Download BEETHOVEN`S 32 PIANO SONATAS ROBERT SILVERMAN

Programme notes
BEETHOVEN’S 32 PIANO SONATAS
by Robert Silverman
© Robert Silverman
ROBERT SILVERMAN
PLAYS BEETHOVEN
Presented by Music on Main at the
Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club
3611 West Broadway, Vancouver BC
Concert One
Concert Two
Concert Three
Concert Four
Concert Five
Concert Six
Concert Seven
Concert Eight
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
www.robertsilverman.ca
www.musiconmain.ca
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 1 in F Minor, Op. 2/1
composed 1795, published 1796
Although many young pianists study Beethoven’s first published piano composition before they reach their teens, it
would be a mistake to consider the music itself a “student” or “apprentice” effort. At twenty-five, Beethoven already
was a master of the late classical style, arguably the only living composer of his time who could withstand comparison
with Haydn or Mozart. Moreover, he managed to distance himself from his older colleagues by treating his piano
sonatas from the outset as seriously as his chamber and orchestral music. It is easy to point to his frequent use of four
movements as evidence of his enlarged concept of the sonata—he was the first great composer to do this—but one
must look deeper into the works themselves to discover the extraordinary care and finish he lavished upon them.
The main theme of the sonata’s concise first movement bears an obvious resemblance to the opening of the finale of
Mozart’s 40th Symphony. However, his treatment of that idea as early as in the fifth measure—lopping off the opening
arpeggio and insistently repeating the turning motif (a technique Alfred Brendel calls “foreshortening”)—is pure
Beethoven. Likewise, the immediate repetition of the theme in a new key, a new mood, and a new register, bears his
unique thumbprint. Other original touches, such as making the second theme a smoother mirror image of the first, or
placing jarring accents in unexpected places, occur throughout the movement.
Particularly effective is the way Beethoven prepares the return of the opening theme following the central
Development section. Classroom definitions of sonata form often emphasize the importance of that moment, with its
re-establishment of the tonic key and the main theme. However, the finest classical composers frequently disguise and
modify that event. One of Beethoven's favorite techniques is to “sneak in” the main theme’s return in the middle of an
on-going phrase: overshooting his target, as it were. He uses that device here, as well as in the Tempest, Appassionata
and Hammerklavier sonatas, among others.
One of the more notorious points of contention among pianists occurs on the very first note of Beethoven’s very first
published sonata. No staccato mark appears here, although the other notes in the motif are thus clearly marked. Eight
measures later, in the parallel passage in the left hand, a staccato mark is present. The inconsistency returns later in
the movement. Some performers have found a justification for playing all the notes staccato, whereas others
underscore the differentiation by slurring the first note to the second, even in the absence of such an indication by the
composer. (When faced with such dilemmas, I try, perhaps simplistically, to do just what the composer indicates. In this
case I play the first note non legato: musically joined, but unconnected physically to the second.)
In the decorative slow movement, Beethoven again asserts his individuality. Although the language is quite similar to
that of Mozart, his message is far more direct, aimed straight to the hearts of his listeners. In general, Beethoven’s
early slow movements are some of the most ravishingly beautiful compositions in existence. The opening measure of
the Adagio is distilled into its essence, placed into the minor key, and used as the main theme of the Minuet, an
unassuming little piece that grows increasingly complex with each hearing.
The Finale begins with the same three-chord outburst that concluded the first movement. The surging, tumultuous
motion continues virtually unabated for the entire opening section, but then follows one of those infrequent
occurrences that illustrate Beethoven’s relative inexperience as a composer. Although this movement is cast in sonata
form, he interrupts the structure in order to insert a new, self-contained section prior to the more traditional
development of earlier material. This creates a conundrum for the performer at the movement’s conclusion, where a
repeat is nominally called for. If one observes the repeat, as I feel I must, the new material—itself quite repetitive and
now no longer new—sounds redundant. Yet, if the repeat is omitted, the movement is clearly too short, and the ending
catches everyone, including the pianist, off guard. It is reassuring to know that Beethoven, after all, was human,
provided we also remember that he never made the same miscalculation twice.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 2 in A major, Op. 2/2
composed 1794-95, published 1796
In spite of its relative obscurity, the Sonata No. 2 contains the most strikingly original music of the three sonatas in this
opus. It is also in this work that Beethoven's penchant for not allowing such trivialities as the shape of a pianist’s hand
to interfere with his musical vision. Although the overall difficulty of this sonata does not approach that of the middleand late-period pot-boilers, there are a few brief passages whose successful negotiation depends totally upon the
smile of the deities, no matter how thorough the artist’s prior preparation.
The expansive first movement provides one of the earliest example of Beethoven’s practice of presenting two simple,
contrasting ideas at the outset, and using the rest of the movement to exploit, and ultimately reconcile their differences.
The ideas themselves are about as uncomplicated as they can get: a pair of descending motifs (an A sharply dropping
to the dominant E, answered by a filled-in descent from E back to A); and an ascending A major scale.
It is in this movement that Beethoven begins a systematic probing of all aspects of the sonata—in this case, the
common practice by which the opening section of a sonata movement modulates from the tonic to the dominant. True,
we ultimately arrive where we are “supposed” to, but the route Beethoven chooses is so circuitous and convoluted that
musicians and educated listeners of his time must have felt completely lost along the way.
The Largo is Beethoven’s first truly sublime slow movement. Its simple melody and string quartet-like texture conveys
a powerful spiritual sense that was first noted by his student, Karl Czerny, shortly after the piece appeared. Formally,
the movement seems to progress in a standard ternary fashion (A-B-A), and most listeners can be forgiven for
expecting a peaceful close following the return of the opening theme. Even if Beethoven had chosen to do this, he
would still have composed a wonderful, moving slow movement, and none of us would have been the wiser. However,
he had other ideas. What appears to be the coda is suddenly interrupted by a forceful outburst of the main theme in the
minor mode. That gesture is easily described, yet it is one of the most cataclysmic events in all music. It doesn’t last
long. The main theme returns one last time, then the music closes quietly, just as we had expected it to do a short
while earlier.
In spite of its title, the brief Scherzo is a playful minuet whose jocularity is tempered every so often by darker hues,
especially in the Trio. The fourth movement is the first of those gracious, leisurely, repetitive rondos he was so fond of
composing. The opening theme, with its long sigh, is not merely delightful, but also delicious, while the material that
follows is as delicate as anything he wrote. However, a furious middle section crudely interrupts this delectable
atmosphere. (Beethoven frequently inserted music of this nature into his rondos, but in my opinion, he “went over the
top” on this occasion, with subsequent deleterious consequences, as we shall soon see). The return to the main theme
is superbly paced; its third reiteration and the music that follows is just as magical as it was the first time around. So,
for that matter, is the fourth statement of the theme. A sprightly coda follows, and the movement seems well on its
way to a happy conclusion.
But wait! There’s more! Remember that crude middle section? No self-respecting composer would dare use such a
prominent theme without justifying its presence elsewhere in the piece. Beethoven has no choice: holding his breath,
he plows into it again, thankfully in a milder, shortened version. Like its predecessor, it also dissolves into what is now
a fifth statement of the main theme. Finally, the storyteller sheepishly tiptoes off the stage, hoping that no one will
notice that he’d been winging it for the last two pages. But what winging!
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 3 in C Major, Op. 2/3
composed 1794-95, published 1796
This sonata is the third of the set of three that Beethoven dedicated to his teacher, Josef Haydn. It is the most brilliant
and freewheeling of the troika, and the slow movement ranks as one of Beethoven’s finest. Nevertheless, some
commentators belittle it because of the composer’s use, mostly in the first movement, of the sort of virtuoso passagework that one might expect from Czerny or Hummel rather than Beethoven. Admittedly, Beethoven had yet to learn
how to make pianistic brilliance better serve a work’s inner drama, and even become the very stuff out of which a
composition is constructed. Nonetheless, there are many extraordinary touches, not the least of which occurs partway
in the Development section of the first movement, when the main theme returns in the ‘wrong’ key of D major. At first
Beethoven has the pianist continue playing the theme in a normal fashion, blissfully unaware that anything is amiss.
Four measures later, however, the music stops suddenly, and the player, angry at having been duped by the composer,
stormily resumes the Development.
When the main theme finally returns in the correct key, Beethoven makes a slight alteration in the bass. He then
throws in even further thematic development before allowing the recapitulation to hit its stride. This is especially
ingenious: Because both the exposition's and recapitulation’s opening sections begin and end identically, he simply
could have repeated that portion of the exposition verbatim rather than go to the trouble of re-composing it. However,
he understood that recapitulations and expositions evoke such vastly different perceptions of the tonic key that the
music had to be altered considerably in order to accommodate the new context. Finally, just prior to the conclusion of
the movement, Beethoven includes a cadenza: a solo improvisatory section more typically found in a concerto than in a
sonata.
Like so many of Beethoven’s early, hauntingly-beautiful, slow movements, the second movement contains angry
outbursts. However, the explosion in the middle of this one has special significance, given its double reference to the
first movement. It is in C major, the principal key of the sonata. More importantly, it now becomes obvious that the slow
movement's main theme is a thinly-disguised variation of the sonata’s opening motif.
The contrapuntal Scherzo, characterized by ‘Mendelssohnian’ lightness, contrasts sharply with the brilliant and stormy
Trio. The descending pattern of the main theme delightfully serves as a foil to the ascending scale that opens the
Finale. This fleet, energetic rondo is neither too long nor over-repetitious. The stirring, anthem-like middle section
served as an obvious model for Brahms at a parallel spot in his own Sonata No. 3.
Like so many Beethoven sonatas, this one concludes unpredictably: just at the point where we are sure the piece is
about to wind down, Beethoven suddenly moves into a remote key of A major. He stops abruptly, suddenly aware that
he has strayed too far afield. He hesitantly tries out the theme in A minor. Suddenly he sees an opening, and decisively
makes his move. Moments later we are back in the home key of C major, and the piece is over. Checkmate!
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 4 in E flat, Op. 7
composed 1796-97, published 1797
Beethoven’s relatively unknown fourth piano sonata is the second longest of the thirty-two. Abounding with boldness
and energy, it is—and can only be—the product of youthful creativity. It used to have a German nickname, Die Verliebte
(the Maiden in Love) but no one knows why. It may have reflected Beethoven’s infatuation with the sonata’s talented
dedicatee, Countess Babette von Keglevics. Other commentators suggest that the sobriquet derives from the character
of second or fourth movements. In any case, the name has not stuck.
