Download program notes. - Elgin Symphony Orchestra

PROGRAM NOTES
by Daniel Maki
Othello Overture, op. 93
by Antonín Dvořák (1841 -1904)
Duration: Approximately 15 minutes
First Performance: October 21, 1892 in New York
Last ESO Performance: These are the first ESO performances of the work
In September of 1892 Antonín Dvořák arrived in the United States for a stay that
would last for nearly three years. As one of Europe’s most eminent composers, he was
welcomed with considerable fanfare as he settled into his duties as Director of the
National Conservatory of Music in New York City, founded just a few years earlier. His
first public appearance introducing him to New York’s musical audience was a Columbus
Day concert held, nine days late, on 21 October in the recently constructed Carnegie Hall,
then only 17 months old. The program was ostensibly a celebration of the 400th
anniversary of Columbus’s arrival in America, but there was also the clear suggestion
that Dvořák was himself being welcomed as a kind of musical Columbus, come to
conquer and explore the New World.
Among the works on the program, which was conducted by Dvořák himself, was a
Te Deum in honor of Columbus, which he had composed for the occasion, as well as a set
of three concert overtures that he had premiered in Prague a few months earlier.
Collectively titled Nature, Life, and Love, they were attempts at a musical depiction of
three areas of the most intense human experience. In the first, which would eventually be
entitled In Nature’s Realm, the composer explores man’s relationship with nature, while
the second, entitled Carnival, depicts man in the whirlwind of life with all its social
relationships. The third explores how the same life-force impulses that can bring joy in
nature and in society can also lead to tragedy as love can turn to jealousy, a situation that
is nowhere better portrayed than in Shakespeare’s classic drama Othello. Although
Dvořák had originally conceived the work as a triptych, which, incidentally, had a
common “Nature” theme appearing in all three parts, he eventually decided that the
separate overtures could stand on their own, and that is how they are now heard. Of the
three, Carnival is by far the best known and has, unfortunately, overshadowed the others,
which deserve to be heard far more often.
Like many another overture, Othello is laid out in time-honored sonata form. The
compositional problem facing a composer who uses the form to write program music, i.e.
music which refers to a literary or pictorial idea outside the music itself, is how to
coordinate the musical ideas with elements of the program. Although Dvořák didn’t
intend a close literal reading of the play in every aspect, he did leave insights into his
thinking by marking in pencil in his original score what elements of the story certain
passages were meant to portray.
Like many works in sonata form, Othello begins with a slow introduction. Here, after
a solemn, hymn-like opening, we are introduced to Othello’s appropriately somber theme
as well as the “Nature” theme, which is cleverly transformed from a joyous melody into a
sinister one as a musical metaphor for love twisted by jealousy. Both themes will be
important throughout the work.
In the Allegro, which is the main body of the work, we clearly hear Othello’s jealousy
growing as he is lead on by the evil Iago while more lyrical music indicates Desdemona’s
love. The passage that Dvořák marked “they embrace in silent ecstasy” begins the tragic
ending. As the plot moves inexorably forward, Desdemona falls into a sleep, indicated by
a quote from the “magic sleep” motif from Wagner’s Die Walküre, while a quote from
Dvořák’s own Requiem signals her own impending doom. After killing his wife, Othello
commits the suicidal act to some of the most violent music that Dvorak ever wrote, and
thus ends the tragic tale.
* * *
Concerto in A minor for Violin and Orchestra, op. 53
by Antonín Dvořák
Duration: Approximately 32 minutes
First Performance: October 14, 1883 in Prague
Last ESO Performance: These are the first ESO performances of the work
Like many other concertos, Dvořák’s Violin Concerto was written with a particular
performer in mind. In this case the performer in question was Joseph Joachim, one of the
leading violinists of the nineteenth century and one who occupies a special place in the
history of violin playing. At a time when all too much writing for violin treated the player
as a kind of circus performer, emphasizing virtuosity for its own sake at the expense of
musicianship, Joachim came to represent the highest musical values. As hard as it is to
believe now, the Beethoven Violin Concerto was not often played nor highly regarded
until Joachim became its champion. He was also a pioneer in performing the
unaccompanied sonatas and partitas of Bach, which today stand as one of the ultimate
litmus tests of musicianship for any violinist. As a close friend of Brahms, Joachim not
only premiered that composer’s magisterial concerto, but also worked closely with him
on it, giving advice on technical details and even writing his own cadenza for it.
It was soon after Joachim premiered the Brahms Concerto in January of 1879 that
Dvořák began work on his own concerto. It was natural that he should have been
inspired by the event, for he had already become a protégé of Brahms, who had
introduced him to his friend Joachim. Joachim had expressed admiration for Dvořák and
had already played some of his chamber music. The first sketch of the concerto was
finished and sent off with a dedication to Joachim in November of 1879 to receive his
opinions.
