Upcoming Concert:

	Giovanni Gabrieli

Classics Finale
Saturday, May 2, 2009 - 8 pm
Anne Akiko Meyers, Violin

Giovanni Gabrieli (c. 1554/7–1612)
Antiphonal Music   

Composers are motivated to create music by many different sources of inspiration—religious fervor, a desire to entertain, the need to express something ineffable.  In the case of Giovanni Gabrieli, he may have been prompted by the architecture of his workplace, St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice.  Gabrieli had won the prestigious post of organist in a competition held on New Year’s Day, 1585, holding that post until his death some 27 years later.  During that long career, Gabrieli followed the lead of his predecessors, especially his uncle Andrea Gabrieli and Claudio Merulo.  The older composers had begun to capitalize on some of the special design features of the basilica: not only did it contain multiple choir lofts, but it had two separate organs as well.  These divided spaces made it a simple matter to present an antiphonal “surround-sound” effect, which the Italians called cori spezzati (split choirs).  The music sung by varied half-choirs would resound through the basilica, having an overwhelming effect on listeners.  Gabrieli began to add more and more instruments to the rich mixture, and wrote numerous pieces for instruments alone.  His ideas were imitated throughout Europe, and many foreign musicians came south to study with him. 

As if the powerful stereophonic effects weren’t enough of a legacy, Gabrieli was also an innovator in another element we now take for granted: that of dynamics.   An instrumental piece by Gabrieli called Sonata pian’ e forte may have been the very first work to call for “soft” and “loud” volume contrasts.  Another composer beat Gabrieli to the punch in publishing a composition with dynamic markings, but Gabrieli’s sonata had been circulating widely via manuscript copies even earlier.

	Samuel Barber

Samuel Barber (1910–1981)
Violin Concerto, Op. 14 (1940)  

We know why Barber wrote his only violin concerto: it was a $1,000 commission from the Philadelphia businessman Samuel Fels, who had made his fortune manufacturing Fels-Naptha soap. Fels, a trustee of the Curtis Institute of Music, was sponsoring a prodigy named Iso Briselli, a violinist from Odessa (whom he would later adopt).  We know where Barber wrote the concerto: he began it in the summer of 1939 in Switzerland, continued working on it in Paris later that summer, and then finished it back in the United States (after heeding warnings that Americans should flee Europe as the Nazis marched toward Poland).  But we're not quite sure why Briselli did not—in the end—premiere the concerto. 

The puzzle lies in a series of “he says / he says” claims.  Barber’s version was that Briselli found the finale too difficult (even “unplayable”), while Briselli declared (after Barber’s death) that he found the finale really too easy—too lightweight.  Neither account makes much sense, in light of the concerto itself.  After two beautiful, expressive movements (which demonstrate why Barber is regarded as one of the 20th century's foremost “neo-Romantic” composers), the finale is a dramatic “Presto in moto perpetuo,” requiring the violinist to play continuously for 110 measures.  This Presto is brilliant and showy—a perfect foil to the rhapsodic earlier movements. 
 
It is tempting to suspect that Barber may have been the more reliable source, because of subsequent events in 1939.  Herbert Baumel, another violin student at Curtis, was sitting in the commons room one afternoon that autumn when the pianist Ralph Berkowitz marched in, handed Baumel a manuscript, told him to go practice it at a “very fast” tempo, and then to return in a couple of hours “dressed up” in order to play it for some people.  The “people” turned out to include Mary Curtis Bok, founder of the Institute, as well as Gian Carlo Menotti; they agreed with Barber that the concerto was indeed “playable” and that Barber should receive the full commission.  Why undergo this exercise if the playability of the work had not been brought into question?  In any event, the work enjoyed a “storm of applause” at its premiere in 1941, and has continued to be a prized part of the violin repertory. 