Its vastness aside, Op. 7 is one of the most symphonically conceived of the sonatas. The bell-like tolling in the first
movement, the rhetorical pauses that permeate the Largo, the terrifying Trio in the third movement (an unnamed
Scherzo) and the clattery middle section of the finale have a commonality: they all seem to point to a sonic image that
ranges beyond the capacity of contemporary pianos, let alone those transitionary ones of the late 18th century.
Beethoven’s sense of humour is totally off-the-wall. Consider the final moments of the slow movement: After creating
a vast, serious work lasting about nine minutes, he returns to the main theme and devises an ingenious way of
harmonizing it even more profoundly so that the bass arrives at an F-sharp—a note as far away from C (the key of the
movement) as one can get. He further complicates matters by using that F sharp as the bass of an accented, highly
dissonant chord. Now, any decent composition teacher would—if he had permitted all this to occur at all—have
cautioned his student to write a lengthy coda in order to work his way out of the corner into which he had just painted
himself. However, Beethoven needs only two measures to dispose of the problem, in a gesture that clearly says, at
least to me, “Oh, the hell with it” (or less polite words to that effect).
One reason for this magnificent work’s relative obscurity lies in the finale’s character. (The problem of how to
conclude a composition was one Beethoven wrestled with throughout his career.) Several of Beethoven’s sonatas,
including Op. 7, feature leisurely closing movements cast in a sectional form that combines sonata and rondo elements.
In the hands of Haydn, who literally invented this form, the repetitive structure originally featured short, playful themes.
However, Beethoven frequently broadened those themes into lengthy lyrical melodies, thereby imparting a “here
comes that damned tune again” quality to the music. Furthermore, as often as not, he ended these movements with a
quiet fade-out. Concluding a major work in a light, charming manner was standard classical practice. Beethoven, while
lengthening and adapting the form to his own methods, evidently saw no need to discard that aspect of a sonata’s
structure. Nonetheless, the form was on its last legs; of all the great composers who followed Beethoven, only
Schubert frequently employed it. (One might even argue that Schubert, in his later instrumental works, understood the
implications of Beethoven’s changes to the form better than Beethoven himself. However, programme notes for a
Beethoven sonata cycle are probably not the most appropriate launching pad for such a thesis.)
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 5 in C minor, Op. 10/1
composed 1796-98, published 1798
This is the first of three dramatic sonatas Beethoven set in the key of C minor. Although the Pathétique and the final
sonata, Op. 111 ultimately would overshadow it, it is a strong work on its own: powerful and concise, with each
movement’s character clearly delineated. The similarities between the opening of this work and that of Mozart’s Sonata
in C minor, K. 475, are too striking to be coincidental. Both sonatas begin with bold, rising C minor arpeggios, followed
a plaintive response. However, in spite of this kinship, each sonata could only be the product of its creator. Beethoven’s
restless, nervous energy is something quite new in the musical language of the late eighteenth century.
The first movement is also notable for the unusual presence of a new theme in the central section, which normally is
devoted solely to the development of previously introduced material. This is one of several examples of how
Beethoven, even in his earliest published compositions, methodically questioned and probed every aspect of the
classical tradition as he found it at the outset of his career.
The slow movement begins with a wonderfully lyrical theme that surely influenced Schubert when he composed his
own great C minor sonata. Like virtually all of Beethoven’s early slow movements, it is a work of transcendent beauty.
Also typical of the composer is the passionate, almost defiant outburst shortly following the return of the main theme; it
reminds us that peaceful moments are transitory, and that darker forces are always present even if they do not show
their faces at every moment.
The finale is one of Beethoven’s most ominous creations. Cast in sonata-allegro form, it is one of only two movements
marked Prestissimo in the entire set of 32 sonatas. Its particularly terse Development section fleetingly introduces for
the first time in his music the soon-to-be-familiar motif—three short notes followed by a long one. (Interestingly, the
key of the piece in which this motif was later immortalized is also C minor.) Both principal themes of the movement are
ingeniously combined in the brief coda, which concludes the movement as quietly and mysteriously as it began.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 6 in F Major, Op. 10/2
composed 1796-98, published 1798
There is a wonderful moment in the first movement of the Sonata No. 6 when, after the development section
winds down, the opening theme returns virtually unaltered, just as expected in a traditional sonata recapitulation.
But something isn’t right. We pause to sniff the air, so to speak. Somehow, we have landed in the wrong
neighborhood, and find ourselves in D major, rather than the home key of F major. We start again, far more
hesitantly, seeking our way back to more familiar territory. Suddenly, we see a path that leads back to F. In order
to make up for lost time, we don’t bother with the characteristic opening phrase of the theme, but simply sneak
into the middle, hoping that no one will have noticed our absence.
This is the kind of humour at which Beethoven excelled, and it occurs time and time again in his music.
Undoubtedly, he learned this trick (along with countless others) from Haydn, who, if anything, was even better at it
than Beethoven. Some might tend to consider the notion of a work of art commenting on, and poking fun at, its
own processes as a very modern, almost postmodern, phenomenon. However, it is a prominent, almost
distinguishing, feature of the mature classical style.
The middle movement, with its ominous outer sections and richly-chorded trio provides the only serious
moment in this sonata, although even here, some jarring off-the-beat accents do their best to break the mood.
The jocular Finale, with its echo of the Haydn Allegro in F that we all studied as kids, and whose themes
literally laugh at themselves, begins like a fugue. Soon, however, the fugal style is quickly dropped, and the
movement proceeds in a fairly straightforward sonata style to its abrupt conclusion.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 7 in D Major, Op. 10/3
composed 1797-98, published 1798
This sonata is generally acknowledged to be Beethoven’s first masterpiece. Each movement is a gem, with a
strongly delineated profile and not a wasted note or gesture. The first movement sparkles with energy, its
sense of breathlessness conveyed via mad dashes toward silences, double-takes and a surprise sudden jolt
into the key of B flat major at the beginning of the Development section. Moreover, with virtually every theme
based on the first four descending notes, it is as economical as any piece Beethoven composed. A sly
reference to B-flat major also occurs at the very end of the movement, with a quotation from the opening of
Mozart’s Piano Concerto, K. 450, which also is in that key.
The Largo was to remain Beethoven’s most tragic creation for piano until the appearance of the slow
movement of the Hammerklavier, Op. 106. According to his biographer cum flunkey, Anton Schindler,
Beethoven had deliberately set out to convey the state of mind of someone who had fallen prey to melancholia.
With its desolate opening, anguished climaxes, and devastating ending, he succeeded unconditionally. I often
wonder what passed through his mind when he completed this work.
The Minuet begins elegantly, with a hint of sweetness. Then the surprises begin: a sudden rush in the bass is
taken up by the other voices, before the music dissolves into a return of the opening theme. Finally, after a few
more small jolts, it concludes with the same graciousness with which it began. The Trio resonates with the
good humour that pervades the opening and closing movements, with its clumsy Landler, or peasant waltz.
As an experiment, I once attempted to follow the Largo with minuets and scherzos (appropriately transcribed)
Beethoven had composed for other sonatas. None—including the one from the Pastorale Sonata, which is also
in D major—provided the proper emotional release from the mood of despair. Some were too serious, others
far too jocular. In trying to determine why this particular one works so well, I discovered a slight thematic
connection between the close of the Minuet theme and the opening theme of the Largo, but quickly realized
that this was not a valid explanation. One hallmark of a great composer is his ability to provide not merely
thematic continuity in a piece of music, but for lack of a better word, psychological continuity. Beethoven’s
genius in that regard is unparalleled.
The final movement is an exercise in both frugality and light-hearted comedy. The entire piece derives from
only three notes, and the humour lies in that motif’s vain efforts to develop into a full-blown theme or melody.
It never succeeds: its efforts are met with frustration at every turn. Later, it throws a brief tantrum, furious1 at
being thwarted so continually. However, rage is not its essential nature, and the mood soon dissipates. During
the motif’s adventures, it had previously encountered a simple chromatic scale accompanied in the bass by
“Chopsticks”-like chords. The sonata concludes with these two musical figures flying off together somewhere,
silently…
1
Beethoven’s incredible brain always lurks in the background, even in his most farcical moments. Consider
that the tantrum is in B flat major, the key that plays an important role in the first movement.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op. 13 “Grande Sonate Pathétique”
composed 1798, published 1799
In 1793, the German poet, Friedrich Schiller, wrote an essay entitled Über das Pathetische. Musicologist
William Kinderman, in his book, Beethoven, lucidly states Schiller’s thesis: “Pathos or tragedy arises when
unblinkered awareness of suffering is counter-balanced by the capacity of reason to resist these feelings.”
Beethoven’s understanding of this affect was undoubtedly close to Schiller’s. Defiance of suffering and a
single-minded determination to surmount it lie at the heart of virtually all his C minor compositions. By the late
18th century, that key’s strong association with a sense of tragic drama was firmly established: Mozart had
cast several of his most dramatic works in that key, while Beethoven had recently composed the first of three
dramatic C minor sonatas (Op. 10/1). However, the “C minor as pathos” identification probably was cemented
with the “Grande Sonate Pathétique,” one of only two sonatas whose nickname was actually provided by
Beethoven.
This trait is found most obviously in the first movement, with its conflict between the solemn Grave, which is
so reminiscent of the opening of Bach’s C minor Partita, and the hugely defiant Allegro. Only four of the
sonatas have an introduction, and this, his first, is the lengthiest and most elaborate. It does far more than
merely set the mood: it is heavily integrated with the rest of the movement.
A famous point of dispute between musicians occurs in the opening movement: some early editions of this
sonata seem to indicate that the Introduction as well as the Allegro be repeated. The late Rudolf Serkin
performed the sonata in this manner, as does at least one of his former students. I sympathize with anyone's
desire to hear (or play) the introduction a second time. However, the overwhelming momentum of the Allegro
suffers by the resulting interruption, and the devastating shock of the return to the introduction in G minor at
the outset of the Development is completely lost. More importantly, how are we to handle Beethoven’s
contemporaneous Piano Quartet/Quintet, Op. 16, with its even longer introduction and identical ambiguity about
the repeat? In that work, repeating the introduction sounds ludicrous. Doing so in the Pathétique is equally
wrong.