Of opinions there was no shortage. Joachim’s bar by bar criticisms caused Dvořák
who, incidentally, was himself an accomplished string player, to undertake a complete
revision of the entire work, which he sent off in the summer of 1880 for further
comment. This time Joachim would delay for two years before responding, saying that
although he admired many aspects of the work, it still needed further revision. As it
happened, Joachim would never play the work in public after all. Although there may
have been personal considerations such as Joachim’s reluctance to learn new music at
that stage of his career, the primary issue seems to have been his dissatisfaction with
some of the formal aspects of the work. As something of an archclassicist, he was
uncomfortable with innovations such as the linking of the first two movements.
The task of introducing the concerto fell to František Ondřícěk, a brilliant young
Czech violinist who played it in Prague in the fall of 1883 and subsequently became an
ardent champion, playing it in Vienna and London and other important venues. The
American premiere took place in Chicago on 30 October 1891, two weeks after the
founding concert of the newly formed Chicago Orchestra (today’s Chicago Symphony
Orchestra), with the orchestra’s concertmaster Max Bendix as soloist, under the baton of
Theodore Thomas.
Elgin symphony audiences will no doubt be interested to know that one of the great
early champions of the work was Maud Powell, the distinguished violinist who was born
in Peru, Illinois, and educated in Aurora and Chicago. At a time when there were few
women performers, Ms. Powell became known as “the Queen of the Violin “ and
unflinchingly brought some of the most challenging new works to audiences throughout
the world. Karen Shaffer’s definitive biography of Maud Powell tells the following
charming story of her meeting with Dvořák as she was preparing to give the New York
premiere.
Upon hearing her proposal to premiere the work in New York, the normally reticent
man with a furrowed brow, a high forehead looming above large, searching eyes, warned
her that Joachim had once said the concerto was too difficult for any woman to play.
Undeterred, Maud proceeded to play the concerto for the composer.
When she finished, he arose in great delight to congratulate her, proposing puckishly
that “he should write to Joachim at once that he had found a woman who could play his
concerto perfectly.”
Maud Powell played the New York premiere of the concerto in November of 1893 to
enthusiastic reviews.
Those who are looking for Dvorak’s Czech musical roots will find much material in
the Violin Concerto, which was written in the composer’s so-called Slavic period, the
same period which produced such ethnically inspired works as the Slavonic Dances, the
Slavonic Rhapsodies, and the Czech Suite. As a young composer beginning to make his
way, this self-consciously folksy style had been the quickest way to reach a large
audience, which found it a refreshing sort of exoticism. As is usual in such cases, there
were also snobs who considered the style slumming and quite beneath the dignity of a
well-trained composer, which in Vienna, inevitably meant one writing “German” music.
Although Dvořák does not use actual folk melodies (he seldom did even when he could
have), much of the concerto’s beautiful lyricism is clearly inspired by folk melodies and
rhythms. It is the combination of folk elements with the innovative formal layout that
gives the work its unusual, improvisatory and rhapsodic flavor, a work perhaps not
entirely to the taste of a conservative such as Joachim, but one that occupies a special
place in the violin repertoire.
Unlike most concertos of an earlier time, the soloist here enters almost immediately,
with a dashing opening theme filled with daring leaps. There is a more sedately lyrical
second theme, but it is the opening theme that dominates the movement. The customary
recapitulation of opening material is interrupted by a brief cadenza and interlude that lead
directly into the second movement. Incidentally, it was not Joachim alone who advised
against joining the first two movements. An assistant to Dvorak’s publisher gave similar
advice which Dvořák stubbornly resisted.
The second movement falls into three parts, or what musicians call ABA form. The
opening section is in a serene major key, while the contrasting middle section begins in a
stormy minor key. Throughout the movement the soloist often plays florid passagework
that acts as ornament to melody played in the orchestra. The beautifully soaring lyricism
of this movement made it a special favorite, and at one time many violinists played it as
an independent separate piece.
The high-spirited finale is filled with folk flavor from start to finish. The main
theme of the movement is a furiant, a Czech dance of “furious” character filled with
syncopated rhythms. Adding to the folk flavor are drones like those of the dudy, Czech
bagpipes. The contrasting middle section is a dumka, a type of Slavic folk music of
Ukrainian origin characterized by sudden mood changes from melancholy to manic
exuberance. The opening section then returns, and with a brief reprise of the dumka
theme near the end, the work comes to an appropriately furious conclusion.
* * *
Symphony No. 9 in E minor, op. 95 (From the New World)
by Antonín Dvořák
Duration: Approximately 40 minutes
First Performance: December 16, 1893 in New York
Last ESO Performance: March, 2009; Robert Hanson, conductor
“I am convinced that the future music of this country must be founded on what are
called Negro melodies. These can be the foundation of a serious and original school of
composition in the United States.”
That statement was written not by an idealistic young American eager to explore his
country’s ethnic roots, but by a fifty-two year old composer from Bohemia who had
proven himself to be one of the world’s greatest masters of the international, i.e.,
German, style, while also retaining his identity as a Czech nationalist composer. It was
just the sort of person that Jeanette Thurber, the high-minded philanthropist who founded
the National Conservatory, was in search of. At a time when this country still suffered
from an inferiority complex in matters artistic, her aim was nothing less than the
founding of a musical culture that would meet the highest international standards yet be
distinctively American. Logically enough, when she had founded the school in 1885, she
had first offered the directorship to an American, Edward MacDowell, who was
thoroughly trained in Europe and then one of the country’s best-known composers. When
MacDowell declined the offer, the position of first Director went to the distinguished
Belgian baritone Jacques Bouhy, who returned to Europe after a four stint. At this point,
Mme. Thurber turned to Dvořák.