	Ludwig van Beethoven

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827)
Symphony No. 5 in C minor, Op. 67 (1808) 

 People almost always enjoy tales of unrecognized genius—the failing grades Albert Einstein earned in school, the jeers targeted at Galileo for claiming the earth revolved around the sun.  Yet, it is fairly astonishing to think that one of classical music's most famous works—if not the most famous—met with an initially poor reception.  Actually, it wasn't so much that the poorly rehearsed Symphony No. 5 was panned outright; it was overshadowed by various disasters suffered by other pieces on the same enormous program.  Nevertheless, there were those who recognized its incredible power from the start, and, of course, as it has been linked in listeners' minds with Beethoven's determination to overcome his despair over his failing hearing, the work has become an indelible symbol of triumph over adversity.  

The marvelous power of the symphony is evident from the very outset, when its famous four powerful notes are pounded out for the first time in the stormy key of C minor.  That opening short-short-short-looooong rhythmic motif then reappears in nearly every measure of the vast first movement.  Beethoven never said that the rhythm represented “Fate knocking at the door”—but if Fate did come for a visit, we can imagine that its arrival surely would sound very much like that emphatic rhythm. 

The second movement, Andante con moto, is constructed as a double theme-and-variations structure, quite peaceful at first—until the second theme blasts its way into the forefront, repeatedly playing the same rhythm we recognize from the opening of the symphony.  It was uncommon in Beethoven’s day to re-use musical motifs from movement to movement—but Beethoven weaves that same distinctive rhythm into all four of the symphony’s movements, and part of the fun for listeners is detecting the motif in all its different disguises.
 Beethoven has another surprise for us in the scherzo: it never ends!  Instead, it leads without pause (via a mysterious passage for the timpani) directly to the majestic finale in the “wrong” key of C major—allowing the symphony to triumph anew at every performance.

Copyright 2009 by Dr. Alyson McLamore

Previous Concerts during 2008-09 Season

	Felix Mendelssohn

"A New World"
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Alyssa Park, Violin

 Felix Mendelssohn (1809–1847)
Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64 (1844)

The Violin Concerto would prove to be Mendelssohn's last major work, and it certainly ranks with his greatest achievements. Mendelssohn is sometimes called "the 19th-century Mozart"; like his 18th-century predecessor, Mendelssohn had been a child prodigy who sustained his talent into adulthood but died regrettably young (Mozart was 35, Mendelssohn was 38). Also, like Mozart, Mendelssohn did not shy away from experimenting with the standard genres, peppering them with various unexpected elements. For instance, in the violin concerto, Mendelssohn allows the violin soloist to take the lead right from the start, instead of asking the soloist to wait until the orchestra had introduced all the main themes.

There are other surprises to come in the concerto. Classical music aficionados know that the solo cadenza is one of a concerto's highlights, but Mendelssohn's cadenza is placed unexpectedly early—right after the first movement’s development, instead of just before the coda. Moreover, Mendelssohn connects all three movements together, letting a sustained note in the bassoon link the first and the songlike second movements, and giving a recitative-like passage to the violin before launching into the sparkling finale.

Beyond its innovations, Mendelssohn’s violin concerto provides plenty of conventional challenges to its soloist. Besides needing to play "with the greatest delicacy" throughout the work, often ascending into stratospheric heights, the violinist must be skilled at controlling double-stops (simultaneous notes), especially during the second movement. Once the finale begins (after the transitional recitative passage in the solo violin), the soloist has virtually no further opportunity to rest until the final cadence. The finale’s sparkle and dash remind us that this was the composer who also wrote the engaging incidental music to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It is small wonder that this work has become one of the most beloved of violin concertos. David wrote to Mendelssohn after the premiere, "Violinists cannot thank you enough for this gift"; the same can be said of audiences. 

	Antonín Dvořák

Antonín Dvořák (1841–1904) – Symphony No. 9 in E minor, Op. 95 "From the New World" (1893)

There is a first time for everything, and thus it is true—it must be true—that a person could be enjoying Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9, Op. 95 "From the New World" for the first time this evening. Certain pieces have entered the public’s collective consciousness so indelibly that it’s hard to remember that there was once a first listening experience. And, with a piece like this Dvořák symphony, so much of its music has subsequently been woven into advertising and into film scores that it sounds familiar even if one has not heard the entire symphony from beginning to end.