Was the famous slow movement consciously or unconsciously influenced by the very similar middle section of
the slow movement of Mozart’s C minor sonata? Was it deliberately echoed, in turn, by Beethoven himself in
the Adagio of his Ninth Symphony? We can never know such things: When someone pointed out to Brahms
the resemblance between the finale of his first symphony and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, he responded “Any
idiot knows that.” However, when I intrepidly asked Aaron Copland about a striking kinship between the closing
measures of The Cat and the Mouse and the introduction to Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, he
acknowledged the resemblance, but then added that he’d never heard the Dukas piece when he’d composed
his own work as a young man.
Like so many of Beethoven’s adagios, this one has a troubled inner section in the minor key. His piano sonatas
often contained textures associated with string quartet writing; here, one can easily envision a duet between
the first violin and cello, accompanied by the nervous triplets in the second violin and viola parts. It is also
characteristic of the composer’s slow movements that some aspect of the contrasting middle section—in this
case the triplet figures—remain present when the song-like opening theme returns.
The Finale may be the lightest of the three movements, but its thematic connections to the rest of the sonata
run deep. The rhythm of the main theme is identical to that of the second theme in the opening movement. The
middle section contains two links to the second movement: not only do they share the key of A flat major, but
the melodic skeleton of Adagio is also maintained. Throughout the movement Beethoven also plays a teasing
game with us: on four occasions there occurs a brilliant descending scale, beginning from the topmost F of the
keyboard as he knew it. However, only in the last measure does he finally resolve it in the home key of C
minor.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 9 in E, Op. 14/1
composed 1778-79, published 1799
Those who enjoy Beethoven only when he is storming the heavens will have to sit out both Op. 14 sonatas. These brief,
unpretentious, and mostly good-humoured pieces are a wonderful foil for the dramatic Pathétique that immediately
preceded them. Of course, nowhere is it written that a composition in a lighter vein cannot be expertly crafted, and the
first two movements of the E Major sonata are indeed the work of a master.
The opening theme, for instance, contains three ideas that at first glance seem quite disparate. However, they are
strongly related. The first motive delineates four rising notes (B to E). Those notes are immediately compressed into a
brief scurrying passage that is famous for giving nightmares to even the most pyrotechnically-endowed pianists. The
theme concludes leisurely with a descending scale, the last four notes of which are-almost predictably-the first four in
reverse. The remainder of the movement concerns itself with developing the scale-like material, but also hidden away
in the fabric of the music is a simple two-note pattern, G-G#, that the composer delights in reintroducing in a variety of
guises.
Early in his career, Beethoven was still wrestling with the matter of whether to include a minuet a livelier, trendier
scherzo into his compositions. On this occasion, he skirted the issue by writing an unspecified, wistful Allegretto. This
gentle work contrasts so satisfactorily with the outer movements that a genuine slow movement would have been
superfluous.
A curious rondo concludes the sonata. As with the opening movement, the main theme is primarily concerned with
scale-like motion, with progression from B to E again prominently featured. Now, the vast majority of Beethoven’s
themes are constructed so as to leave room for, and even demand, further growth and development, but this one
never seems to be able to get off the ground. Furthermore, with a generous dose of repetitiveness as well as a busy
middle section that may leave some listeners wondering why it is there, it is no wonder that the sonata ends so
abruptly and unceremoniously! It is as though Beethoven were saying “Whew! I’m glad to be through with that one.”
Incidentally, Beethoven later set this sonata as a string quartet. Although his doing so might be more illustrative of his
creative financial dealings with his publishers than with any artistic creativity, the result is no mere transcription. As
the famed British musician Donald Tovey wrote in his edition of the sonatas, a careful study of the quartet score sheds
new light on Beethoven’s piano style.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 10 in G Major, Op. 14/2
composed 1778, published 1799
This good-humored sonata is an exact contemporary of the Pathétique, Op. 13. Beethoven possibly may have
planned to include all three under a single opus number, but soon realized that the two lightweight inhabitants
of Op. 14 hardly belong in the same galaxy as the Pathétique, let alone the same binding.
Jokes abound throughout the piece, beginning with the first measure, which is deliberately written so as
mislead the unsuspecting listener as to the placement of the main beat. The movement continues amiably until
the relatively lengthy development section, where the mood becomes more serious, even confrontational.
Rhythmic confusion begins again toward the end of the section, and the piece is forced to come to an abrupt,
ugly halt on C#, a note as far away from G as we can get, before a return to the main theme—the sneakiest
Beethoven ever composed—can be managed. He obviously liked the joke so much that he repeated it
practically verbatim in the finale of his sixteenth sonata (G major, Op. 31/1).
The brief second movement is possibly the most unsophisticated in the canon. It is an unnamed set of
variations in which the main theme is always discernible, while the speed of its embellishments increases from
variation to variation. Interestingly, Beethoven never called movements of this type Variations, reserving that
designation only for those works in which the theme itself is subjected to more profound transformations. One
almost can imagine this movement having been written by a far less talented colleague, were it not for two
touches that only Beethoven could have thought of: a four-bar interpolation just before final variation, and an
audacious chord that brings the movement to a close.
The final movement is a rondo entitled Scherzo. Once again, the composer keeps the listener guessing: first
about the time signature, then, about where the main beat is within the bar. A fitful piece, except for a lyrical
episode, it keeps us off guard from beginning to end. Haydn would have loved it.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 11 in B-flat, Op. 22
composed 1799-1800, published 1802
This is the first sonata where, instead of breaking new ground and probing the limits of every precept and
process he can, Beethoven appears satisfied to rest on his laurels. Op. 22 is the most “normal” sonata he
wrote—the one that most closely adheres to textbook descriptions of the form. Furthermore, it does not
portray him in any of his most characteristic moments; it is not especially defiant, tragic, humorous, or brilliant.
Nevertheless, he was particularly proud of it, according to a letter that he wrote to his publisher, and his pride
is fully justified. Beethoven’s accomplishments to date in this genre are fully summed up in this work.
Moreover, it would be hard to find a piece that better exemplifies the piano sonata at the end of the 18th
century.
Still, even here, something new is afoot: the degree, and function, of pianistic figuration. The passage-work no
longer merely provides self-conscious moments of brilliance as in, say, Op. 2/3: it becomes the very stuff out
of which much of the work is cast, and forecasts pieces like the Waldstein and the fourth concerto.
This is also Beethoven’s most elegant sonata to date. From the start of his career, his ‘Haydnesque’ tendency
to wring as much melodic content as he can from a few simple motives was present. However, in Op. 22, we
also witness a ‘Mozartean’ sense of effortlessness in the way the themes flow into each other, especially in the
opening movement. The utterly sublime slow mov’t is one of my personal favorites in the entire canon. With its
simple accompanying chords in the left hand, it begins innocently, like a Grade 3 piano piece. However, once
Beethoven has stated his material, the movement—in a full Sonata form—develops magically, with an almost
unbearable degree of tension in the Development section.
The gracious, trouble-free Minuet begins with upward motion from D to F, as in the opening movement,
followed by a turning motif that is derived from the Adagio. The trio is more intense, with most of the melodic
interest maintained by the figurations in left hand. Although we “tune detectives,” can be a tiresome lot, we are
here justified in noting a strong connection between this theme and an episode in Mozart’s Turkish Rondo.
The final movement is probably the most successful of Beethoven’s congenial, repetitive sonata-rondos. The
second theme is reminiscent of that which he used for a set of G major variations familiar to many student
pianists. The central section is a little sonatina—a form within a form, as it were—in which the main theme is
that same G Major tune, while the second theme derives from a figuration that occurs in the first movement.
More than one commentator has noted the resemblance between this movement and the finale to the Sonata,
Op. 7, but whereas the earlier one ends softly, Beethoven must have decided that a sonata of this scope
required a more decisive conclusion than he had provided the first time around.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 12 in A flat Major, Op. 26 “Funeral March”
composed 1800-01, published 1802
In 1802, any musician or educated music-lover who had been tracking Beethoven’s career would have come to expect
a thematically unified work consisting of a dramatic, cogently-argued opening movement, followed by an intensely
lyrical Adagio, possibly a witty minuet or scherzo, and finally, a relatively light closing movement. Against such
expectations, the appearance of the suite-like Sonata in A flat, Op. 26 and the two sonatas quasi una Fantasia of Op.
27, would not merely have been surprising. With their unorthodox ordering of movements, and the use of genres not
normally associated with sonatas, they must have seemed as shocking as Beethoven’s final sonata trilogy, Op. 109-111,
composed two decades later.
The opening movement is a leisurely set of variations, based on an Andante that seems far more appropriate to a slow
movement than to the beginning of a sonata. Although the relationship between the theme and each of the five
variations is clear, there is little connection between the variations themselves, nor is there much of a cumulative effect
when all are heard together. (Beethoven tacitly acknowledges each variation’s separateness by concluding each with a
full double bar, a practice not encountered in any of his other variation sets.)
For the first time in his four-movement piano sonatas, the Scherzo appears as the second movement rather than the
third. The change of order was virtually a necessity here, given the slow pace of the opening movement. Nevertheless,
Beethoven must have been satisfied with the result, because this was the order to which he would frequently return in
many of his instrumental works.
A heroic funeral march serves as the slow movement. All the elements that characterize the genre are present—the
lumbering dotted rhythm, a minor key, and a military salute featuring trumpets and drums. Beethoven must also have
been satisfied with this idea, because he soon was to repeat the procedure in his Eroica. (Incidentally, it is not
generally known that in 1815 he orchestrated this movement and included it in his incidental music to the now forgotten
play Leonore Prohaska.)
Op. 26 is the first sonata to feature a perpetuum mobile finale, a technique he would employ in seven of his nine
subsequent sonatas. The theme’s gentle character is interrupted throughout the rondo by jarring syncopations in the
second theme, and a middle section whose ferocity anticipates the finale of the Moonlight. The coda, while losing none
of its momentum, quickly and effectively dissolves the sonata into nothingness.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 13 “quasi una Fantasia” in E flat Major, Op. 27/1
composed 1800-01, published 1802
This work, like the Moonlight, its better known bedfellow, represents one of the earliest attempts by Beethoven
to create a succinct, unified sonata in which, for the first time in his piano music, individual movements are
linked together without a break. A reprise of the slow movement following the finale likewise contributes to the
work’s unity, as does the fact that Beethoven derives virtually all the important themes in this sonata from two
ideas: a falling third, and a rising arpeggio.
