SAN DIEGO SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA a JACOBS MASTERWORKS CONCERT Markus Stenz, Conductor November 17, 18 and 19, 2017 FRANZ JOSEPH HAYD
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SAN DIEGO SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA A JACOBS MASTERWORKS CONCERT Markus Stenz, conductor November 17, 18 and 19, 2017 FRANZ JOSEPH HAYDN Symphony No. 103 in E-flat Major: Paukenwirbel (Drumroll) Adagio – Allegro con spirito Andante più tosto allegretto Menuet Allegro con spirito INTERMISSION WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART Requiem, K. 626 I. Introitus - Requiem II. Kyrie III. Sequenz Dies irae Tuba mirum Rex tremendae Recordare Confutatis Lacrimosa IV. Offertorium Domine Jesu Hostias V. Sanctus VI. Benedictus VII. Agnus Dei VIII. Communio Jessica Rivera, soprano Jennifer Johnson Cano, mezzo soprano Colin Balzer, tenor Adam Lau, bass Symphony No. 103 in E-flat Major: Paukenwirbel (Drumroll) FRANZ JOSEPH HAYDN Born March 31, 1732, Rohrau Died May 31, 1809, Vienna The death of Prince Nikolaus Esterhazy on September 28, 1790, transformed Haydn’s life. Haydn had served as Nikolaus’ kapellmeister for 30 years in the prince’s remote palaces at Eisenstadt and Esterhazy. The prince maintained a small professional orchestra, and Haydn conducted the orchestra, composed and directed the opera for those three decades. It was one of the most distinguished relationships ever between artist and patron, and it came to a sudden end with the prince’s death because his successor, Prince Anton, had no interest in music. Anton promptly disbanded the orchestra and pushed Haydn into retirement (albeit with a generous pension). After 30 vigorous years with the Esterhazy family, the 58-year-old composer looked ahead to a quiet retirement. But it was not to be. The impresario Johann Peter Salomon invited Haydn to come to London and put on a series of concerts of his own music. Haydn set off for completely new territory – and triumphed. He arrived in London in January 1791 and was astonished by everything about that city – by the virtuosity of the orchestra Salomon had assembled for him, by London’s large and enthusiastic audiences and by the discovery that he was famous. After decades of working in remote obscurity for the Esterhazy family, he found himself lionized by cheering crowds, enthusiastic reviews and by London’s rich social life. His first visit, during the years 1791-92, was so successful that he returned for a second one in 1794-95. For each visit he composed six symphonies, and those twelve are known collectively as his London symphonies. Several factors shaped those symphonies. The first was the size and excellence of the orchestra that Salomon assembled for Haydn. His orchestra at Esterhazy had numbered only about 20 players, but in London he had a first-class orchestra of 60 players. The second factor was the London audience. After 30 years of performing before a prince and his invited guests, Haydn suddenly was performing in front of huge crowds made of up London’s growing middle class. They lionized Haydn, and he in turn responded to them: his London symphonies are big-scale works full of color, excitement, virtuosity – and sometimes novel effects. The Symphony No. 103, first performed at the King’s Theatre on March 2, 1795, begins with one of the most striking of these effects: a one-measure timpani roll on a deep E-flat. That timpani roll has given this symphony its nickname, but everything about it is mysterious. Haydn left no dynamic marking, and so conductors (and editors) have felt free to make what sense they can of it. The editor of the 1938 Eulenberg score felt that that roll should be very quiet and put a pianissimo marking inside parentheses. Most early recordings presented the opening this way, but in his 1970 recording Leonard Bernstein began the symphony with a timpani explosion so loud as to shake an audience’s fillings loose. More recently, other conductors have taken very novel approaches to this solitary measure. (Those interested can explore some of these on YouTube). This timpani roll is followed by something just as striking: an ominous slow introduction led by the dark sound of the low strings. This eventually reaches a moment of pause (but not repose) on a deep unison G, and then the Allegro con spirito leaps out brightly on a dancing figure for violins, one of those melodies that seems to demand toe-tapping from the audience. A more flowing second idea arrives on the crystalline sound of solo oboe with first violins, and all seems set for a standard sonata-form movement. But Haydn is Haydn, and quickly we realize that more is going on here than it appears. That dancing Allegro con spirito theme is closely related to the dark slow introduction, and in fact that introduction – now speeded up – reappears as part