Program Notes for February 19, 2017

Gustav Holst The Perfect Fool: Ballet Music, Op. 39 Gustav Holst was born in Cheltenham, England in 1874 and died in London in 1934. He composed his opera The Perfect Fool in 1918-1922 and it was first performed the following year at the Covent Garden Theater in London under the direction of Eugene Goossens. Holst composed the ballet music that precedes the opera in 1920. The score calls for 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, bass clarinet, 2 bassoons, contrabassoon, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, celeste, and strings. ***** Gustav Holst was a workaday musician. Arthritis in his hands precluded a career as a pianist, so for several years following college he made a living as a trombonist in opera and theater orchestras. Eventually he turned to teaching, sometimes at several schools at once, until he became head of the music department at the St. Paul’s School for Girls in London. His duties there were so time-consuming that he had little time left for composing. The ambivalence he had about composing thus stemmed from necessity, but he also said, “Never compose anything unless the not composing of it becomes a positive nuisance to you.” He found it a positive nuisance not to compose his short, comic opera The Perfect Fool, but alas both the audience and the critics simply found it a nuisance, period. The opera was a parody of 19th century opera conventions—and most especially those of Wagner—but it seemed there was no one who was ready to “get it.” This is mostly blamed on the libretto, written by Holst himself. It’s a shame, because as his daughter Imogen wrote, “There is a lot of good music locked up in this impossible framework.” Part of that framework, strangely enough, was that the opera began with a ballet in three parts: the Dance of Spirits of Earth, Dance of Spirits of Water, and Dance of Spirits of Fire. This music has escaped from its failed opera, and is often heard in the concert hall to the delight of all—including those who couldn’t make heads or tails of the opera itself. The ballet begins with a short fanfare from the trombones. This is a wizard conjuring up the spirits of earth, water, and fire needed to make a powerful love potion that he intends to use on a haughty princess. The spirits of earth make him a cup, the spirits of water fill it with the essence of love, and the spirits of fire give it a hot-blooded passion. The galumphing spirits of earth—“dancing” in 7/8 time, no less—are comically elephantine. A solo viola introduces the spirits of water, whose music is languid and dripping with color. The spirits of fire arrive abruptly and blaze their way to the end over driving timpani, whereupon this hugely evocative piece concludes with a sly wink from Holst.

***** Edward Elgar Sea Pictures, Op. 37 Edward Elgar was born in Broadheath, Worcestershire, England in 1857, and died in Worcester, England in 1934. He completed this song cycle in 1899, though sketches for some portions of it date back as far as 1883. Elgar led the first performance in 1899 at the Norwich Festival with Clara Butt the contralto soloist. The score calls for contralto solo, 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 3 bassoons, contrabassoon, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, harp, optional organ, and strings. ***** Elgar was never known as a song writer; in fact, his songs were considered second-rate. Part of this is attributed to his piano writing, which was viewed as workmanlike at best. Another part was his choice of texts, which never failed to baffle the critics. But his Sea Pictures stands above the rest, no doubt because of the power and translucence of his orchestral writing. Combined with a sensitive soloist, Sea Pictures succeeds beautifully. Sea Pictures delivers what’s on the label: a group of five songs that all allude to the sea but which have no overall dramatic connection. The five songs are set to texts by different authors, including the composer’s wife, Alice, who wrote the words for the second song, “In Haven (Capri).” While there is no overall story to be told, there is a good deal of musical cross-fertilization going on to bind the work together as a whole. The first song of the set is the “Sea Slumber Song,” a gently rocking lullaby composed to a text by Roden Noel. The “mother mild” is the sea itself, and Elgar’s music disturbs the tranquility of the words by reminding us of the sea’s ominous power. Elgar composed the second song of the cycle first, to a text by his wife Alice, who wrote the poem as a reminiscence of a visit to Capri before she and Edward were married. It is the simplest and most charming song of the set, and the music in the strings suggesting waves will return again in other songs. In “Sabbath Morning at Sea” Elgar sets five of the thirteen verses of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem. The music is passionate and stirring, with heavy climaxes and dramatic textures. Some have suggested that the poem—about a woman left behind—appealed to Elgar because he himself had been left behind many years previously by a woman who went to sea. “Where Corals Lie” brings us the most overt clue as to the subtext of the entire song cycle: the longing for death. Elgar adored the poem by Richard Garnett, perhaps because of his own recurring bouts of intense depression and his desire for release. The music here is much more sparsely scored, yet it is full of character and innumerable beauties. “The Swimmer” brings that subtext to the fore. Adam Lindsay Gordon’s poem depicts a swimmer caught in a roiling storm; he recalls the same sea when it was calm and serene; with its forces arrayed against him, he “would ride . . . where no light wearies and no love wanes.” That Gordon was a suicide was not lost on Elgar, nor was the poem’s imagery about a solitary soul whose strength is challenged by nature. Elgar gave the song the cycle’s most expansive orchestra and the widest range to the soloist. The music is opulently descriptive, and while the quotations from previous songs may pass by unheard, they are not, perhaps, unfelt. In the end, the swimmer’s longed-for release—and Elgar’s music as well—are momentous and joyous.