The most notable innovation in this piece is the dramatic shift in the work’s centre of gravity. Until this point,
the classical sonata’s weightiest moments generally occurred in the two opening movements. However, this
sonata breaks that tradition by intensifying as it progresses, with the Finale serving as its climax.
In order to underscore the importance of this structural change, and make it obvious, Beethoven may have
deliberately composed as innocuous an opening theme to the sonata as he could. The subsequent variation
even borders on silliness: this is one of the few places in Beethoven where the music is not, as Schnabel was
fond of saying, “greater than it possibly can be played.” The two intervening episodes and the coda are by far
the most interesting sections of this rondo movement.
The work then deepens dramatically and suddenly. The second movement is the first example we have of
Beethoven’s dark, almost sinister scherzi. A songful slow movement is interrupted by the perpetual motion,
driven Finale. Brilliant as it is, however, the Finale lacks the stamina to make it all the way to the finish line. It
stops suddenly, and while pausing for breath, the Adagio returns for one final reprise. A short Coda resumes
the activity, and brings this unjustifiably neglected sonata to a brilliant conclusion.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 14 “quasi una Fantasia” in C sharp minor, Op. 27/2 “Moonlight”
composed 1801, published 1802
This work, the most famous sonata in existence—and one of the most atypical—owes its nickname not to
Beethoven or any ingenious publisher. Rather, the credit goes to the German poet and critic Ludwig Rellstab,
who wrote that the first movement reminded him of “a boat visiting, by moonlight, the primitive landscapes of
Lake Lucerne.” One is tempted to wonder whether the sonata would have achieved its popularity without that
evocative nickname, and also to lament that the first movement is by now so hackneyed that its magnificence
is often overlooked. Moreover, the entire piece, surely one of Beethoven’s finest creations, is all-too-seldom
performed in recital. (Interestingly, when the sonata was first published, it was the finale that gave the work its
almost instant popularity.)
This work and its less-known companion, the Sonata in E flat, Op. 27/1, represent Beethoven’s earliest
attempts to create works whose continuity spreads over all the movements, with the weightiest moments
occurring toward the conclusion, rather than the opening. The dividing lines between movements are clearer
here than in Op. 27/1. Still, the Moonlight’s effect is also cumulative, leading us from the utmost solemnity of
the first movement, through the gracious, ultra-brief respite provided by an untitled minuet (termed by Liszt as
“a flower between two abysses) to the passionate, unremittingly tragic Finale. Interestingly, there is little
contrast within any of the movements: each seems to be cut from only one piece of cloth.
Theoretically, the opening movement can be parsed into a structure containing all the elements of Sonata
allegro form. However such an “analysis” barely describes this wondrous composition, which sounds more
formless than possibly any other movement he wrote. Two characteristics of the final movement, which is in a
far more recognizable sonata-allegro form, bear noting. The first three notes in the right hand are identical to
the accompanying triplet figure in the opening movement. Also, as in several other of his sonatas, the
movement seems to run out of steam shortly before the conclusion of the work, and pauses briefly before
heading for the final bar.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 15 in D Major, Op. 28 “Pastoral”
composed 1801, published 1802
This sonata is something of an anomaly, given the six highly innovative sonatas from Op. 26 to 31 that
surround it. It is, for Beethoven, a relatively conventional four-movement creation (his last) and is the most
laid-back of the canon. There are few formal and harmonic experiments like those that characterize his
previous sonatas; also absent is their strong dramatic presence. Still, as Donald Tovey points out, Op. 28 is
“Pastoral” only in the sense that Jane Austin’s novels are. One only has to compare this masterful piece to
Clementi’s Sonata Op. 40/3 (written almost at the same time, in the same key, and with a strikingly similar
opening theme), to recognize the masterful quality that shines through from beginning to end. It is tightly
unified; a descending scale from A to D is found in the opening themes of the first, second, and fourth
movements. (One wonders whether Beethoven had at the back of his mind, the famous Bach Musette in D
major we all played as children, which also begins with the same descending five notes.)
Two particularly striking moments in the opening movement bear specific mention. The ending of the first
theme, in the right hand, becomes the basis of the closing theme in the left. Later, the Development section
provides a classic instance of what Alfred Brendel terms foreshortening, in which more and more of a theme
is chopped away, while the remainder is repeated again and again with increasing insistence.
The processional Andante follows, accompanied by a cello-like pizzicato bass line. Lest we labour under the
misunderstanding that this is another funeral march, Beethoven provides a fairly jocular Trio. Towards the
end, however, the movement deepens significantly, and when the Trio is briefly reprised, its far more
menacing qualities are also revealed.
The Scherzo begins ambiguously, with four descending unison F sharps that could easily imply several
different keys. It is only when those notes are answered that we know that Beethoven is remaining in the
home key of D Major. His humorous use of silence in this movement is also especially noteworthy. The Trio
anticipates a trick Chopin often used in the Mazurkas, in which the melody remains constant while the
surrounding harmonies alter with each iteration.
Op. 28 marks the first instance in a Beethoven sonata where a deliberately-paced Finale is followed by a brief,
fast coda. It is the most “pastoral” of the four movements, with the opening measures wonderfully evoking the
sound of country bagpipes (decidedly not the Black Watch variety) in the distance.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 16 in G Major, Op. 31/1
composed 1801-02, published 1804
Although Beethoven had in 1800 expressed particular satisfaction with his Sonata in B flat, Op. 22, a year later
he announced that he was displeased with his previous music, and that henceforth he would embark upon a
new course. Part of this rhetorical overstatement can be attributed to the intense insecurity that escapes only
mediocre artists. (An equal portion can undoubtedly be ascribed to hyperbole from one of the most successful
self-promoters in the history of classical music.)
Nonetheless, there is more than an element of truth to his pronouncement. The sonatas of Op. 26 and 27
explore new structural possibilities. Although this sonata is more conventional from a formal standpoint, it
explores several important new paths, including some that Beethoven ultimately decided not to pursue further:
the use of Ecossais-type melodies, rapid shifts back and forth between major and minor modes (both of which
would later become virtual thumbprints of Schubert), and a florid, operatic kind of writing.
However, Beethoven's most significant find lies in the area of harmony and structure. From the outset of his
career, Beethoven had flirted with the notion of modulating, in his major-key sonata-form movements, to keys
other than the dominant. As early as in his second sonata, he had led his listeners far afield before arriving at
the expected second key. However, it is in Op. 31/1 that he finally "takes the plunge." For the first time, he
modulates from the home key (G Major) to B, in both the major and minor modes (as opposed to the typical
dominant, in this case, D major). Nowadays, any Grade II piano student knows that B minor and D major share
the same key signature, so the modulation does not seem too strange to our ears. However, two centuries
ago, ending the exposition in any key other than D would have undoubtedly shocked listeners and fellow
musicians. It could well be that Beethoven chose to clothe such a radical step in the most humorous, off-thewall, movement for piano he would compose, so as to deflect any criticism that such a departure might
provoke.
The Sonata features one of the most nondescript openings in the history of music, beginning with a trite theme
that the pianist's hands seemingly cannot manage to play together. The melody itself goes nowhere, turning
back on itself again and again. In desperation, the pianist scrambles all over the keyboard in search of
something better to do. Finally, he decides to cut his losses and start over. Unfortunately, he fares no better
this time, and it is against this backdrop, that the piece finally modulates, with little subtlety, to the "wrong key."
This is an example of musical hi-jinx at its best. Later on, in the Development section and in the coda that
concludes the movement, it is the split hands and the mad scrambling, rather than the subsequent melodies,
which Beethoven chooses for further expansion.
The second movement represents another path Beethoven chose not to explore further: the florid, opera-like
style that would lead directly to the Nocturnes of Chopin and Field, as well as the Bel Canto melodies of Bellini
and Donizetti. The motorized middle section contrasts sharply with the opening; yet, when the first section
returns, the composer, as usual, finds a way of reconciling both elements. The movement concludes with a
wondrous, lengthy coda that sounds far more like Schubert than Beethoven.
The third movement is one of those leisurely, repetitious rondos with which Beethoven frequently concluded
his sonatas. Charles Rosen, the eminent scholar/pianist, notes that it is an exact formal model for the finale of
Schubert's posthumous A Major Sonata (and argues that this is a rare instance where a student's effort
surpassed that of the teacher). Toward the end of the movement, a cadenza deliciously teases the audience by
reintroducing the main theme yet again, but haltingly now, as if to ask: "Shall we move along, or savour it still
more?" (Shades of vaudeville artistes Lili St. Cyr or Tempest Storm!) Finally, the composer makes up his mind,
and speeds hastily to the double bar, re-introducing in the final measures the alternating hands with which this
special, and least familiar, sonata began.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 17 in D minor, Op. 31/2 “Tempest”
composed 1802, published 1804
The sonatas of Op. 31 continue the exploration of new paths that Beethoven had begun with Op. 26—paths that
include formal and harmonic experimentation. The D minor sonata, Op. 31/2 is his first work in which the main
theme (seemingly) begins in a key other than the tonic. A mysterious A major arpeggio, ostensibly the
introduction, immediately attracts and holds our attention through a lengthy pause. Suddenly, a rush of twonote figures momentarily identifies the correct key of the piece, but again stops on the dominant A, rather than
on the tonic D minor. The mysterious arpeggio is again heard, but in the distant key of C major. After another
pause, a second, longer rush of two-note figures leads to triumphant statement of the arpeggio in the home
key, pounded out in the bass, alternating with a plaintive gesture in the treble.
Here, even the most experienced listener would be justified in presuming that we have finally arrived at the
main theme. However, from the outset of the piece, Beethoven has kept several steps ahead of us. After only
eight measures he begins modulating to the secondary key. This is a transition: what we had thought was an
introduction was actually the main theme. [Interestingly, whenever this theme is quoted again--in the repeat of
the exposition and the recapitulation--the previous material elides effortlessly into it, so that Beethoven never
again allows us to hear it as a beginning. Those pianists—students and professionals alike—who make a big
ritardando in order to emphasize the return of the main theme have not a clue about Beethoven’s narrative
sense.] The remainder of the movement is devoted to a working out of the three ideas already introduced. In
the recapitulation, the initial slow arpeggio is followed by a recitative that, consciously or otherwise, anticipates
the well-known baritone recitative that opens the choral portion of the finale to Beethoven’s 9th Symphony.
