (1889 / arr. Büsser 1907)  
We sometimes forget that all composers were young once, but Debussy was only 26 when he premiered his Petite Suite with the assistance of Jacques Durand (the suite was originally written for piano four-hands).  The amused Durand later described the hectic first performance: "Debussy was very nervous before sitting down at the piano with me, and had urged me not to go too fast.  I promised.  But hardly had we begun when Debussy began to hurry; and despite all my efforts, I was unable to hold him back.  He was in haste to put this public trial behind him.  So I followed the somewhat hectic tempi as best I could."

The stressful debut may account for the fact that Debussy seemed to ignore the suite afterwards.  Eighteen years later, though, his friend Henri Büsser orchestrated the piece, thereby launching the suite's lasting popularity.  The appeal is obvious; the first movement "En bateau" opens with an unmistakable swaying sensation that evokes the gentle rocking of the title's boat.  The second movement reminds us that although English speakers have co-opted the word "cortège" to indicate a funeral procession, the term actually can mean any sort of parade—and the mood of this "Cortège" is cheerful and enthusiastic.  In the third movement, Debussy creates a graceful, elegant minuet that is sometimes almost wistful during its poignant double-reed solos.  The Petite suite concludes in a playful fashion; the "Ballet" is sprightly, with an internal surprise: although it opens and closes in a lively duple meter, it shifts to a waltz-like triple meter in the middle.

Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840–1893)—Serenade for Strings in C Major, Op. 48 (1880) 
Like Tchaikovsky himself, we should be grateful to the patroness Nadezhda von Meck, widow of a railroad baron.  Not only did von Meck provide Tchaikovsky with generous financial support, freeing him to devote his time to composition, but she also was the recipient of much correspondence from the composer, allowing us a great deal of insight into his thought processes and attitudes.  (Their relationship was an odd one; although they lived in the same town, they had agreed not to meet, so he wrote to her as if she lived hundreds of miles away.  If, by some mischance, they found themselves at the same social event, they took care to remain at opposite sides of the room.) 

The year 1880 had been hard on Tchaikovsky; although he was not heterosexual, he had embarked upon marriage—a relationship that had ended disastrously.  As he recovered from that trauma, he toiled away on the 1812 Overture, a work written "without warmth of feeling," as he told von Meck.  On impulse, while writing the overture, he started sketching what he thought might be a symphony or string quartet, but which became the Serenade for Strings.  He wrote to von Meck, "It comes from the heart, and I like to think it possesses some merit," adding, "I am violently in love with this work and cannot wait for it to be played."  He explained to her that the first movement was "my homage to Mozart"; moreover, "it is intended to be an imitation of his style, and I should be delighted if I thought I had in any way approached my model.  Do not laugh, dear lady, at my zeal for standing up for my latest creation."

It is unlikely that any listener would truly confuse the Serenade with a work by Mozart, but the first movement's balance, proportion, and fluidity do resemble the older master.  Similarly, the waltz depicts a dance not yet known in Mozart's day, but it follows the clear-cut structure of a Mozartean minuet-and-trio, even as it resembles the gliding smoothness of a skater's waltz.  The elegy has an unexpected lightness of spirit, achieved in part by the ascending lines of its opening, while its central section features some of Tchaikovsky's trademark pizzicato (plucked) string writing.  The finale is the furthest removed from Mozart, for it features Russian folk melodies, starting quietly but growing to an exuberant finish.

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827)—Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Major, Op. 58 (1805–6)
"Performance practice" is a discipline that has received ever-increasing attention over the past forty years as historians and performers have sought to uncover and replicate the ways that music was performed in the past.  Audiences today, however, would be hard-pressed to endure a re-enactment of the premiere of Beethoven's fourth piano concerto.  The first public performance took place on December 22, 1808, in a program that included Beethoven's Fantasia in c minor for piano, chorus, and orchestra, his Fifth and Sixth symphonies, portions of the Mass in C major, a concert aria, a piano fantasia, as well as various smaller works.  The composer Johann Friedrich Reichardt sat with Beethoven's patron Prince Lobkowitz in the prince's box and later noted in his diary, "There we sat from 6:30 till 10:30 in the most bitter cold, and found by experience that one might have too much even of a good thing."  The performance fell apart more than once, even with Beethoven himself playing the piano, and the concerto quickly faded into obscurity; its rather shocking innovations—not to mention the weather itself—had left the audience cold. 

It was only after Beethoven's death that posterity began to realize what a treasure was to be found in the inventive fourth concerto.  Its first surprise is presented in the opening measures, when we hear only the piano soloist, rather than the usual extensive orchestral introduction—have we wandered into a piano sonata instead?  Another surprise is in store in the second movement, but it again requires a keen awareness of the past to detect the reference.  Beethoven, it seems, was mimicking a famous operatic scene from Gluck's Orfeo, in which the mortal Orpheus dares to approach the Furies guarding the gates of Hell.  The orchestra depicts the angry Furies, forcefully refusing to grant Orpheus entry, while the piano portrays the quiet petitions of Orpheus, trying to melt the Furies' hearts with his gentle melodies.  The sometimes-boisterous finale is a sharp contrast to all that has gone before, containing surprisingly dreamy passages alternating with a bouncy drive.

