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Program Notes - November 17, 2001
Overture
to “William Tell”
Gioacchino Rossini (1792-1886)
Gioacchino
Rossini hardly fits the stereotype of the genius composer. He was not a “struggling artist”. He was not torn by emotional
turmoil. He didn’t even die young. Rather, he loved life and lived it fully, his
robust and jovial nature carrying over into his works. As a young man, music was a means
to his own ends. To support his buoyant
lifestyle he churned out one opera after another, all brilliantly executed. By age forty he had completed more than
three-dozen operas, nearly all successful. His
music brought him wealth, but his health deteriorated. In mid-life, at the peak of his popularity, he abandoned composing
altogether, in spite of impassioned pleas of his adoring public. Although he resumed composing late in his life
(giving him essentially a second career, aesthetically), he never wrote another opera.
Modern
audiences have come to love them, especially his less serious works. Their rich interplay between characters and
situation, together with a freely expressive musical treatment, make them the epitome of
comic operas. They are among the most frequently performed, staples of the operatic
repertoire. However, his best operatic work
might have been his most serious, as well as his last: William Tell.
Based
upon the legend of the champion archer who was compelled under order of the king to shoot
an apple from the top of his son’s head, the work exudes drama as his earlier operas
had bubbled over with comedy. He considered
it his best work, so it is strange that the full opera is performed infrequently, though
it has not disappeared from the repertoire. The
music of its overture, however, contains the most famous notes he ever wrote (thanks to
Hollywood, television, and that famous Texas law officer who wore a mask and fired silver
bullets!)
The
overture, however, contains much more music than that one famous theme. It opens with a virtuosic segment for celli and
double basses (who usually play as a single section in unison, except for occasional solos
by the principal player). In a true tour
de force, Rossini divides the passage into eight separate parts – in a small
orchestra, this forces every player to be a soloist!
This is followed by possibly the
most graphic description of a thunderstorm to be found in orchestra literature, worthy of
any tone poem ever written to express a musical image. The English horn and flute sing out a lyrical repose – the “calm
after the storm” which always seems to follow this kind of weather.
The
calm is broken by a heroic trumpet entrance (announcing, of course, the entrance of the
hero). It is one of the few passages in music
that is recognized by every listener after hearing only its first four notes! The remainder of the overture is possibly the most
vigorous, exciting music Rossini ever wrote. It
is certainly his best known.
Violin
Concerto in e-minor, op. 64
Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847)
Felix
Mendelssohn’s early life doesn’t follow the usual path taken by most
prodigies. His father, a successful banker
and importer, had no need to exploit his son’s talent. Though aware of Felix’s abilities, he was
nevertheless more concerned that his son would develop fully into a well-rounded
gentleman. A truly well mannered young boy
should learn to appreciate beauty wherever he found it – literature, art, philosophy,
as well as music. More importantly, he should
fit naturally into the aristocracy, in keeping with the family’s wealth. Music was to be an avocation, not a career.
In
spite of his father’s wishes, Felix knew where his genius lay, and insisted on music. Eventually, Dad gave in. The elder Mendelssohn then turned his power and
wealth to promoting his son’s musical career, which immediately flourished. Felix became not only a successful composer and
conductor, but also one of the strongest musical influences on the business of music. He became a champion of Schubert, discovering the
manuscripts of the Eighth and Ninth Symphonies, and organizing their successful posthumous
premieres. He also essentially rescued Bach
from oblivion.
Until
anti-Semitism hit the German musical scene (Mendelssohn’s family had converted to
Christianity, but he was still stigmatized as originally Jewish) Felix was one of the most
influential musicians in Germany, and his works were frequently performed and highly
regarded. For a long time his music was belittled, but its elegant perfection is now once
again admired.
Besides
his keyboard skills, Felix early on developed an uncanny understanding of how the
aesthetic qualities of music related to its structure. He could easily analyze what was right or wrong with a piece of music –
why it did or didn’t “work”. This
might be explained as sheer intellectual power, for the boy was a genius in the
traditional sense. More important, however,
was his creative spark. His early music is
more original than Mozart’s had been at the same age.
Mendelssohns’ muse is a true synthesis of the Classic and Romantic ideals. He crafted his works very carefully, in the
classic tradition, and generally adhered to its structural forms. A perfectionist, he carefully revised his
compositions until they met his own high artistic standards before releasing them to the
world. However, he used this careful
Classical craftsmanship for extremely expressive purposes, as demanded by the Romantic
era. His music encompasses many moods – from dark, brooding tension through gay
festivity and graceful elegance, to soaring jubilation.