The sublime Adagio also begins with a slow arpeggio. All the important themes are peaceful, but running
through the movement is a series of ominous, short drum rolls in the bass, that remind us, as Beethoven so
often likes to do, that tranquility is at best transitory.
The finale is another of those moto perpetuo movements that so obsessed Beethoven in his middle period.
Beethoven may (or may not; see my notes to Sonata No. 18) have originally been inspired by hearing a
horseman galloping by his window, according to his student Karl Czerny, but he ultimately moved well beyond
that image, as evidenced by the Allegretto and piano markings at the outset. A single melodic pattern
predominates throughout, with subsidiary sections featuring jarring cross-accentuation. Like the two preceding
movements, the finale ends quietly, with the incessant rhythmic pattern playing itself out to the point of
exhaustion.
As for Beethoven’s famous response to a question posed by his amanuensis Anton Schindler regarding this
work’s (and the Appassionata’s) meaning, it is possible that Beethoven indeed saw some particular connection
between both pieces and Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Given Schindler’s less than brilliant mind, however, it is
possible that the composer just threw out the first answer he could think of.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 18 in E flat Major, Op. 31/3
composed 1802, published 1804
This work was to be Beethoven’s final four-movement sonata aside from the Hammerklavier. Its layout is quite
unusual. There is no slow movement: instead, the composer provides both a Scherzo and a Minuet. (Had
Beethoven appeared on the late-night Dietrich Leitermann TV show, the gap-toothed comic might have
quipped: “What’s the matter, Lou? After composing 17 sonatas, you still can’t make up your mind?”)
Like the other two Op. 31 sonatas, this one begins unusually. Instead of positing a thesis or statement,
Beethoven asks a question. Moreover, throughout the movement, like an insecure child, he asks the same
question over and over again, even though the answer is provided on each occasion by a parent whose
patience exceeds that of anyone else listening to (or performing) the piece.
The Scherzo is equally unorthodox. Until now, Beethoven’s scherzi have essentially been fast, triple-metered
minuets, with contrasting Trios. This one breaks with both traditions: it is a quick march in 2/4 time, and is
cast in a sonata form, complete with a repeat of the opening section. Its most distinguishing characteristics are
the perpetual-motion accompaniment in the left hand, and the sudden explosive chords that temporarily halt
the movement’s continuous motion. The surprise ending is truly one of the composer’s masterstrokes.
The Minuet—Beethoven’s final free-standing one for solo piano—is characterized by a complete absence of the
vigour and rhythmic thrust of most classical minuets by Haydn and Mozart, as well as those by Beethoven
himself. Instead, this beautiful piece is filled with nostalgia and sentiment, as though the composer is reluctantly
taking his leave of the eighteenth century.2
Beethoven’s student, Karl Czerny, claimed that the composer told him that he was inspired by the sound of a
horseman riding wildly outside his window as he composed the finale to the D minor Sonata, Op. 31/2. There
may have been a breakdown of communication between them, due either to Beethoven’s deafness or a lapse
in Czerny’s memory. It requires a stretch of the imagination to hear the last movement of Op. 31/2 (marked
Allegretto) in that manner. However, very few pieces better evoke the image of a furious gallop than the Finale
of Op. 31/3. It begins breathlessly with the sound of hooves clattering on the cobblestones. Later on, hunting
horn calls are added to the mix, and the movement continues to a joyous conclusion with only a tiny break just
before the final phrase.
2
Later, in his Symphony No. 8, he would return to the minuet form to parody it, rather than, as in this sonata, to pay homage to a beloved genre that he
realized had outlived its time.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 19 in G Minor, Op. 49/1
composed 1797, published 1805
Sonata No. 20 in G Major, Op. 49/2
composed 1795-96, published 1805
Despite their opus number, the two Op. 49 sonatas are early works, published without the composer’s consent
at his brother’s instigation. One can readily understand Beethoven’s annoyance: they are quite unfinished,
especially with respect to their unusually sparse dynamic markings, which Beethoven invariably treated not
simply as “expression marks,” but as an important aspect of a work’s structure. More importantly, for all the
sonatas’ allure, they no longer reflected his compositional skills in 1805, and he would not have wanted them
regarded as representative of his current work. It is for those reasons that some pianists and commentators
argue that these pieces should be excluded from the canon of Beethoven’s piano sonatas, and grouped instead
with the remainder of his juvenilia.
Still, they were composed very shortly before Beethoven launched his career in earnest, and are much closer
in quality to his earliest published works than to the student pieces he had written previously. Occasionally,
they even exhibit a surprising degree of sophistication. The opening movement of the G minor sonata is a
tragic Andante. This in itself is unusual—slow first movements were rare in the classical era—but more
interesting is the fact that both themes share a common rhythm. In the first movement of the G major sonata,
the relationship is even subtler: the second theme is derived from the latter portion of the first.
Both finales are light rondos. The first combines a formal scheme that is characteristic of Mozart, blended with
a humorous quality reminiscent of Haydn. The final movement of No. 2 opens with the theme that Beethoven
subsequently used in the minuet of his Septet, Op. 20. Considering that he virtually disowned the Septet,
imagine his anger at seeing what is tantamount to a sketch of one of its movements published several years
later without his knowledge.
For all their youthfulness, the Op. 49 sonatas are delightful, charming pieces. It is small wonder that they are
so often used as an introduction to Beethoven for young pianists. Nevertheless, they do deserve a more
serious outing every so often…
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 21 in C, Op. 53 “Waldstein”
composed 1803-4, published 1805
Many of us are so brainwashed by the image of Beethoven struggling with his creative demons that we
overlook the fact that only eight years separate his first piano sonata from the Waldstein. It is worth
remembering that a track record of twenty-one published piano sonatas, plus six string quartets, three piano
concertos, nine violin sonatas, three piano trios and three completed symphonies, all within eight years, is not
exactly indicative of moderately-paced activity. This is especially true, considering these works’ greatness,
complexity and individuality, not to mention the phenomenal artistic growth they evince over that period.
Only two piano sonatas—this one and the Appassionata—reflect Beethoven’s mid-career preoccupation with
expanding his instrumental forms to epic proportions. The Waldstein, in fact, was originally meant to be even
longer; he had originally composed a leisurely slow movement, but subsequently withdrew it, published it
separately as Andante Favori, and substituted the short but far more profound Introduzione which now
separates the outer movements. Beethoven’s achievement is even more remarkable, given an additional
restriction that he imposed upon himself, namely, the almost total avoidance of a theme with any distinctive
melodic profile. Instead, he created his structures out of repeated chords, scale-wise and arpeggiated
figurations, and for the first time—but by no means the last—trills and tremolos, all occurring over relatively
slow-moving harmonies.
In referring to this sonata, many commentators dwell on the unorthodox modulation, in the first movement,
from the home key of C Major, to the relatively distant E major, rather than the more traditional G Major. This
is understandable; even after performing this sonata many times, I still feel, when reaching the E major
section, that I am in a hitherto undiscovered galaxy where an entirely new set of physical laws apply. Still, for
the record, Beethoven had already broken this new ground in the earlier G Major Sonata, Op. 31/1. That
sonata, however, is so jocular that the unusual modulation may well have been perceived as a joke. In the
Waldstein, his intentions are clear. From this point on, the “gravitational pull” between dominant and tonic in
sonata form becomes less significant than the conflict of musical ideas, irrespective of the key in which they
occur. (It is important, however, to remember that Beethoven only “broke the rule” once more [in the
Hammerklavier] as far as the sonatas in major keys are concerned. All the others adhere to the traditional
practice.)
The wonderful middle movement provides us with one of the best glimpses we have of Beethoven as the
legendary improviser at the keyboard. With its extensive chromaticism and shifting harmonies, the
accompanying sense of uneasiness serves as the ideal introduction to the expansive, radiant finale. Several of
Beethoven’s piano sonatas contain leisurely rondos with opening themes that are repeated so many times that
some listeners’ patience can come close to being tested. However, the reverse is true in the case of the
Waldstein. The resonance of that opening low C, the rolling accompaniment and hazy pedaling impart such
enchantment to the innocent theme that time seems to stand still. We are Beethoven’s willing prisoners, and
will remain motionless for as long, and as many times, as he wishes us to do so. How infinitely more apt is this
sonata’s French and Russian sobriquet (l’Aurore, or dawn) than the mundane nickname the piece has acquired
in English and German!
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 22 in F Major, Op. 54
composed 1804, published 1806
What are we to make of this curious, unassuming work that separates the heroic Waldstein and Appassionata
Sonatas? Should we read anything into its lack of a dedication, seemingly a wasted opportunity for one of the
more politically astute composers in history? Is it an indication that Beethoven realized that it hadn’t quite come
off? Could he have intended it as a heavy-handed burlesque of less talented composers’ efforts, along the lines
of Mozart’s Musical Joke, or perhaps even his own eighth symphony? Or should we cast our votes with
pianists Edwin Fischer and Alfred Brendel, both of whom have written that it is an important work (without
really explaining why)?
The truth probably lies somewhere within all these assertions. In this sonata, Beethoven explored a number of
radical techniques for the first time, while disguising the sonata’s experimental nature with the use of humour,
so as to deflect any criticism of the piece.
In the opening movement Beethoven attempts a juxtaposition and ultimate reconciliation of two diametrically
opposing ideas: an elegant, gentle minuet and a crude, heavily accented octave exercise. The minuet occurs
three times, becoming increasingly ornate with each repetition, finally dissolving into trills. Interspersed are the
two octave passages. They begin similarly, but partway through the second of these, Beethoven suddenly
breaks off, as though he realizes that this experiment simply is not working, and returns to the minuet. He
becomes contrite in the coda when, as though to atone for his sins, he delivers the movement’s finest music.
In the second movement we find the composer experimenting with structure. The thematic material,
admittedly, can be shoe-horned into some kind of sonata form, but with the proportions of each section totally
askew: The opening exposition is only 3 lines long, while the remainder of the movement occupies more than
five pages. Furthermore, the imbalance is magnified because Beethoven specifically indicates that the lengthy
second section be repeated. Perceptually, the effect is one of the composer leading us all over the map for
several minutes, at a hypnotic pace that according to Donald Tovey, nothing can hurry and nothing can stop.