Copyright 2008 by Dr. Alyson McLamore

	Shunske' Sato

WILD
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Michael Nowak, Conductor
Shunske' Sato, Violin

Dello-Joio / Variations, Chaconne and Finale
Stravinsky / Symphonies of Wind Instruments
Sibelius /  Violin Concerto in D minor

Sponsored by
Joan Sargen
Jim Sargen
Beverly & Jim Smith

Norman Dello Joio (b. 1913)—Variations, Chaconne, and Finale (1947)

Few of us have Rolls Royces arriving at our front doors on a daily basis, and even fewer of us have known those cars to be driven by Metropolitan Opera singers who have come to take private lessons.  This, however, was the childhood of Norman Dello Joio, whose father was an organist and vocal coach in New York.  In such an environment, it's little wonder that Dello Joio was drawn unswervingly to a career in music as well, but after an organ debut at age fourteen, he began focusing on composition in studies at Juilliard, the Berkshire Music Center, and Yale.

Coming from a long line of Italian church organists, it's also no surprise that Dello Joio frequently turned for musical inspiration to the chants that comprise the ancient liturgy of the Catholic church.  Their influence is obvious in Dello Joio's Magnificat or Ecclesiastes, but they also can be found in numerous other works, including tonight's Variations, Chaconne, and Finale.  The tune that opens Dello Joio's work is borrowed from the "Kyrie" of the de Angelis mass (Mass of Angels), a chant that has been sung since the 15th century.  In fact, even to those with no Catholic background, this Kyrie may sound vaguely familiar, since it has been a popular choice for adaptation by many composers.  Dello Joio lets a solo oboe introduce the chant tune, followed by harmony that shifts unexpectedly, sounding almost jazzy at certain moments.  There are six variations of dramatically contrasting character, ranging from warm and mellow to dark and brooding, from festive to martial.  The "Chaconne" is also derived from the Kyrie melody, extracting four of its notes and presenting them in ascending order over and over again.  The interweaving lines grow steadily in intensity to a climax; they then gradually fade away to the same quiet level that began the movement.  The "Finale" changes mood from moment to moment, with glimpses of the Kyrie appearing throughout, although humor keeps peeking through even the most majestic passages.

Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971)—Symphonies of Wind Instruments (1920; rev. 1947) 

In the dark days of World War I, French citizens suffered an additional blow: their celebrated countryman Claude Debussy had died.  After hostilities had ceased, the editors of La Revue musicale invited Stravinsky and others to contribute to a special issue in Debussy's memory.  Stravinsky was glad to accept, for the older composer had been a warm supporter.  After the controversial Rite of Spring had debuted in 1913, Debussy had written to Stravinsky, "For someone like me, who is on his way down the other side of the hill but still in possession of an ardent passion for music, there is a special satisfaction in declaring how much you have enlarged the boundaries of the permissible in the Empire of Sound.  Pardon these rather grandiloquent words, but they express my thoughts precisely!"  For the magazine commission, Stravinsky submitted a piano excerpt that illustrated the chorale-like portion of Symphonies of Wind Instruments.  Immediately after publication of the journal, Stravinsky set to work on expanding the piece into its fully orchestrated form.

Historians note that the word "symphonies" would be better translated as "concords," but even so, scholars have long puzzled over the odd structure of Stravinsky's Symphonies of Wind Instruments—short, choppy fragments of music from different groupings of instruments, recurring in various moments but not according to an obvious pattern.  It is austere and almost forbidding music, and many people have quoted Stravinsky's own declaration: "This music is not meant to 'please' an audience, nor to arouse its passions."  He also wrote, "It is an austere ritual which is unfolded in terms of short litanies between different groups of homogeneous instruments."  Richard Taruskin points out that this is the clue needed to explain the work's symbolism: the piece resembles a highly-compressed version of the Russian Orthodox funeral service called the panikhida.  By letting instruments mimic the ritual call-and-response between the priest and choir, and using Rite-of-Spring¬-like motifs (the work that Debussy had so admired), Stravinsky had created a highly suitable memorial to his late friend.

Jean Sibelius (1865–1957)—Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D minor, Op. 47 (1904)  

Every field has its early heroes, and among program-note writers, it is Sir Donald Tovey who stands out.  Therefore, when Tovey calls the Sibelius Violin Concerto "one of the three most attractive concertos ever written," it behooves us to pay attention.  Tovey didn't stop there; he added, "I have not met with a more original, a more masterly, and a more exhilarating work." 

Why, then, did the concerto bomb in 1904?  The reasons are many: Sibelius composed the concerto for Willy Burmester, who had been urging Sibelius to write a concerto for some years.  As the concerto neared completion in 1903, Sibelius asked Burmester for a November premiere in Berlin, but Burmester's concert schedule was full until the following March.  Sibelius, however, wanted an autumn premiere—even though the concerto was still unfinished—and he arranged with Viktor Nováček to debut the concerto in Helsinki.  Burmester was outraged, since Nováček was a mediocre performer and couldn't possibly master the new concerto in the limited time available.  Sibelius tried to soothe Burmester by declaring the Berlin concert would be the "real" launch, adding, "Helsinki doesn't mean a thing!!" and explaining that he was forced to present the earlier concert because of his hazardous financial position.  Even though the concert was delayed to February to give Nováček more time to prepare, the debut went poorly.  Afterwards, Sibelius did not deliver the concerto to Burmester, but instead withdrew it and started work on a revision—and then contracted with yet another violinist to premiere the revised version in 1905, when the concerto still failed to excite the public.  It took thirty more years (and Jascha Heifetz) to establish the concerto in the repertory at last.

It is now hard to understand the slow rise to popularity, for each movement juxtaposes beautiful lyricism against somber darkness.  The first movement is an extended rhapsody and the central movement is a poignant romance.  Although the finale is also majestic, it contains what Tovey fondly called "a polonaise for polar bears."

Copyright 2008 by Dr. Alyson McLamore