As the son of a small town butcher, Dvořák seemed to have the common touch that
would suit him to the New World. Unlike many Europeans of the time who viewed the
United States as a crass, business obsessed place, Dvořák was genuinely interested in its
potential as a place where the arts might be cultivated. Furthermore, as an accomplished
opera composer he would be a candidate to help fulfill Mme. Thurber’s dream of
producing an American national opera of stature equal to that of many European
countries. Her pet project was Longfellow’s Hiawatha, which Dvořák had read in Czech
many years earlier. Like many Europeans, Dvorak was fascinated by Native Americans
and eagerly began work when Mme. Thurber presented him with a libretto based on
Longfellow’s poem. Although the project would never be completed, it would, as we
shall see, bear fruit in other ways.
Dvořák took his new duties seriously, throwing himself into learning as well as
teaching. From his African-American student and friend Harry Burleigh he heard
spirituals, which moved him deeply. He also studied Native American music, albeit
sometimes from questionable sources such as Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. It is
perhaps forgivable that he should rather cavalierly lump Black and American Indian
music together, thinking that they were essentially the same. In any case, as the above
quote indicates, he came to the conclusion that such music could serve as the basis for a
new, identifiably American style of music.
Suspect as his ethno-musicology may have been (that discipline was barely in its
infant stages), he forthrightly put his thesis into practice by writing what would be his
Ninth and last symphony. While using no actual folk tunes, the symphony would attempt
to be a panoramic view of America as seen and heard by a European artist. On 16
December 1893 the New York Philharmonic played the premiere of the New World
Symphony in Carnegie Hall. It was one of the greatest public successes of the composer’s
career.
Ever since that historic evening, there has been endless discussion and vast amounts
of ink spilled in attempts at answering the Big Question: “Is the New World Symphony
an American work or simply another Central European symphony?” Both camps have
had their ardent advocates. Those in the latter camp will point out, among other things,
that the pentatonic (five note) scale that Dvořák uses for his folk-like effects appears not
only in American music but also in Czech music, not to mention many other folk musics
throughout the world. On the other hand, no less an artist than Willa Cather, the
distinguished American novelist who was famous for her depictions of life on the Great
Plains, had no doubt about the American feeling of the work. In the famous Largo
movement she heard “the immeasurable yearning” of the prairie. The composer’s own
answer was that “the influence of America can be felt by anyone who has a nose.”
The best answer to the question would seem to be a resounding “Yes.” It is both at
once. The distinguished musicologist Joseph Horowitz, who served as consultant to the
Elgin Symphony Orchestra’s Dvořák Festival in 2005, put it succinctly in his own
program notes for the ESO’s last performance of the symphony: “From the New World is
a reading of America drawn taut, emotionally, by the pull of the Czech fatherland.”
After a brief atmospheric slow introduction, we are launched into the main body of
the first movement that begins with a majestic fanfare-like theme. A quiet noodling
figure in the woodwinds that is often taken as an “Indian” melody then leads to another
primary theme heard first in the solo flute. This melody uses the pentatonic scale and
bears a remarkable resemblance to the spiritual, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The
themes are eventually developed and recapitulated in the best traditional European style
and the movement ends triumphantly.
Although Dvořák would never complete an opera on Hiawatha, he put his work on the
project to good use. The Dvořák scholar Michael Beckerman has gone so far as to call the
second and third movements of the symphony “tone poems” based on Longfellow’s epic.
Although some have heard it as a spiritual or “plantation song,” most Dvořák scholars
now consider the celebrated second movement with its English horn solo as suggesting in
a general way the open countryside in which Hiawatha and Minnehaha lived and loved.
This is the melody to which the words Goin’ Home were later set, and the fact that many
an American has sung those words thinking of it as an American folksong, without the
slightest suspicion that it comes from a highfalutin’ symphony, is surely proof enough of
its authentic American flavor. The beautiful poignant middle section of the movement is
generally viewed as a reference to Minnehaha’s funeral.
The effective use of timpani in the third, scherzo movement, has reminded some
commentators of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, but it is also a clear imitation of tomtoms. Dvořák himself made it clear that this movement represented the Dance of Pau-Puk
Keewis at Hiawatha’s wedding.
The grandiose finale is a vast pageant tying the entire work together with reminiscences
of themes from all previous movements. The inherent ambiguities of the work, and of the
composer’s own feelings, seem to be mirrored in the surprising final chord. For all his
genuine interest in the New World, Dvořák was at times desperately homesick and was
quite happy to return to his beloved homeland when the time came. When the final chord
trails off into the distance rather than providing a triumphant ending, it seems to confirm
the fact that, whether it is heard as the sad song of oppressed peoples or the homesickness
of its composer, From the New World is a tragic work.
* * *
.