Finally, Beethoven decides that enough is enough, and races us for the concluding double bar, leaving us all
out of breath when we arrive there. The laugh is on us!
Some of the techniques he first explored here would be repeated with more notable success in subsequent
keyboard works. The progressively increasing decorativeness in each repetition of the minuet can also be
heard in both the slow movement of Op. 57 and the final variation of the third movement of Op. 109. The
juxtaposition of two seemingly incompatible ideas in the opening movement of Op. 54 is again worked out in
the first movement of Op. 109. Finally, Beethoven was sufficiently satisfied with the finale that he immediately
used a similar in his very next piano sonata, the Appassionata, both with respect to the tempo and
asymmetrical ground plan.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 23 in F minor, Op. 57 “Appassionata”
composed 1804-5, published 1807
“I confess the reasons for the so-called Appassionata Sonata’s popularity elude me. At this period of his life Beethoven
was not only preoccupied with motivic frugality. He was also preoccupied with being Beethoven… his conceit at this
period was to create mammoth structures from material that in lesser hands would scarcely have afforded a good
sixteen-bar intro. And there is about the Appassionata an egoistic pomposity, a defiant ‘let's see if I can't get away with
using that tune once more,’ attitude, that on my own private Beethoven poll places this sonata somewhere between the
King Stephen Overture and the Wellington's Victory Symphony.”
No, this quote is not another post-modern attempt by a proponent of the "new musicology" to cut Beethoven down to
size. Rather, it is from programme notes Glenn Gould wrote three decades ago for his own recording of the piece.
That performance elicited from critic Harris Goldsmith the remark that Gould’s interpretation represented an act of
"deliberate sabotage." (This was one of the more charitable comments that greeted that particular release.)
Yet, Gould did have a point. He recognized that for all the Appassionata’s drama and presti-digitational demands, the
harmonic motion is slow, and there is less contrapuntal complexity than we find in his earlier or later sonatas.
However, he was judging this piece strictly from the vantagepoint of an obsessed imitative contrapuntist. He
demonstrably had little sympathy for Beethoven’s extraordinary achievement of creating as epic a work as had yet
been written for the piano, one that used sound and texture rather than melody, and with every aspect of the sonata’s
architecture contributing to its inner drama.
The sonata begins with an arpeggiated theme in F minor. It is immediately repeated, but now in the key of G flat. This
sets into motion a struggle between the all-important note C, a fundamental part of the F minor chord, and a less
crucial note in that key, D flat. The standard tensions of themes and keys inherent in the most first movements are still
present; however, the C - D flat dichotomy also persists throughout the movement (and indeed, the entire sonata) and
even overwhelms the music at its most climactic points: the end of the Development and the Coda.
In the middle of his career, Beethoven seemed to avoid writing the extended slow movements he delighted in
composing both earlier and later. Many of these middle movement, like the Appassionata’s, serve primarily as a
welcome pause between the weightier outer movements. The second movement is a set of variations (set in D flat
major) whose main theme contains no fewer than five iterations of the motif D flat - C - D flat. The theme, essentially a
series of chords, remains constant, but becomes increasingly embellished in each of the three variations. Finally, the
original theme is re-stated. This time, though, each phrase sounds in a different register, thereby revealing inner
dialogues that were hidden the first time around.
Suddenly, the movement is harshly interrupted (by a chord whose top note is none other than D flat), and the finale
follows without a pause. It is characteristic of another aspect of Beethoven’s middle-period keyboard style: of the nine
sonatas written between Opus 26 and 57, seven of their finales, including this one, feature perpetual-motion patterns
from start to finish. The highest notes of the principal motif are, almost predictably, C and D flat. The tempo marking is
Allegro ma non troppo. Of course, that only serves as a challenge for some pianists to play the movement from
beginning to end as troppo as possible, so as to demonstrate conclusively how much better they know than Beethoven
about how his music is to be performed.
As with the opening movement, the repetition of the Exposition is omitted. How bizarre, then, that Beethoven
specifically and unusually directs that the much longer development and recapitulation be repeated! Many musicians
question the advisability of following this marking, and I must confess that, before performing the piece I also had
decided that the sonata’s greatness might best be served by ignoring the repeat sign. However, the first time I played it
in public, the choice was literally taken out of my hands. I simply could not go forward at this point, and played the
piece as written. As always, Beethoven is right. The repetition may admittedly be superfluous if only the last movement
is played, but when one performs the entire sonata, the finale demands the length Beethoven assigned it, if for no
other reason than to counterbalance the weight and force of the opening movement.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 24 in F-sharp, Op. 78
composed 1809, published 1810
This is first of three relatively brief piano sonatas that appeared four years after the Appassionata. Its brevity,
however, is not an indication that it is a slight work; indeed, Beethoven claimed that this sonata was one of his
favorites. (Presumably, he was sufficiently objective not to allow his special affection for the sonata’s
dedicatee, Therese von Brunsvik, as well what may have been more than affection for her sister Josephine, to
color his judgment.)
Anyone believing that keys lost their distinctive personalities following the introduction of the well-tempered
system of tuning need not look further than this sonata. Try playing the introduction in G or F major, then play
it in the proper key of F#. The difference is astonishing; the piece becomes so dark, so haunting! No wonder
Beethoven wouldn’t have been bothered in the slightest by the fact that the pianist has to “walk on eggs” in
order to play the rest of the sonata!
The miraculous four-measure introduction sets the stage and the mood of the remainder of the movement,
with the cantabile feeling moderating all the harmonic and rhythmic contrasts that follow.
The main theme of this exuberant, kaleidoscopic second movement is based on a three-note idea that appears
inconspicuously in the first movement, followed immediately by the refrain, Brittannia rules the Waves, from
Thomas Arne's anthem Rule Brittania. (This could be a coincidence, although Beethoven knew the theme well,
having composed a set of piano variations on the English melody in 1803.) Good humour abounds through the
continuous two-note chirrups, the sudden changes in register, and even the sharp major-minor shifts. One of
the movement’s finest touches occurs just prior to each return of the main theme, when the composer keeps
us guessing about exactly when it will happen. Also in evidence is Beethoven’s genius for knowing precisely
how to end a movement.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 25 in G Major, Op. 79
composed 1809, published 1810
This is the second of three relatively brief sonatas that followed the Appassionata. Beethoven described it in a
letter to his publisher as Sonatine facile. However, although of sonatina length, it is not sonatina-like in its
detailed working out; nor is it particularly facile to jouer.
The opening movement is marked Presto alla Tedesca (i.e. a fast waltz). Toward the beginning of the
Development section, Beethoven discovered that, if you eliminate the first note of the opening three-note
theme, you are left with a falling motive that sounds like a cuckoo clock. His amusement at this discovery
knows no bounds! He repeats it for us time and time again. Then, at the end of the movement, he has another
go or two at the idea, just to ensure we have not forgotten his jest.
The lilting, melancholy second movement forecasts the Venetian Boat Songs of Mendelssohn, while the finale
is a miniature rondo in which the main theme alternates with two epigrammatic sections. (Beethoven would
use that theme again in the first movement of the sonata, Op. 109.) The coda provides a surprise ending that
perfectly sums up the jocular mood of this delightful movement.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 26 in E-flat, Op. 81a “Das Lebewohl”
composed 1809-10, published 1811
Op. 81a is a transitional work: the sonic landscape of the introduction presages some of his late compositions,
while other portions could easily have been written a few years earlier. This sonata is also unusual in three
respects that have nothing to do with the music itself.
Of all the sonatas, this is the only one with an explicit program. Archduke Rudolph, a close friend and sponsor
of Beethoven, was forced to leave Vienna due to the imminent Napoleonic invasion, and Beethoven composed
this work with the movements representing, respectively, his friend’s farewell, his absence, and their reunion.
(He even delayed completion of the finale until Rudolph actually returned to Vienna). It is also no coincidence
that this is also the first sonata in which the original titles and principal tempo indications are in German. To
employ even common musical terms such as Allegro and Andante was politically incorrect at this time
because Italian was the Napoleon’s native language.3 Lastly, the work owes its unusual opus number to the
fact that it was bound with a sextet for two horns and string quartet (Op. 81b) which Beethoven had composed
much earlier. Although the grouping of several similar compositions under a single opus number was still
relatively common (although no longer so for Beethoven, whose works were in such demand that he could sell
each one individually), this type of “dog’s breakfast” publication was always a rare occurrence.
The sonata is not only programmatic, but also highly pictorial. The first three notes of the introduction bring to
mind a post-horn call. One can almost imagine the Archduke’s horses’ neighing in the flourish immediately
preceding the main theme, following which, the left hand imitates the clattering of coach wheels while the
sharp, rising three notes in the right hand depict the cracking of the driver’s whip. Also, in the coda, it is not
hard to picture, in the winding down of the tempo and the spreading of the hands, the Archduke’s coach
disappearing from view. The second movement wonderfully evokes a sense of loneliness, while the third,
complete with fanfare, conjures up the joy and excitement of seeing a close friend after a lengthy absence.
Yet, for all the programmatic content, the sonata is rigorously constructed, beginning with the Introduction,
which is totally integrated with the rest of the composition. Indeed, the opening three notes are the source of
virtually all the important material of the first movement. In various transformations, that motto also plays a
meaningful role in the remainder of the sonata. All three movements are in fairly standard sonata forms,
except for the deeply expressive Andante, which lacks a development section. The Finale, with its E-flat major
scales and arpeggios, is highly reminiscent of the Emperor Concerto, written around the same time.
3 'Les Adieux' was the last name Beethoven would have chosen, and not simply because of anti-French sentiment. Beneath the important descending
three-note motto with which the Sonata begins, the composer wrote the syllables, Le-be-wohl, whose meaning in German - 'live well' - is quite different
than the French 'good-bye,' or 'God be with you'.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 27 in E minor, Op. 90
composed 1814, published 1815
The years 1812-1814 were the least productive of Beethoven’s career. No wonder: the combination of
particularly severe personal stress, a sharp decline in his hearing, and the impact of the recent Napoleonic
occupation could hardly have been conducive to the incredible productivity that had characterized his output in
the 19th century’s first decade. (He did remain busy during those years, but it was ‘busy work’ that principally
occupied him: the creation of patriotic pieces like Wellington’s Victory and The Glorious Moment, which were
written to commemorate the Congress of Vienna, several folksong settings, and the final revision of Fidelio.)