***** Kenneth Frazelle From the Air Kenneth Frazelle was born in Jacksonville, North Carolina in 1955. He composed this work in 2000 on a commission from the Santa Rosa Symphony, who gave the first performance the same year under the direction of Jeffrey Kahane. The score callls for 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, harp, and strings. ***** Kenneth Frazelle began studying the piano at age eight, learned to play the flute and bassoon for the middle school band along the way, and was composing at age ten. He studied composition under Robert Ward at the North Carolina School of the Arts, then with Roger Sessions at Julliard. Since that time Frazelle’s music has been commissioned and performed by many prominent artists such as Yo-Yo Ma, Jeffrey Kahane, Dawn Upshaw, Emmanuel Ax, Paula Robison, John Adams, Gilbert Kalish, the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center, the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, the Ravinia Festival, the Spoleto Festival, and others. Frazelle has received awards and fellowships from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the American Academy in Rome, and Columbia University, and he was the winner of the 2001 Barlow Prize, the international competition administered through Brigham Young University. He has held residencies with the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, the Santa Rosa Symphony and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Frazelle writes the following about his work: “From the Air was inspired by the idea of looking down on the earth from above, a sense of hovering. This image was the inspiration for the opening adagio, in the style of an aria, which not coincidentally, is Italian for ‘air.’ As the introductory section gradually accelerates into a scherzo that includes two short trios, the piece moves beyond its initial inspiration and takes on a life of its own. I am often asked where inspiration comes from; I believe there is something about the creative process that is mysterious or ‘from the air.’” ***** Igor Stravinsky Suite: The Firebird Igor Stravinsky was born in Oranienbaum, Russia in 1882 and died in New York City in 1971. He completed his ballet The Firebird in 1910, and it was first performed the same year in Paris, conducted by Gabriel Pierné. Stravinsky created a Suite in 1911 and then again, for a smaller orchestra, in 1919. The score of the 1919 Suite calls for 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, harp, piano, optional celeste, and strings. ***** He was not a composer, or even a musician, but no one had more influence on the music of the early twentieth century than Serge Diaghilev. Diaghilev was the impresario who organized the Ballet Russes in Paris. Over a twenty-year span he collaborated with a formidable roster of composers, including Stravinsky, Falla, Debussy, Prokofiev, Ravel, Milhaud and Poulenc, as well as artists such as Picasso and dancers such as Nijinsky. With the Ballet Russes, the very best of 20th century art came together under one roof. Diaghilev hired Stravinsky to compose music for the Firebird when another composer failed to get the job done. Time was short—Stravinsky sent each section of the piece to the choreographer as it was composed, then joined the company for rehearsals. The premiere of The Firebird was the coming-out party of the most important composer of the twentieth century and the beginning of a famed collaboration that would last until Diaghilev’s death. The story of The Firebird is a pastiche of tales from Russian folklore. The young prince Ivan Tsarevich wanders into an enchanted garden in pursuit of the magical Firebird. Ivan captures the Firebird but she pleads to be released, telling him she will come to his aid if ever needed; Ivan releases her. Ivan sees thirteen young princesses dancing and playing a game; he falls in love with one of them and follows them into the palace of the ogre Kashchei. When Kashchei captures Ivan the Firebird comes to his rescue. First the Firebird sends Kashchei and his retinue of monsters into a frenzied, exhausting dance, then lulls them to sleep with a beautiful Berceuse. She shows Ivan a casket with an egg containing Kashchei’s soul. When Ivan smashes the egg Kashchei dies, his castle and retinue disappear, and his victims return to life. In the rejoicing portrayed in the Finale, Ivan receives the hand of his favored princess. The celebratory closing pages are some of the most thrilling music ever written. The Firebird became the most popular of Stravinsky’s works, much to the composer’s chagrin. He came to resent the attention it took from his current (and very different) work, dismissing it as an “audience-pleasing lollipop.” No matter—Diaghilev knew better. On the day before the premiere, as he stood with his prima ballerina, he pointed to Stravinsky and said, “Mark him well. He is a man on the eve of celebrity.” And the world was on the eve of a new way of thinking about music, thanks to Serge Diaghilev. —Mark Rohr Questions or comments? [email protected]