In truth, though, the audience at New York’s Carnegie Hall on December 8, 1893, must have had a considerable "déjà vu" reaction while listening to the symphony’s very first performance, for it contains many themes that echo the spirit of American folk tunes. Dvořák had been absorbing these "American" sounds since his arrival in 1892; he had come to the United States at the behest of Mrs. Jeanette Thurber, who had teamed with several other philanthropists (including Andrew Carnegie and William K. Vanderbilt) to found the National Conservatory of Music. This admirable institution was the first to seek talented students without regard for their race, gender, or ability to pay; even the physically handicapped were welcome. Mrs. Thurber was anxious that the conservatory should have a director who would aid its mission to encourage the development of American concert music, and Dvořák seemed like a perfect fit: he was admired internationally, he was a conscientious teacher, and he understood the power of music to support feelings of national patriotism.

Through his position as head of the school, Dvořák had come to know students such as Harry T. Burleigh who would sing African-American spirituals for him. Moreover, Dvořák attended New York performances of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show with its purportedly "Indian" music. Dvořák heard similarities in both and said that those characteristics influenced the tunes he created for his new symphony. (Scholars believe that Dvořák had noticed the frequent use of five-note scales in both traditions.) Analysts argue over just which melodies might have inspired Dvořák the most; some listeners believe they can detect bits of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" in the first movement (and others hear "Turkey in the Straw"); still more people point to Dvořák’s own Czech heritage for some of the symphony’s energy and rhythmic vitality.

Regardless of Dvořák’s points of inspiration, he produced a masterpiece. The first movement’s slow opening relaxes us before the "blood and thunder" of the "Allegro molto" begins. The "Largo’s" beautiful tune was original to Dvořák, but words were added later to create the pseudo-spiritual "Goin’ Home"; Dvořák himself said he was inspired by Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha. The energetic "Scherzo" is perhaps the most "Czech" movement, with ominous bookends surrounding more cheerful material. The beginning of the dramatic finale reminds us that John Williams must have been listening to this influential symphony not long before composing his own music for Jaws.

Copyright 2008 by Dr. Alyson McLamore  

Hector Berlioz (1803–1869)
Roman Carnival Overture (1844)

By the 1840s, Hector Berlioz was known as a "noisy" composer. This reputation had been building steadily; as early as 1830, Berlioz had wooed his future wife with the Symphonie fantastique, carrying listeners from elegant ballroom dances to the countryside, a guillotine, and finally to a spooky witches’ Sabbath. That same year, Berlioz won the prestigious Prix de Rome, so during his 15-month stay in the Eternal City, he witnessed its riotous carnival celebrations firsthand. Upon his return to France, he presented a number of ambitious pieces, not always successfully; his 1838 opera Benvenuto Cellini was (as Berlioz put it), "hissed with energy and unanimity." He felt that part of its failure had been due to poor leadership from the conductor Habeneck, whose tempo for the carnival scene’s saltarello dance was far too slow, and this experience taught Berlioz that it was a useful skill for a composer to be able to conduct his own works.

Putting that wisdom into practice, Berlioz launched into a series of increasingly enormous concerts; a performance in 1844 featured more than 1000 musicians (another contribution to his "noisy" reputation). Berlioz also turned out new compositions over the next several years, and in 1844 he adapted motifs from Benvenuto Cellini’s saltarello theme as the basis for a new orchestral work: the Roman Carnival Overture. Berlioz interwove the energetic saltarello with lovely arias from the opera as well as new material.

It seemed like disaster loomed before the overture’s premiere; not only was Berlioz allowed only one rehearsal, but also the wind players were absent, since they had National Guard duties that morning. The players were worried, but Berlioz reassured them that they were all excellent musicians and if they would follow him carefully, everything would be all right. Berlioz was correct: the piece was encored twice, and as he passed Habeneck (who had been standing in the wings of the stage), Berlioz announced, "That’s how it goes." Habeneck did not reply.