The sonata in E minor, Op. 90 marks a return to more serious composition. Perhaps coincidentally, Beethoven
appears to have “picked up where he left off” with the principal thematic germ of the first movement−the
three-note descending motif, G-F#-E−remarkably like his previous sonata’s (Op. 81a) main theme, G-F-E flat.
The two ideas are even developed similarly in places.
As with all his mature two-movement sonatas, each movement contrasts sharply with the other. In the
opening, highly concentrated movement, two dissimilar ideas are presented at the outset, and it is these
themes that Beethoven ultimately subjects to extensive development. Especially masterful is the manner in
which, at the end of the development section, the composer ruminates about the first of these motives—three
descending notes—to the point where the rhythm of the movement almost dissolves completely. However, just
before chaos sets in, the music regains its momentum, and the main theme emerges out of the prior
dissolution of the musical material.
The concluding movement is not only the last of the five congenial Rondos to appear in his piano sonatas, but
is as leisurely, lyrical, and repetitive a finale as he was ever to compose. (Some commentators refer to it as
‘Schubertian’ because of its melodiousness, but with the exception of a cadence just before the movement’s
conclusion, that particular reference eludes these ears.) Thank goodness Beethoven knew a good tune when
he wrote it: it occurs virtually unadorned sixteen times over the course of the movement. Beethoven knows
exactly what he is up to, however, and teases us at the sonata’s conclusion, pretending that the movement is
going to continue even more. Suddenly, he decides that enough is enough and as abruptly as this sentence, the
music stops cold.
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Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 28 in A, Op. 101
composed 1816, published 1817
Op. 101 was Beethoven’s first truly substantial piano sonata following the Appassionata of 1805. Stylistically, this work
and the two Op. 102 cello sonatas are so far removed from any of his previous compositions that one can argue that it
is these three works that usher in his “late period.” Forms are unorthodox, or unorthodoxically placed within the
sonata. His earlier efforts to combine and relate individual movements now reach fruition in a single, organicallyunified composition. Beethoven was never a stranger to contrapuntal writing, but from this piece onward, pervasive,
imitative polyphony would henceforth become an integral part of his style. Although virtuosity of the sort found in the
Waldstein or the Appassionata is assiduously avoided, the uncompromising, and largely unpianistic, writing makes Op.
101 one of the most difficult of his sonatas to play.
In the leisurely first movement, although one can find features of standard sonata form, the characteristic element of
contrast is totally missing. Sections blend together seamlessly. Even the opening measures give the illusion that the
piece has already been going on for a while, much as if we had happened upon a conversation already in progress4.
The old-fashioned minuet had earlier surrendered its place in a sonata or symphony to the faster scherzo; however,
even the scherzo has been banished in Op. 101. Instead, the second movement is a jerky, gnarly, heavily contrapuntal
march. The middle Trio provides welcome contrast in mood and density, but it too relies on contrapuntal writing, taking
the anachronistic form of a canon (and consequently resembling a two-part invention that Bach would have made his
students throw into the waste-basket).
A relatively brief Adagio follows, contemplative and sparse, forecasting the tragic vision that would characterize those
awesome slow movements that were to come in his last works. It too seems to begin in mid-stream, and soon begins
to meander harmonically, getting a bit lost in the process. In its wanderings, it arrives unexpectedly at a re-statement
of the opening measures of the sonata. But this is not where we should be at this point and Beethoven quickly breaks
off the quotation. Still, the question of what to do next remains. While pondering those last three notes of the previous
phrase with increasing agitation he suddenly sees his way out of his predicament, and while the right hand is occupied
with long trills, the left hand delivers a pair of one-two combination punches that lead directly into the Finale.
The problem of finding a finale appropriate to what has gone before, as well as a convincing way of introducing it,
occupied Beethoven increasingly throughout his career. Some critics believe that his rate of success in this regard is
somewhat less than 100 percent, but in Op. 101 he succeeds beyond question. The jubilant fourth movement’s
centerpiece is an intense, thumb-twisting fugue. Beginning quietly and ominously, it piles one voice on top of another,
building without respite to an almost unbearable degree of tension, before returning triumphantly to the main theme.
Just as masterful is the Coda. It begins very much like the opening of the fugue, but Beethoven is just toying with our
expectations. He suddenly changes course, and winds down the excitement, forcing the pianist to pretend he is a string
quartet in the process. Then, when all is at a standstill, Beethoven delivers a final knockout blow, bringing the sonata to
an abrupt conclusion.
So seamlessly does the first movement follow the final measures of the previous sonata (No. 27) that perhaps, in an offbeat way, it has been going on
for a while! Just possibly, this is another of Beethoven’s attempts, in his later works, to elucidate his creative process: in this case, he could consciously
be guiding us from his previous world into his new one.
4
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106 “Hammerklavier”
composed 1816-17, published 1819
In addition to the Hammerklavier’s5 enormous demands upon a performer’s technique and his/her powers of
concentration, the work also poses unusual problems for the serious interpreter. It was published in both
Vienna and London under Beethoven’s supervision, but the autograph has never been found. Unfortunately,
the two sources contain many divergent readings, sometimes in important places. There is also an
incomprehensible reversal of the order of second and third movements in the London edition.
Ironically, the area of tempo, where Beethoven ostensibly went out of his way to be as explicit as possible, is
equally problematic. Although Op. 106 is the only piano sonata with metronome indications, some of these
markings are simply ludicrous. Pianists who can manage the first movement at the proscribed 138 to the halfnote (I freely admit to not being among them) succeed only in making as strong a case as possible against the
validity of such a notion 6. Even if Beethoven’s primitive metronome was accurate, two other facts must be
taken into consideration. Composers often “hear” their music faster than anyone else: they do not require the
time the rest of us need to absorb it because they have digested it so thoroughly during the process of
creating it. Furthermore, with Beethoven now virtually deaf, it is likely that he had lost the spatial sense that
music requires in order to be cogent, and for its nuances to be adequately conveyed.
It is commonly known that the Hammerklavier is by far his longest sonata. This is due mostly to the vast
landscape of the slow movement. The outer movements are only moderately lengthy, while the Scherzo is one
of his briefest creations. The piece is also sonically huge, sounding extraordinarily symphonic.7 There is no
sidestepping the fact that the Hammerklavier is also as tough, gnarled, and uncompromising as anything
Beethoven wrote, except perhaps for the Grosse Fuge.
Above all, it is relentlessly obsessive. A single interval, the third, permeates all the movements at the motivic,
melodic and harmonic levels. In fact, that interval forms the basis of virtually every principal theme in the
sonata. Similarly, although the dominant note F might be expected to play a key role, with large-scale areas of
the piece in that key, just as it does in all other works of the classical era, its role here is extremely limited.
Beethoven frequently uses the dominant chord as a brief resting-place before returning to the tonic. However,
never once does he actually modulate to the key of F. Instead, all important modulations are to a key that is a
third higher or lower than the immediately preceding one. 8
In other words, as early as 1816, Beethoven was attempting to do nothing less than re-define the concept of
tonality by casting aside the traditional role of the dominant key (the second most fundamental entity in the
tonal system), and elevating another note—the third—to that level of importance. It is not too great an
exaggeration to state that we must look almost a century ahead, to Debussy and Schoenberg, in order to find
so radical a transformation of musical thought. 9
For the sonata’s layout, Beethoven reverted to the four-movement Grande Sonate model that he had used so
frequently in his youth. The opening movement is in sonata form, complete with a (very) necessary repeat of
the Exposition. Immediately following the recapitulation, Beethoven jarringly introduces the theme in B minor,
which he is known to have regarded as a “dark key.” From that point on, B minor serves as B flat major’s
antithesis, with the struggle between the two keys occurring at various points throughout the sonata, most
obviously at the conclusion of the Scherzo.
The first movement also contains the most disputed reading in all of Beethoven’s piano music. Just prior to the
return of the main theme there is a progression of notes in the bass line, in which an A-sharp becomes the
5 There is no single instrument called a Hammerklavier. Rather, it refers, in German to a keyboard instrument with hammers. Romance language terms – even for something as common as piano – were out of favor in the immediate postNapoleonic era. Beethoven himself had also indicated that the Sonata Op. 101 was written for the Hammerklavier, but the nickname has stuck only to this work.
6 Solomon being the notable exception. I was referring to everyone else, of course.
7 Paradoxically, the sense of a piano (and perhaps the pianist as well) straining at its limits is required in order for that effect to be felt. The conductor Felix Weingartner actually made an orchestration of the sonata; the third movement is
remarkably successful, but overall, at least in his own recording with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, the piece sounds smaller than it does in the hands of any competent pianist.
8 Ironically, B flat major is only peripherally related to the intricate system of four keys he constructs around it, and returns to time and time again. Three of them, G, D, and F sharp, are separated from B flat by, almost predictably, the interval of
a third. I believe that these unorthodox “ground rules” are one of the chief elements that make the piece such a “tough nut to crack.” The sonata superficially sounds as if it is in a traditional key, but its internal workings are markedly different.
9 In this respect, he was ahead of the late 19th century composers like Liszt and Wagner, who, by exploiting and thwarting our expectations of traditional harmonic practice, were still acknowledging its traditions.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
tonic B-flat. The first editions are explicit, but controversy exists nonetheless, partially because a sketch in
Beethoven’s hand indicates a more conventional A-natural. More importantly, the music sounds extraordinarily
strange as printed, even to late 20th century ears. Pianist Alfred Brendel believes that an A-sharp robs the
recapitulation of a sense of triumph, and that the natural is therefore correct. I agree with Brendel’s
observations, but not his conclusions. Throughout his career, Beethoven often went out of his way to deemphasize the moment when the main theme returns. This is particularly true in the Hammerklavier, where
the left-hand accompaniment ensures that the power of the sonata’s opening cannot possibly be duplicated in
the recapitulation. (He is setting up the important B minor shock just ahead.) Since the A-sharp eliminates the
dominant-tonic progression leading up to the recapitulation, one of this sonata’s fundamental goals is achieved
by playing the music as printed.10
Very few compositions in the canon of Western music start or conclude as tragically as the slow movement,
but elsewhere, vastly different states of mind are evoked. Beethoven indicates at the outset that the entire
movement is to be played Appassionata e con molto sentimento, and subsequently directs that certain sections
be performed espressivo, and on two occasions, con grand’ espressione. In other words, unlike the slow
movement of the Sonata Op. 10/3, this movement is not a depiction of uninterrupted desolation. Central to the
movement—cast in Sonata form with an expansive coda—is an extended passage where descending thirds are
chained together melodically. The resemblance to the opening of Brahms’ fourth symphony can hardly be
called a coincidence. Elsewhere, there are moments where embellishments in the right hand sound uncannily
like those found in Chopin nocturnes.
