PROGRAM NOTES by Daniel Maki Concerto No. 3 in C Minor for Piano
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PROGRAM NOTES by Daniel Maki Concerto No. 3 in C minor for Piano and Orchestra, op. 37 by Ludwig Van Beethoven (1779-1827) Duration: Approximately 34 minutes First Performance: April 5, 1803 in Vienna Last ESO Performance: April, 1994; Eun Joo Chung, piano; Robert Hanson, conductor Although it is known that much of the work on Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3 had been done as early as 1800, when the time came for the premiere on 5 April 1803 at the Theater an der Wien, one of Vienna’s leading concert halls, the score to the piano part was barely sketched out. The soloist was the composer himself, aided by his good friend Ignaz von Seyfried, who served as page turner, an art, incidentally, which is more difficult and anxiety producing than it looks. Herr von Seyfried left the following vivid and amusing account: Heaven help me, turning pages was easier said than done. I saw almost nothing but empty leaves; at the most on one page or the other a few Egyptian hieroglyphics wholly unintelligible to me scribbled down to serve as clues for him; for he played nearly all of the solo part from memory. He gave me a secret glance whenever he was at the end of one of the invisible passages and my scarcely concealed anxiety not to miss the decisive moment amused him greatly and he laughed heartily at the jovial supper which we ate afterwards. Such an ad hoc approach to music making seems unthinkable in our own concert life, where we have a kind of division of labor between composing and performing. It is unusual these days for composers to perform their own music and few performers outside the field of popular music practice the art of improvisation. Beethoven, like such figures as Mozart and Bach before him, was a dazzling improviser and it is fascinating to contemplate how much of what he played that evening was improvised and what the effect on his compositional process might have been. As it happened, the concerto would not achieve its final form until it was published a year later in 1804. The Third Concerto is an intense, dramatic, and wonderfully inventive work that has often been seen as a transitional composition between Beethoven’s early creative period when he was still most strongly influenced by his great predecessors Haydn and Mozart, to his so-called middle or “heroic” period, when he began to stretch the boundaries of the Classical style. Whichever period the concerto might be assigned to by scholars, it can be called a particularly revealing example of the way genius learns from genius. Here we see Beethoven absorbing the influence of Mozart, a composer that he regarded with worshipful reverence, while developing his own style. A particular favorite of Beethoven was Mozart’s famous Concerto No. 24 in C minor, which became the subject of a well-known anecdote. Speaking to his friend the pianist Johann Cramer as they heard strains of the concerto, Beethoven reportedly said: “Cramer! Cramer! We shall never be able to do anything like that!” Beethoven was being excessively modest, for although he certainly had Mozart in mind in this concerto (there are many striking similarities beside the choice of key), he would produce a masterpiece that only he could have written. The opening orchestral introduction is the longest of any of Beethoven’s concertos and does what such introductions are supposed to do: present the primary thematic material of the movement while building anticipation for the entry of the soloist. Two themes are presented, the first a dramatic, somewhat martial one in the home key of C minor and then a more lyrical one in the related key of Eb major. The long awaited entry of the soloist begins with three dramatic C minor scales, after which we hear the soloist’s own version of the two themes, completing the so-called double exposition. This section ends with a feeling of triumph in the orchestra and virtuosic passage work in the piano. The development begins again with three scales, this time D major, which launch an exploration of the full possibilities of the first theme as it is taken through various keys. The recapitulation brings back both themes and, as usual, is interrupted by a cadenza which Beethoven himself may well have improvised. (He did eventually write out a brilliantly virtuosic cadenza which many pianists choose to use.) After the cadenza, we are treated to a foretaste of Beethoven the progressive: in a wonderfully atmospheric passage which might well be called romantic, Beethoven quietly takes us into a coda based on the first theme. A particularly imaginative touch here is the addition of timpani striking the two most important notes of the melody. After this brief, mysterious passage, a dramatic crescendo brings the movement to a majestic close as the soloist thunders out