	Leonard Bernstein

Leonard Bernstein (1918–1990)
Symphonic Dances from West Side Story (1960)

In the 18th century, as concerts developed a public following, composers began churning out streams of symphonies to sell in this new marketplace. Haydn wrote more than a hundred symphonies, and Mozart composed nearly 60. Both Haydn and Mozart produced many orchestral masterpieces, of course, but quite a few of their other symphonies were not particular stand-outs. With each new generation of composers, though, increasing attention was given to quality in preference to quantity. Beethoven completed only nine symphonies, and Brahms didn’t finish the first of his four symphonies until after he had reached his forties.

Musical theater followed a similar progression. In the early decades of Broadway musicals, craftsmen such as Jerome Kern might scratch out four or five complete shows during a single year. The music was appealing, and occasional pieces became hit songs or dances, but no one expected the scores to be anything other than ephemeral. By mid-century, however, theater composers worked long and hard on their show music; West Side Story (1957), a retelling of Romeo and Juliet in a tough New York environment, had been years in the making. Composer Leonard Bernstein completed much of the orchestration himself, instead of simply delegating this task to others, the usual practice of earlier stage composers.

With such care lavished on the musical score, it is no surprise that Bernstein could later derive a powerful concert piece from the show’s melodies (just as Berlioz had done with his opera more than a century earlier). Bernstein titled the new work Symphonic Dances from West Side Story, but the concert piece employs more than just the show’s dance tunes; several of West Side Story’s dramatic peaks are also heard in Symphonic Dances. Bernstein makes full use of a large orchestra in the concert work, but the beautiful layering does not forget the structure of the stage tragedy, making us realize how rich the original Broadway score truly was. It is a tribute to Bernstein’s skill that these Symphonic Dances seem to "sing" even without voices.

	Ludwig van Beethoven

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827)
Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat Major, Op. 73 "Emperor" (1809)

1809 was a difficult time for Beethoven. His hearing loss was increasing daily—and to make matters worse, the French army was laying siege to Vienna. The bombardment was so loud that Beethoven huddled in his brother’s cellar with pillows pressed to his ears—not out of fear, exactly, but in a desperate attempt to protect his hearing from the piercing sound of the howitzers. Moreover, the wartime conditions meant that Beethoven’s recently awarded annuity (presented by several Austrian benefactors to ensure that he would remain an honored Viennese artist, rather than seeking his fortune elsewhere in Europe) did not have its expected buying power. Beethoven complained to his publishers in late July that his compositional efforts had been fragmentary and disconnected; around him, he said, was "nothing but drums, cannons, and human misery in every form."

Despite the chaotic atmosphere, Beethoven did manage to produce quite a bit of music: the "Harp" quartet, three piano sonatas, various Lieder and other small pieces, as well as his magisterial fifth concerto for piano and orchestra, now known as the "Emperor." To be sure, Beethoven did not give it that nickname, nor would he have endorsed it, given his unhappiness with the behavior of Napoleon Bonaparte. Nevertheless, the label suits the work; few pieces by Beethoven have inspired such dramatic descriptions. Harris Goldsmith commented that the concerto "addresses the multitudes over a public address system," and Joseph Kerman felt that in the powerful opening bars, "the battle seems to be won even before the forces have been drawn up."

Perhaps because of the many external circumstances that were beyond Beethoven’s control, he manipulated the usual concerto structure in numerous unexpected ways. Although there is an emphatic opening chord in the orchestra, the piano immediately seizes the stage. Beethoven dictates the terms of the cadenza, refusing to give the soloist the customary opportunity to improvise. The key shifts between movements are completely out of the norm—and the overall result has become one of the lasting and beloved bulwarks of the concerto repertory.

Copyright 2008 by Dr. Alyson McLamore

	Zuill Bailey, Cellist

Pastoral Passion
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Zuill Bailey, Cello

Robert Schumann (1810–1856)
Symphony No. 3, Op. 97 ("Rhenish")  (1850) 

It seems a cruel irony that a composer could write a piece in celebration of the great Rhine river and then try to drown himself in that same icy river four years later.  But thus was the nature of the mental illness (complicated by syphilis) that plagued Robert Schumann in the last years of his life.  Schumann moved with his family to Düsseldorf in September 1850, where he had been hired as municipal music director.  They visited the enormous Cologne Cathedral, still under construction, and then witnessed the solemn ceremony of the archbishop's elevation to cardinal.   This experience seems to have inspired Schumann to begin composing a symphony for his new city orchestra—the first symphony Schumann had composed in almost five years.  (His wife Clara confided to her diary: "Robert is working on something, but I don't know what it is.") Although the resulting Symphony No. 3 was actually Schumann's fourth (and last) symphony, it was the third to be published—hence its number.

	Robert Schumann

The symphony opens with a rapturous first movement, followed by a Scherzo (initially called "Morning on the Rhine," Schumann's first label), which resembles a Ländler, a rustic folk dance.  Schumann dropped the subtitle since he feared that critics might not take his work seriously. The third movement, a gentle introspection, is succeeded by another slow movement; its fanfares were inspired by the earlier cathedral ceremony.  The solemnity of this slow movement accentuates the brilliance of the finale; this transition from one movement to the next has been compared with the blinding sensation one feels when one has been inside a shadowy cathedral and then steps outside into bright sunshine. The finale is another lively romp, incorporating the melody from an energetic Rhenish folk-tune.  It also gives listeners a mini-review of the overall symphony, since it revisits several of the earlier themes.

Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921)
Cello Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Op. 33 (1873)  

	Camille Saint-Saens

Although Camille Saint-Saëns spent his first two years in a nursing home due to a case of tuberculosis as an infant, he quickly displayed precocious talents once he was back in his mother’s house.  By age 10, he was ready to make his formal debut on the piano, and he was admitted into the Paris Conservatory at age 13.  His impressive talents won him many admirers along the way; Berlioz quipped, “He knows everything but lacks inexperience.”  Saint-Saëns had an insatiable curiosity about music, both from the past and the present; he was an early champion of Bach’s music when the Baroque master was still little known, and he also helped reestablish the music of Handel and Mozart.  At the same time, he defended several composers of his own day against the criticisms of conservative older Frenchmen, supporting the innovations of Schumann, Liszt, and even Wagner.  However, after the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), Saint-Saëns threw himself whole-heartedly into the efforts to establish a clear-cut “French” style—distinct from the Germanic approach that had dominated European music in much of the 19th century. 
 Listeners who are familiar with Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of the Animals are aware that Saint-Saëns had no trouble in writing effective showcases for many different instruments.  His first concerto for cello, therefore, displayed a tremendous understanding of the instrument’s capabilities, even though Saint-Saëns was not a cellist himself.  Moreover, as the eminent critic Sir Donald Tovey noted, Saint-Saëns was equally adept in balancing the solo part with the full orchestra—a quality that has certainly contributed to the concerto’s continuing popularity among virtuosic cellists.  Rostropovich played the concerto at his own public concert debut (at age 13). 
 The spotlight first shines on the cello just moments after the concerto begins; the orchestra sounds only one short chord before the cello takes over.  It is possible that Saint-Saëns tipped his hat to Schumann in his choice of key, since Schumann’s own cello concerto is also in A minor.  Saint-Saëns also may have borrowed from Liszt’s ideas about creating cyclical unity; themes from early in the work reappear later on.  Unlike older concertos, customarily crafted as three separate movements, Saint-Saëns connects the three portions of his concerto without pause.  However, the delicate, dance-like atmosphere at the start of the Allegretto helps the central segment to stand apart.  After several very low, slow notes in the cello, renewed flurries of high woodwinds then signal the launch of the third section.  A highlight of the finale is the cello’s huge scale, starting on its lowest “C” and ascending five and a half octaves to a stratospheric “F.”

Notes printed above Copyright 2009 by Dr. Alyson McLamore

	Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)
Variations on a Rococo Theme for Cello and Orchestra (1876) 

Exactly when Tchaikovsky completed his Variations on a Rococo Theme, Op. 33 is not documented.  We know only that he was at work on the score in December 1876, intending it for the German-born cellist Wilhelm Fitzenhagen, a professor at the Moscow Conservatory.  To ensure that the cello writing was idiomatic, Tchaikovsky gave Fitzenhagen a free hand with it: indeed, in the short score, much of the cello part is in Fitzenhagen’s handwriting.