of the development. Then a final surprise: just before the close Haydn brings matters to a stop and recalls the timpani roll and part of the introduction before the movement dances to its close on the violins’ spirited main idea. The Andante più tosto Allegretto is a set of double variations – double because Haydn introduces two themes to be varied. But those two themes, reportedly based on Eastern European folksongs, are so similar that the second seems a variation on the first. Haydn moves easily between the firm C minor of the opening theme and the more relaxed C Major of the second, and the variations grow more complex as the movement proceeds – one of them features a florid solo variation for the concertmaster. Haydn rounds off the movement unexpectedly with ringing fanfares in C Major. Some have heard the sound of a Swiss yodel in the wind calls of the Menuetto, while its stately trio section glides smoothly along the unusual sound of the violins and solo clarinet in unison. The concluding Allegro con spirito is spirited indeed – and also one of Haydn’s most brilliant finales. It opens with a hunting call from the two horns, followed by a long pause. That call is repeated, but this time Haydn combines it with the finale’s propulsive main theme, first stated by the violins. Throughout his career, Haydn had been interested in writing movements based on one theme only, and this finale is such a movement; the horn call returns from time to time, but it is from the violin tune that Haydn builds the entire movement. Full of high spirits and contrapuntal complexity, the finale blazes its way to a conclusion that shows a master writing at the height of his powers. Requiem, K. 626 WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART Born January 27, 1756, Salzburg Died December 5, 1791, Vienna More mystery surrounds Mozart’s Requiem than any other piece he wrote, and the fantastic story of its creation has become part of the legend. After several difficult years, Mozart’s fortunes seemed to have taken a turn for the better in the summer of 1791. Already at work on Die Zauberflöte, he received a commission in July to compose an opera for the September celebration in Prague of the coronation of Leopold II – this would be La Clemenza di Tito. While at work on Die Zauberflöte, Mozart was visited one day at his lodgings in Vienna by a “stranger in gray,” who proposed a mysterious arrangement. The stranger was a representative from someone who wished to commission a Requiem. The pay would be handsome, but there was one important stipulation: the identity of the composer was to be kept an absolute secret. Over the next several months, Mozart began to plan and compose this Requiem. This was a difficult time for the composer, who composed most of La Clemenza di Tito in the space of 18 days and went to Prague to lead the premiere. In the course of these months, Mozart became ill and began to believe certain fantastic notions: that he was being poisoned, that the “stranger in gray” was a visitor from another world, and that the Requiem he was composing would be for himself. Mozart’s health and spirits improved briefly after he returned to Vienna and completed the Clarinet Concerto in October, and he was able to get beyond these obsessions and work on the Requiem. About November 20, however, his health deteriorated sharply: he grew weak, his joints and limbs swelled badly, and he struggled to work. On December 4, friends gathered round his bed to sing through the vocal parts of the Requiem from his manuscript (Mozart himself sang the alto part), but he collapsed when they reached the Lacrimosa and died early the next morning, seven weeks short of his thirty-sixth birthday. The manuscript of the Requiem lay unfinished beside him. From this dismal and confused situation, certain facts can be established. The “stranger in gray” was not a visitor from another world, but a representative of Count Franz von Walsegg-Stuppach, a nobleman whose wife Anna had died in February 1791 and who wished now to commission the Requiem and pass it off as his own, hence the condition of secrecy. (Mozart may not have found that stipulation as surprising as we do: he had in 1787 composed the song Als Luise die Briefe for a friend to pass off as his own). The actual facts of Mozart’s death continue to be mysterious, but there is no evidence to suggest that he was poisoned. (He appears to have died of acute rheumatic fever, accelerated in its final stages by overwhelming sepsis). And though he worked on the Requiem up to within hours of his death, he did not dictate any of the music, as a recent motion picture would have us believe (and certainly did not dictate it to Salieri). But when Mozart died early on the morning of December 5, the Requiem existed only fragmentarily, and some movements had apparently not even been begun.