Felix Mendelssohn Overture in C major, Op. 101, “Trumpet” Felix Mendelssohn was born in Hamburg in 1809 and died in Leipzig in 1847. He composed this work in 1826. The circumstances of its first performance are unknown, though it may have been first heard with a performance of Handel’s Israel in Egypt led by the composer in Düsseldorf the same year. Mendelssohn revised the work in 1833. The Overture is scored for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, timpani, and strings.
Mendelssohn composed this work at the age of sixteen, just before he wrote his miraculous Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Some think it was a preliminary study for that masterpiece. If it was, it was not slavishly followed. The subtitle “Trumpet” comes from Mendelssohn’s family always referring to the piece as the “Trumpet Overture,” though hearing the relatively minor role of the trumpets in the work makes one wonder how it came about. Some point to the trumpets’ appearance to punctuate all the major divisions of the work; for others, the prominent interval of the third in the trumpet parts leads to harmonic relationships of a third in the development, but that is getting rather deep into the weeds. In any case, the sixteen year-old Mendelssohn was already a better composer than many ever become, and the Overture is typically brilliant. Mendelssohn himself didn’t think much of it, but it was his father’s favorite work!
Concerto for Violin & Orchestra in E minor, Op. 64 Mendelssohn completed his Violin Concerto in 1844, and it was first performed the following year by Ferdinand David, violin, with the Gewandhous Orchestra, Leipzig conducted by Niels Gade. The work is scored for solo violin, 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings.
“I would like to write a violin concerto for you next winter,” Felix Mendelssohn wrote to his friend, violinist Ferdinand David. “There’s one in E minor in my head and its opening won’t leave me in peace.” “Peace” would be a long time in coming, for shortly after he wrote this letter Frederick William IV, the king of Prussia, summoned Mendelssohn to Berlin. The king had grandiose plans to encourage the arts in which Mendelssohn figured prominently. Frederick William was an easily distracted man, however, and eventually his plans fizzled—though not before Mendelssohn had spent several hectic, miserable years in his service. Upon his escape from Berlin Mendelssohn returned to his old post as conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra of Leipzig and began to think anew about his violin concerto. Though he was himself a good violinist, Mendelssohn peppered David with questions about balance, style, technique, and playability. The violinist responded with generous and useful advice, and the result of their collaboration is one of the most perfect violin concertos ever written. This work easily repudiates the notion that Mendelssohn merely accepted the forms handed down to him and filled them in with facile, pleasant music. His Violin Concerto is far more innovative than it sounds: its form is so perfectly balanced and musically sensible that its departures from the norm pass almost unnoticed. Instead of the usual long orchestral exposition, Mendelssohn has the soloist enter straight away, with a long-lined melody that is both lyrical and stormy. The sweet second theme is a complete change of character, unusually (and deliciously) scored for violin and four winds. The fully-composed cadenza comes sooner than you expect: not between the recapitulation and the coda, but before the recap arrives. The movement seems to close conventionally, but a held-over bassoon note gives a seamless join to the second movement Andante. This is a gorgeous aria for the violin, joined again without pause to the Finale. Of this familiar jewel there is little that can be said that is not obvious on first hearing: it is exquisitely proportioned, virtuosic without being showy and, above all, full of energy and life. One may forgive Ferdinand David’s hyperbole when he said to Mendelssohn, “There is plenty of music for violin and orchestra, but there has been only one big, truly great concerto”—he meant Beethoven’s, of course—“and now there are two.”
Symphony No. 3 in A minor, Op. 56, "Scottish" Mendelssohn completed this symphony in 1842 and led the first performance with the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra the same year. The score calls for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, and strings. “We went, in the deep twilight, to the palace where Queen Mary lived and loved. There is a little room to be seen there, with a winding staircase leading up to it. That is where they went up and found Rizzio in the little room, dragged him out, and three chambers away is a dark corner where they killed him. The adjoining chapel is now roofless; grass and ivy grow abundantly in it; and before the ruined altar Mary was crowned Queen of Scotland. Everything around is broken and moldering, and the bright sky shines in. I believe I found the beginning of my Scottish Symphony there today.” So Mendelssohn wrote during his tour of Scotland in 1829. Rizzio was an Italian musician whom Mary Stuart elevated to the post of “private foreign secretary,” and who was rumored to have been Mary's lover. The Scottish nobles were envious and wary of Rizzio’s influence; in March of 1566 several of them hacked him to death and defenestrated his body. Though the title “Scottish” did not appear on Mendelssohn’s score, he continually referred to it as “my Scottish symphony.” No doubt he avoided an official title because he abhorred programs and felt no need to explain his music. Many have claimed that the symphony pictures the Scottish countryside and incorporates derivatives of Scottish tunes, but the composer’s own words refute this: “No national music for me! Ten thousand devils take all nationality!” The symphony begins with the ten bars of music Mendelssohn jotted down the day of his visit to Queen Mary’s ruined chapel. Variations on this theme are used in lieu of contrasting material and the movement is unified strongly by the adherence to this central motive. The Scherzo’s main tune, announced by the clarinet, is clearly related to the theme of the first movement though some have heard an old bagpipe melody in it. The Adagio employs two main ideas, a broad melody in the violins and brooding chords in the winds. The Finale—a movement for which the word “vigorous” is simply too weak—again uses a derivative of the symphony’s initial motive in its second subject, here presented by a clarinet and two oboes. The imposing coda can also be traced back to this theme. The murder of Rizzio has inspired countless poets, painters, and playwrights, and it had no less effect on the young and romantic Mendelssohn. Whether the “Scottish” Symphony is literally descriptive or merely evocative makes no difference: it is captivating and hugely enjoyable. —Mark Rohr Questions or comments? [email protected]