brilliant scales reminiscent of its first entry. For the Largo, Beethoven chooses the key of E major, a very un-Mozartian choice which, as any freshman music theory student knows, is far removed from the home key of C minor. Beethoven here gives us an example of a new kind of slow movement, featuring a sublimely noble hymn-like melody that would become a hallmark of his style and would be much imitated throughout the nineteenth century. Some of the movement has almost a nocturne –like quality, particularly a brief middle section where the piano plays harp-like arpeggios over melodies sung by bassoon and flute. The finale is, as it was so often in Mozart’s concertos, a rondo, i.e., a form with a recurring theme that acts as a refrain. Among the delightful surprises are, as a reminder of the Largo, a passage again in that foreign key of E major, as well as a brief passage in old-fashioned baroque fugal style. A bigger surprise is the coda, where, after a brief cadenza, the meter changes to a rollicking, dancelike 6/8, exactly what Mozart did at the end of his C minor concerto. Unlike Mozart, however, who ends in a very somber C minor, Beethoven, changes to a sunny C major and the concerto ends Presto in the highest possible spirits. * * * . Symphony No. 12 in D minor, op. 112, (The Year 1917) by Dmitri Shostakovich (1906 -1975) Duration: Approximately 38 minutes First Performances: October 1, 1961 in Koubichev and St. Petersburg Last ESO Performance: These are the first ESO performances of the work Winston Churchill once famously described Russia as a “riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma “. Something similar might be said of the music of Dmitri Shostakovich, whose life illustrates perhaps better than any other what it meant to be an artist under the brutal Soviet regime. Shostakovich lived for years in terror of imprisonment or execution and yet managed miraculously to maintain a long public career, producing a large body of music that spoke powerfully and eloquently to the Russian public at large. He never spoke publicly against the Soviet regime and probably did think of himself in some sense as a loyal, patriotic Russian citizen in agreement with the ideals if not the methods of communism, a fact that led many armchair Western critics to condemn him for his compliance. His music, on the other hand, seems frequently to say the opposite , expressing , for those who choose to hear it, the tragedy of twentieth century Russia and sometimes bitterly sarcastic , satirical opposition to the status quo. If Pablo Picasso’s famous dictum is true - “ All art is subversive “- a special place should be accorded to the art of instrumental music, which by its inherently abstract and ambiguous nature enabled Shostakovich to wear a mask, communicating in a kind of “double-speak.” As the musicologist Richard Taruskin has put it, Shostakovich was “the one and only Soviet artist to be claimed equally by the official culture and the dissident culture.” All these issues are brought into particularly sharp focus in the symphonies that have extra-musical, political programs, such as the Symphony No. 12. This work is ostensibly a symphony about Lenin and the Revolution that he brought about, and at its first performances was taken as such by the Soviet establishment. This is one reason that the Twelfth has been the most criticized and one of the least performed of Shostakovich’s symphonies, having been frequently dismissed as a noisily empty propaganda piece that faithfully toed the Party line. The composer himself expressed his own doubts about the work, saying at one point that he would write no more symphonies. (He would write three more.) Things are seldom what they seem with Shostakovich, however, and the undeniable skill and vitality of the music compel a closer look. The composer’s plan had been to finish the symphony in time for the celebration of Lenin’s 90th birthday in April of 1960. For some time he had spoken publicly of his desire to write a work in Lenin’s honor, and had even toyed with the idea of setting it with text as an oratorio or cantata. The deadline passed, however, as, much to the astonishment and dismay of his friends and admirers, Shostakovich became a full-fledged member of the Communist Party and then seems to have suffered an emotional collapse as a result of his inner conflict over the decision. In those days of the post-Stalinist “thaw,” Nikita Khruschev was particularly eager to enlist more members of the intelligentsia into the Party and apparently Shostakovich succumbed to the pressure. Progress on the symphony was slow, and although there are varying accounts of the process, it seems to be true that, according to a close friend of the composer, Shostakovich had actually considered writing a parody of Lenin before finally realizing the grave danger to himself of such an approach and changing course at the last minute.