Unfortunately
for the musical world, Mendelssohn died at an early age (as had the man he championed so
vigorously – Schubert). The Violin
Concerto was one of his very last works. Its four movements, which flow one into
another played without pause, is essentially on the bright side of his spectrum. It requires virtuosity, but is much more than a
mere showpiece to display the soloist’s skills.
The orchestral accompaniment is integral for its success. It has never fallen from favor like his other
compositions, and is one of the most frequently played violin concerti.
Symphony no. 3 in c-minor, op. 78 “Organ Symphony”
Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921)
Late in the nineteenth century, by the time that Berlioz had finally been
recognized as a genius, the established composers in French circles were still
ultra-conservative. Debussy was being
reviled for his modernism, Franck was derided as a pretentious mystic and Camille Saint-
Saëns was the recognized leader of the “conservative establishment”. We now recognize how important the
experimentation that was beginning to take place would be to the ultimate development of
music in the twentieth century. Because
Saint-Saëns led the resistance to these experiments, many modernists now tend to regard
him as old fashioned and unprogressive, and consign much of his music to the unflattering
category of “fashionable but
unimaginative”.
Though
perhaps it is appropriate to condemn Saint-Saëns himself for his reactionism, it would be
a mistake to consider his music unworthy because of it. He was a consummate craftsman, and wrote music of beauty and power. His piano and violin concerti are staples of the
repertoire, and an excerpt from his opera “Samson and Delila” (the
Bacchanale) is so familiar that it has almost been relegated to the realm of “Pops” orchestral compositions. One
particular work, however, stands out as worthy of comparison to the best achievements of
his progressive contemporaries: the Organ Symphony. Indeed, it deserves to be compared to the other great symphonies of musical
history, rather than considered a fashionable relic of a dead-end movement.
Some scholars say that this symphony, his third, draws more on the German tradition than any other of his major works. This certainly is not apparent in the overt instrumental sounds, for this work displays the transparency and elegance that abound in French orchestral compositions of the time. It is likewise not obvious from the fiendishly difficult rhythmic notations that he used to express otherwise straightforward themes (the actual beat in the musical bars is not where it sounds like to the audience!) These rhythms were unlike anything originating in either Berlin or Vienna at that time. Nor is it the formal structure, which in spite of its grandiose architecture hardly matches that of Brahms. Perhaps it is in the “noble character” of the music, which displays at times a relentless power not seen in any of the rest of his works.
Although
subtitled “Organ”, this symphony does not feature that magnificent instrument as
its focal point. Rather, it calls upon it to
provide colors and character that are simply unavailable from the traditional orchestra. The work can be considered a traditional
four-movement Romantic symphony, although Saint-Saëns combines both the first two
movements and the last two, indicating only two giant sections in the score. After a brief introduction, the strings
enter with a musical motif that relates closely to the “Dies Irae” theme so
prominently featured by many composers throughout the years. This theme provides inspiration for the entire
remaining work.
The
first entrance of the organ is delayed until the middle of the first section (beginning of
the “second movement”), and even then is barely audible, a pianissimo whisper. It fades into the background for a while,
resurfacing only for a brief section when it plays a sweet melody that also occurs in
strings, winds and middle brass. Though it
contributes enormously to the color, the organ never plays anything loud. Finally, the first section dies away quietly, and
apparently the organ disappears with it. (Only apparently – beware the surprise coming later!)
The
second section (third movement) begins with a vigorous and agitated string figure, derived
from the main theme of the beginning. Frenetic
and powerful, it grows into an almost demonic intensity. To further spice up the color, Saint-Saëns introduces the piano (played by
two players at once) with a rippling counterpoint to the strings and winds. The movement dances energetically, until it
finally seems to “wind down”, in an almost exhausted moment of repose. Suddenly, the organ demonstrates why it is called
the king of instruments, entering with a thunderous chord that surprises even those who
know that it’s coming. This chord
(interestingly, almost the exact chord with which it made its whispered entrance
originally) heralds the beginning of the finale fourth movement.
Saint-Saëns
“pulls out all the stops” in the orchestra as well as on the organ. He once again calls on the piano’s rippling
colors as background for the first statement of the final theme. It, too, is derived from
the Dies Irae that inspired the opening. Both
the organ and the piano provide color and excitement, but the climax is reserved for the
orchestra itself (the piano doesn’t even play, at the end). The ever-present theme gradually grows from
lyrical and breezy to irresistible and unstoppable.
The mighty ending proves to the world that “French” certainly
doesn’t mean “insipid”, when applied to the symphony. Gallic pride shines out in that headlong rush to
a brash, awe-inspiring final chord: an exclamation point to a truly dramatic essay.
Program Notes by C. Michael Kelly
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