It is only in the final movement that traditional sonata procedure is abandoned. As in the Finale of the
composer’s ninth symphony, the composer begins by searching for an appropriate conclusion to the work. A
slow, introspective, seemingly rhythm-less series of descending thirds in the bass voice is heard, sounding
somewhat like the awakening from a deep slumber. The composer interrupts the process three times in order
to try out a new idea. (Of course, something similar happens in the ninth symphony, but there, Beethoven
auditions themes from previous movements. In the Hammerklavier, the material is always new and each idea
is faster and more contrapuntal than the preceding one.) Suddenly, he hits upon the idea of ending the sonata
with a fugue. He is elated: those chained thirds become faster, louder, and more excited. Then he calms down,
and the fugue itself begins. Beethoven had included fugal sections in several of his earlier works, but writing a
fugue as an entire movement was new for him. And what a weird, grotesque fugue it is! Not only does it begin
with a trill, which ordinarily is a concluding ornament, but in sharp contrast to greatest fugues of the Baroque
masters, it uses every known manner of fugal writing—even the very rare technique of stating the theme
backwards (set in B Minor, B flat major's sinister alter ego) —instead of only one or two.
Finally, I offer without comment a quotation from a letter that Beethoven wrote to Ferdinand Ries, the pianist
who played the first London performance of this, his most complex and ingeniously structured sonata:
“Should the sonata not be suitable for London, I could send another one; or you could also omit the Largo and
begin straight away with the Fugue, which is the last movement; or you could use the first movement and then
the Adagio, and then for the third movement the Scherzo, and omit entirely No. 4. Or you could take just the
first movement and the Scherzo and let them form the whole sonata. I leave it to you to do as you think best.”
10 Perhaps Donald Tovey, the esteemed British musicologist, came closest to the truth in suggesting that Beethoven probably meant an A-natural, but would have been ecstatic had
anyone pointed out that he had actually written an A-sharp. (The passage in question, by the way, lasts two seconds at most. Nonetheless, its importance cannot be overstated.)
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109
composed 1820, published 1821
With his gigantic Hammerklavier of 1818, Beethoven had taken the piano sonata as far as it could go in anything
resembling a traditional format. If he was not to repeat himself, any subsequent effort would have to lead the
form into uncharted waters, and his three final sonatas, Op. 109-111, composed between 1820 and 1823, are
indeed unlike any others written previously.
As revolutionary as these sonatas are from so many standpoints, they reach backward for much of their
originality. Late in his career, Beethoven seemed to undertake a conscious exploration of his musical roots, and
in Op. 109, he was clearly preoccupied with the Baroque era. With its shifting moods and tempi, the opening
movement almost seems to hearken back to the free organ fantasies of Bach and his predecessors, while the
last movement, for reasons I will soon explain, could almost be called Beethoven’s Goldberg Variations.
Beethoven did not only pay homage to other composers in his later works; he sometimes echoed himself. This
is the case of the main theme of the first movement, which is derived from the finale of his sonata, Op. 79.
However, the most striking feature of the opening movement is its extreme conciseness. It obeys all the
conventions of sonata form, but the main theme—if you can call that sort of noodling a theme—is over almost
before it begins. The brief, sharply contrasting secondary material gives us another rare glimpse of
Beethoven's improvisatory skills. It is only in the central development section that he lets us feel comfortable
enough to settle back, unwrap our cellophane-covered candy, and listen to the music. Soon, however, the
unsettled material returns, and a coda brings the movement to a peaceful, yet uneasy close.
The middle movement, a wild Tarantella, immediately shatters this calm. Although listeners would be justified
in assuming that the main theme is in the right hand, it is the left hand’s counter-theme that Beethoven later
subjects to substantial development.
In his last sonatas, Beethoven reserves his most sublime thoughts for the finales, and Op. 109, with its glorious
set of variations, is no exception. Unlike the second movement of the Appassionata, where one variation leads
almost imperceptibly into the next, each variation here is discrete and distinctive. The subtle, almost intangible,
links between them attest to Beethoven’s masterful skill as a spiritual travel guide. I earlier referred to this
movement as Beethoven’s Goldberg Variations. There are three reasons for this comparison: both themes
share a similar Sarabande-like rhythm; both sets make copious use of imitative counterpoint; and at the
conclusion of both works, the composer restates the theme almost verbatim, allowing us a few extra moments
to reflect on how many changes the themes — and we — have undergone since their initial occurrence.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 31 in A flat Major, Op. 110
composed 1821, published 1821
Like so many of Beethoven’s later works, this sonata reaches backward as much as it looks forward. The
influence of the classical style is evident in the rapid figurations and Alberti accompaniments that appear in the
first movement. A subsequent counter-melody in the left hand is a direct quote, in the minor, of the opening
theme of Haydn’s Sonata No. 47. The Baroque period is reflected in the final movement, a complex mix of
recitative (complete with a stock operatic cadence of that era), aria and fugue, the quintessential Baroque
form. The general influence of Beethoven’s own previous music is also present: the re-statement of the slow
movement following the first fugue echoes a somewhat similar event in the Sonata, Op. 27/1.
Throughout history composers were fully aware of the emotive power of music, and exploited it regularly. Still,
insofar as the range of emotion is concerned, Beethoven’s music represents a sharp break with that of his
immediate predecessors. In Op. 110, the spiritual journey through which Beethoven guides us over the course
of the final movement is as profound as any he conceived. An intense recitative leads to a grief-laden aria. A
fugue (whose subject is a variation of the sonata’s opening theme) attempts to console and uplift, but at the
last moment it fails, and the key of the piece appropriately sinks from A-flat major to G minor. A variation of
the aria follows, marked “lamenting, exhausted,” in which, as clearly as one can attribute an external event to
abstract music, the grief-stricken protagonist dies, gasping for breath. A series of repeated chords signals
some sort of transfiguration; as the sound fades away, the second fugue begins imperceptibly. (This fugue’s
principal theme is a mirror image of the first, another common Baroque device.) Soon the original fugue theme
reappears, but this time it does not falter. Instead, the music quickly gathers momentum and ends triumphantly
and suddenly, like a rocket disappearing into space.
Although eclecticism and the inclusion of vulgarity is an entirely legitimate aspect of great art, some people
have difficulty dealing with it. Particularly troubling are such occurrences as cowbells in Mahler symphonies,
or the medley of tunes, including one entitled "Cabbages and Turnips," with which Bach's Goldberg Variations
conclude. I must therefore apologize for noting that the sublime concluding movement of Beethoven's Sonata
No. 31 is preceded by a scherzo that quotes two popular tavern-tunes of the time: Unsa Kätz häd Katzln ghabt
("Our cat had kittens") and Ich bin lüderlich, du bist lüderlich which, politely translated, is "I'm a slob, you're a
slob").
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman
Sonata No. 32 in C minor, Op. 111
composed 1821-22, published 1823
Yin and Yang are perfectly reflected in the two movements of Beethoven’s final sonata, in which the nervous,
pent-up energy of the concise opening movement gives way to the utter serenity and timelessness of the
second.
Here, as in many of his late works, Beethoven was consciously exploring his musical roots. The first
movement clearly has its origins in the French Overture, a standard genre of the Baroque period. Its principal
components were a slow introduction in dotted rhythms, followed by a fast fugal section. (A kinship with the
Introduction to that of his earlier Pathétique Sonata, also in C minor, also cannot be overlooked.)
A terrifying trill in the lower bass leads to a statement of the explosive, defiant three-note main theme. Like a
caged beast, it tries again and again to escape its bonds, and finally breaks free, with an energetic fugue. The
second theme, although very different from the first, is similarly constricted and requires several attempts to
break out of its constraints. The fugal Development section is unusually short for a piece of this scope and an
overall sense of restlessness and frustration soon returns. The key changes from C minor to C major in the
brief coda, but this is not the joyful C major of Op. 2/3 or the triumphant C major of the close of the Fifth
Symphony. Rather, the mood is one of resignation and acceptance.
The second movement is, in my opinion, the most sublime, transcendental work written for piano. With the
theme’s stark simplicity, the astonishing sonorities that Beethoven explores over the course of the piece, and
the final drive to the movement’s climax and release, its profundity is unmatched in the entire repertoire.
Beethoven’s obsession in the latter part of his career with the interval of the third is here extended to the
number ‘three’ in general. The time signature is 9/8 (or three times 3/8), and without exception, each beat in
every measure is similarly subdivided and sub-subdivided. Although not termed as such, the movement is a set
of continuous variations that are characterized by a process of increasing rhythmic animation, while the theme
and accompanying harmonies remain constant.11
Variations 1 through 3 increase the rhythmic activity to the point where Beethoven seems to be straining at our
earthly confines, much like the buffeting an airplane must endure before breaking the sound barrier. (So active
and syncopated is Variation 3 that some wishful commentators have suggested that the beginnings of jazz date
from this point.) Variation 4 is a so-called double variation: the repeat of each section receives totally different
treatment than its initial iteration. Here, the rhythm is broken down into even smaller rhythmic subdivisions (a
background rumble or a pointillistic elaboration of the melody). The boundaries of everyday existence are now
behind us; our spirits are in free flight. A lengthy interlude follows, featuring trills, music’s ultimate thematic
disintegration. Then, when all is dust, Beethoven begins reassembling his material. Finally, the theme begins
again, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, transporting us to a state of spiritual ecstasy that will continue into
infinity, even after all is silent…
11
It is interesting that, as with the middle movement of the Appassionata and the slow movement of the Archduke Trio. Beethoven never entitled this
type of composition a set of variations. He reserved that designation only for movements such as those in the Sonatas Op. 26 and 109, in which each
variation is far more of a distinct entity.
Music on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca
Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman