Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847)

Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage (1828)

Scored for three flutes and piccolo, two oboes, two clarinets, three bassoons and contra bassoon, two horns, three trumpets, tuba, timpani and strings

By the time he was 17, Felix Mendelssohn was an experienced composer who had wrestled with large and small forms in most musical genres, and if he couldn’t claim to be their master, he was at least their equal. It was at the age of 17, in the breakthrough year of 1826, that he wrote his first overture, the magnificent A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which magically transforms Shakespeare’s characters and situations into pure, enchanting music. It was remarkable that one so young could so clearly state his musical intentions and create instrumental and orchestral colors that so uncannily brought to life two different worlds. Two years later it was another literary giant, Goethe, that inspired the composer’s second work in the genre, Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage.

The overture is based on two poems by the German writer from which the piece gets its title. Mendelssohn’s spirits were low and he hoped that “a grand overture will restore my confidence.”

While listening to this music it is interesting to keep in mind that Mendelssohn had never as much as set foot on a boat. All the more remarkable as the composer is able to capture the atmosphere of rolling waves and salty sea breezes with striking clarity.

Mendelssohn’s music follows the poems line by line. The slow introduction, serene but mysterious, places us on the deck of a ship silently floating upon still waters. These lines inspired the music:

 

Deepest calm upon the water,

Sleek and level lies the sea.

Anxiously the sailor watches

For some stirring to the lee.

Not a breeze from any quarter!

Stillness fearsome as the dead.

In the vast expanse of water

Not a wave lifts up its head.

 

But suddenly there is a surge. These lines from Goethe are the music’s impetus:

 

The mists are now sundered,

The sky leaps to brightness,

And Aeolus loosens

The frightening band.

The winds begin blowing,

The sailor is stirring.

Now rapidly flowing,

The billows are parted.

A shadow draws nearer,

And now I see land.

 

Heinrich Eduard Jacob’s description of the finale is delightful: “The trumpet signals the arrival at port. The chords thud and the anchor is dropped with a rattling of chains in triplets. Drums roll a salute.” The theme that so dominates the finale is remarkably similar to the march from Beethoven’s Fidelio. Experts are divided as to whether this is just one of those frequent but remarkable coincidences that occurs in music, or whether this was a deliberate tribute to Beethoven, who, only thirteen years earlier, wrote a cantata based on exactly the same poems.

 

 

Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35 (1878)

Scored for solo violin, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, timpani and strings

In 1877, Tchaikovsky entered into marriage with Nedezhda von Meck, a dear friend, but one with whom the composer “was not the least in love.” Many reasons have been offered for this rash act, but the simple fact is that the marriage was over in nine weeks. Tchaikovsky did not blame his wife in the least for the failed marriage, on the contrary he so overwhelmed himself with guilt that his spirits and his health failed him and he fled to St. Petersburg on the verge of collapse. Placed under a doctor’s care, he was almost incapacitated for several months.

Gradually, though, he began to recover while on a visit to western Europe, and with this recovery his inspiration and natural musical talent returned to him. Over the next two years he completed his opera Eugen Onegin, his Fourth Symphony and his Children’s Suite for piano. But the work that must stand out as the most remarkable of this period is the beloved Violin Concerto. It was completed in less than a month during March and April, 1878.

Apart from delighting audiences since its first performance, it has also enchanted, enraptured and enraged violinists with its emotional, straight-to-the-heart music that often masks the need for a formidable technique. It is one of the giants of the violin repertoire that only the best-of-the-best can pull off.

It certainly seemed to bother Leopold Auer.

Tchaikovsky originally dedicated the work to the great violinist, who, despite his assurances of appreciating such an honor, pronounced the work unplayable. But, of course, Nicolai Rubinstein had said the same thing about Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto only three years before. Hans von Bülow seemed to have no such difficulties when he premiered the work in Boston to a rave reception. The composer knew that just as there was another pianist for that work, there was another violinist for this one. Unfortunately it took another three years before the violinist was revealed in the person of Adolphe Brodsky.

Brodsky himself was a little reticent, but the idea of premiering a work by the famous Russian was enough to overcome his doubts. But due to time constraints, Brodsky had time for only a single rehearsal with the Orchestra of the Philharmonic Concerts, and as a result, both soloist and orchestra displayed a distinct lack of confidence when the big night came. When the papers came out the next morning, the reviews were brutal. The concerto was called “barbaric,” “dreadful” and an exhibition of “Russian nihilism.” But the critic Eduard Hanslick was the most biting:

Discussing lascivious depictions, Friedrich Vischer once asserted that there are pictures which can even make stench visible. Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto presents us for the first time with the horrible idea that musical works may also exist which one can hear stink!

Tchaikovsky was deeply wounded, but, fortunately, Brodsky was undaunted. Wanting to make it up to Tchaikovsky, he performed the work in London, the European mainland and America, and thanks to his dedication, the concerto caught fire and has never since grown cold. Fittingly, just as the critical Rubinstein would become a champion of the First Piano Concerto, so Leopold Auer became a zealous promoter of the one for violin.

The work opens with a gentle string melody resembling a charming minuet from a bygone age. But just as the famous melody in the introduction to the first piano concerto, it disappears never to be heard again. The violins take the lead with a bold, determined melody which effectively builds the suspense, and sets the stage for the introduction of the soloist. The violin muses a little in a short cadenza, finally introducing the first theme: a version of the melody introduced by the violins only measures earlier is cast in the major mode, and is now sunny and vibrant. The equally engaging and expressive second theme is introduced after a passionate swell. In the development section Tchaikovsky brilliantly interweaves the two main themes and the music reaches a climax and then the orchestra steps aside to let the violin do its stuff in a brilliant cadenza. The cadenza is Tchaikovsky’s own and here he elaborates further on the melodic material that has defined the movement so far. The cadenza acts as a bridge to the recapitulation, itself leading to a magnificent and exhilarating coda.

The more Tchaikovsky heard the original second movement to this concerto, the more he realized it just didn’t work. As quickly as he could, the composer wrote the beautiful Canzonetta as a replacement. It is surprising how many pieces that composers were forced to write in a hurry turned out to be real gems. This music is pure inspiration, the violin delicately spinning out the most exquisitely lovely and movingly rhapsodic utterances in the concerto. The orchestral accompaniment is an equally sensitive, sympathetic voice.

In spite of the deeply touching music we have just heard, the composer doesn’t even give us time for a gentle sigh before rushing headlong into the finale. After an orchestral introduction Tchaikovsky gives the violin an improvisatory Gypsy-like cadenza before introducing the dancing main theme. The second theme is distinctly rustic in nature with its droning accompaniment. The movement continues throughout in uninhibited joy, free from pretensions and social graces. It is hard to understand why Hanslick was so offended and why Auer so dismissive of this delightfully festive Tchaikovsky masterpiece. 

 

 

Johaness Brahms (1833-1897)

Symphony No. 3 in F Major, Op. 90 (1883)

Scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, three bassoons and contra bassoon, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, timpani and strings

 

In 1882, Johaness Brahms wrote to his publisher Simrock and told him resolutely that he would no longer compose. He felt he was too old and too tired and that was an end to it. To those who didn’t know Brahms, this announcement might have come as a shock, but Simrock had been a friend of Brahms for far too many years to take him at his word.

Brahms’ characteristically self-deprecatory manner was extremely familiar to those closest to him, and it was no secret that Brahms could display a disconcerting Jeckyl and Hyde personality. He had a sharp tongue, was lacking in social graces and was almost tactless in speaking his mind. On the other hand he was also capable of great generosity and affection when warranted. But it was also well-known that when Brahms said something, the exact opposite was probably true. So when Brahms told Simrock he was retiring, then the publisher could most probably tell his engraver to stand by. It most assuredly came as no shock, then, when Brahms offered him a new symphony the following year.

This was his third in the genre and his most compact and tightly constructed. It has often been described as the most Brahmsian of all of his symphonies. In its pages we find the terse and the gracious, sudden outbursts of emotion and peaceful calm, the tragic and the triumphant, and, finally, resignation. It is much like Brahms in its way: four movements of concentrated dynamite which must be handled with care.

The work represents Brahms’ only truly cyclical symphony. The first movement’s main theme returns at the symphony’s end, and the second theme of the slow movement is also presented in the finale. The opening theme is based on the notes F-A-F, which many have connected with Brahms own personal motto, Frei aber froh, “Free, but happy” (surely another contradiction for Brahms).

Although the opening chords that introduce the F-A-F motto are stated with resolution, there is also an obvious uncertainty as to whether the key is F major or F minor. The symphony is designated the key of F major, but the introduction of an A-flat at the outset creates a powerful conflict. This conflict is not resolved until the clarinet introduces the lyrical second theme which firmly establishes an A-natural and the key of A major. This theme is made all the more poignant precisely because of the conflict and doubt cast on the opening key. By the end of the exposition, it has shifted to A minor. In the development, the clarinet theme is taken up by the cellos in a passionate song in C minor. The section proceeds with dramatic energy, but a sudden and unexpected change of mood is heightened by a somber horn call. The opening theme, not heard since the beginning of the exposition, is sounded once more, but not assertively as at first. It is now ominous, almost menacing, and as it is shared between low strings and winds, the music builds slowly, agonizingly, until the tension is almost overwhelming. Then, finally, Brahms allows the recapitulation to begin, which, seemingly overwhelmed by what has come before, offers no new surprises. The coda is expansive and after an initial show of strength, it fades away, leaving a lasting impression of the opening motto, which we have by no means heard the last of.

Winds dominate the pastoral Andante, which unfolds with unbridled charm. But even here, the storm clouds that overwhelmed the first movement make themselves known, quietly at first, but in no uncertain terms in the powerfully passionate development section. Here the F-A-F motto is not obvious or dominating, but its presence is felt.

The calm and tranquil third movement attempts to leave the clouds behind. Disquiet interrupts the scene as the movement progresses, though not enough to supplant its beauty or serenity. In the middle section the violins and cellos share an ardent duet.

Once again, the finale, which should be in the major key, is in F minor. An ominous melody is played by the strings in unison. Before long, a motif based on the second theme of the third movement is announced by the trombones, now tragic in its utterance. The tension builds but is finally broken by the entrance of the muted violas in a triplet figure. Oboe and horn bring to remembrance the symphony’s opening F-A-F motto, which is then firmly established by the flute. Then the first movement’s opening melody, barely recognizable because of its calm, is heard once more as the work ends in contented calm.