Before the premiere of Rococo Variations, Tchaikovsky left Russia for a lengthy stay in Western Europe, and with the composer absent, Fitzenhagen chose to make significant structural alterations in the piece. Fitzenhagen decided to repeat both halves of the cello portion of Tchaikovsky’s theme.  Moreover, he swapped the positions of Tchaikovsky’s two slow variations (Nos. 3 and 7) along with their preceding transitions.  The original Variation No. 4 still followed No. 3 and now served as a finale, with the close of Tchaikovsky’s coda spliced to the end of it. (Tchaikovsky’s last variation [No. 8] was discarded).

Fitzenhagen premiered the Rococo Variations at a Moscow concert conducted by Nikolai Rubinstein on November 30, 1877, and the piece reached print in his version.  As Tchaikovsky showed the resulting edition to the cellist Anatoly Brandukov, one of Fitzenhagen’s students, he fulminated against its perpetrator, whom he scurrilously dubbed “Fitzenfart,” exclaiming, “Look what he’s done to my piece—he’s altered everything!”  But when Brandukov asked whether Tchaikovsky intended to undo the meddling, the composer said, “The devil take it.  Let it stay as it is!”  By the time the original became available in 1941, the Fitzenhagen was well established, and even today many cellists prefer it to the restoration.  In fact, whatever may be said about authenticity in the abstract, the Fitzenhagen score—heard tonight—is neither unintelligent nor ineffective as a presentation of Tchaikovsky’s materials.

After a brief orchestral introduction, the cello commences the theme with a courtly rococo melody.  The theme continues with a woodwind codetta in a more romantic vein.  In later variations, free treatment of this codetta allows Tchaikovsky latitude for cadenza-like excursions that soften the edges of variation-form.  Chuckling cello triplets dominate the first variation; then a scherzo brings sizzling upward scales.  After a serene, exalted cantabile, a variation of relaxed jauntiness unfolds.  This is frequently interrupted by cadenzas, as is the ensuing variation, launched by the melody in flute over cello trills.  A lengthy cadenza then ushers doleful Tchaikovskian lamentation, but the exuberant perpetual motion finale banishes shadows, and non-stop virtuoso salvoes propel the work to a triumphant close.

Notes on Tchaikovsky Copyright 2009 by Benjamin Folkman

	Maria Jette

Heavenly Life
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Maria Jette, Soprano

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756–1791)
Overture to Der Schauspieldirektor, K. 486 (1786)  
 
It would be interesting to know Mozart’s first reaction when he received word that Emperor Joseph II wanted a new short stage piece early in 1786; was it panic?  After all, Mozart was already hard at work, writing The Marriage of Figaro as well as completing three new piano concertos to be performed at concerts during Lent, just weeks away.  Still, an imperial commission is nothing to sneeze at, and to increase Mozart’s motivation, the stage piece was to be a Singspiel—a German-language opera—which would share the program with an Italian piece to be written by Antonio Salieri; both works were to be presented at the emperor’s palace at Schönbrunn as part of a “pleasure festival” to entertain a visiting duke and archduchess.  Mozart surely had dreams of outshining his rival composer.

The poetry and spoken dialogue for the commission, Der Schauspieldirektor (The Impresario), arrived from the librettist Gottlieb Stephanie, Jr., on January 18, and Mozart immediately started work.  The libretto was not terribly strong, but we would never know that from the caliber of Mozart’s contribution to the Singspiel; from the first notes of the overture, his music seems to sparkle.  The plot of the Singspiel centers on an impresario who is auditioning two sopranos for a role in an upcoming opera.  The story contains intrigue, duplicity, and of course glorious singing.  The spirit of that libretto can be felt in the orchestral overture: there are sudden dynamic contrasts, with quiet “sneaky” interludes between powerful blasts from the full ensemble.  Careful listeners may notice that Mozart uses three-bar phrases for the first dozen bars of the overture, perhaps trying to keep us off-balance—just as the impresario must be pulled different ways in the story to come.  Although Stephanie’s topical humor lasted scarcely beyond the Singspiel’s February 7 premiere, Mozart’s music has proven to be timeless.

	Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Exsultate, jubilate, K. 165/158a (1773)  

Most soloists and ensembles today pride themselves on achieving good “performance practice,” observing, to the best of their abilities, the musical interpretative customs that prevailed when a particular work premiered.  Mozart, however, gives us a significant modern challenge with Exsultate, jubilate—for this motet was written for the talents of the (male) castrato Venanzio Rauzzini.  Castrati, of course, are in markedly short supply here in the early 21st century, but fortunately we are blessed with admirable (female) sopranos who are fully equal to the demanding task that Mozart set for Rauzzini. 
 Mozart had just met Rauzzini, having come to Milan to hear the singer star in Mozart’s new opera Lucio Silla.  Mozart’s father—never one to gush—claimed that Rauzzini "sang like an angel."  Apparently to take further advantage of this glorious voice, Mozart composed Exsultate, jubilate, and the work made its debut on January 17, 1773, in the Church of San Antonio, a Theatine church in Milan (the Theatine order was founded in the sixteenth century to combat Lutheranism).  Although the text is sacred, Mozart gave it a dazzling, almost theatrical, setting—partly to showcase Rauzzini’s astonishing flexibility and also to serve the Theatine church’s desire to inspire its congregation. 
 In any event, Exsultate, jubilate is the most popular of Mozart's early sacred pieces.  Surprisingly, it is structured rather like an instrumental concerto, with three main sections in contrasting tempos (fast, slow, fast); there is even a cadenza in the first movement. The recitative that precedes the lovely second movement is a reminder that this is vocal music, but the florid brilliance of the closing "Alleluia" evokes the operatic stage even more than the church.  Previously, though, Pope Benedict XIV had opened the door to this sort of lush vocal display; in a papal letter of 1749, he reasoned that for the human imagination, such "splendor of sound" foreshadowed "eternal bliss."  Certainly, the beauty of the joyful "Alleluia" does seem to offer us a glimpse of a higher plane—and it’s not a bad effort for a sixteen-year-old composer, to boot!

	Gustav Mahler

Gustav Mahler (1860–1911)
Symphony No. 4 in G Major (1901) 
 
In 1904, a New York critic called Mahler’s Fourth Symphony “a drooling and emasculated musical monstrosity.” At the Viennese premiere in 1902, Mahler’s devoted disciple Bruno Walter recalled, “The explosion of contrary opinions was so violent that fisticuffs ensued between opponents and enthusiasts”; Walter had been unable to attend the work’s contentious first-ever performance in Munich the preceding December, but “learned from a friend how badly things had gone.”   Why, then, would Maestro Nowak subject tonight’s audience to what the New York critic viewed as “the worst musical torture”? 
 Perhaps it is because Mahler was only too right when he declared, “My time will come.”  We must remember that Mahler was not the first composer to struggle for widespread recognition; at the time of Bach’s death, he was viewed as a provincial organist and as a musical dinosaur, and of course Mozart strove fruitlessly for court appointments and commissions that went to rivals long forgotten today.  It wasn’t until after World War II, as the technology for long-playing records was perfected, that Mahler began to enjoy a renaissance, perhaps because of a change in the audience itself.  His music often embraces a transcendence that modern listeners may need more than ever before.  In any event, the Fourth Symphony no longer provokes cat-calls; instead, it is often regarded as Mahler’s most accessible symphony.   
 In Mahler’s first three symphonies, he had given listeners an explicit “program”—a storyline to be depicted by the music.  He refused to provide this direction for the Fourth Symphony (which may have contributed to its initial poor reception), but scholars have unearthed various hints as to his thoughts.  The first movement’s sleighbells and “whistling” flute solo create an earthly worldliness, while the deliberately mis-tuned violin in the second movement evokes the medieval concept of a fiddle-playing devil and his dance of death.  Mahler once mentioned that the double variations of the third movement reflected his mother’s constantly loving face despite suffering, while the use of a soprano in the finale allows us to hear text: poetry that celebrates a simple, joyful vision of heaven. 

Copyright 2009 by Dr. Alyson McLamore