Concert Program Notes

University Symphony Orchestra feat. Joseph Loi, flute • Sunday, October 25, 2024

Flute Concerto | CARL NIELSEN

The Flute Concerto was composed shortly after Nielsen’s Sixth Symphony, which raised cynicism and misperception among its critics. At the time, Nielsen had not only been competing for international success as a Danish composer, but also was battling illness and self-doubt. Perhaps these frustrations directly motivated the composition of his Flute Concerto, as he wished to recover from the rejection of his Sinfonia Semplice (Simple Symphony). There exists a yearning for acceptance within the concerto, which can be heard throughout the quaint first movement. Facing conflict and question, Nielsen responded to his oppositions with sophistication and grace, by demanding both delicate musicianship and virtuosity from its soloist. Holger Gilbert-Jespersen premiered the Concerto in Paris under the baton of Emil Telmányi. Interestingly, Nielsen was forced to write a temporary ending for the concerto after intolerable stomach pain halted his writing. Nielsen conducted the Concerto’s Norway debut in Oslo on November 8, 1926; however, the real ending did not premier until January 1927 at The Music Society in Copenhagen. The Concerto has prevailed as a principal work of today’s flute repertoire.

Les préludes , “after A. de Lamartine,” S. 97 | FRANZ LISZT

“What else is our life but a series of preludes to that unknown song, the first and solemn note of which is sounded by death?” So goes the putative source of the title of the first of Liszt’s thirteen tone poems. It is from Alphonse de Lamartine’s “Nouvelles méditations poétiques,” and alludes to life as but a prelude to death. Scholars have fought over the truth of the inspiration for Liszt, but it fits, and the evidence has some weight. Liszt was in the forefront of composers who were committed to striking out in completely new directions during the nineteenth century, and who largely abandoned traditional forms, such as the symphony. Liszt’s solution was his origination of what he called a “symphonic poem,” a single-movement composition of symphonic proportions, which focused on the exploration of a single idea, poetic content, or even a narrative depiction. Liszt, in fact, drew upon a variety of sources for his muse in the composition of his tone poems: literature, myth, visual arts--whatever stimulated his creativity.

To engender formal integrity and more or less “pull” his new genre together, Liszt used a technique that takes a very simple little melodic fragment or motive, and employs it as the single source for the whole piece. The motive is usually a sharply chiseled, distinctive affair that, on the one hand is capable of being “transformed” into a remarkable variety of

unique figures and melodies, and yet, on the other, maintains its identity throughout these transformations. And so it is with Les préludes.

The initial three notes serve throughout as the origin of the themes of each section, which differ greatly in mood, tempo, and key. As Liszt explores his take on the meaning of the text, the theme serves his various purposes, tying it all together, whether the subject is love, war, death, nature, and more. It is not necessary to track each guise of the theme as it evolves, but it may be easier than you think. With this idea Liszt wrought a major innovation in Romantic musical style, and provided a model for a legion of composers who took up the technique and the genre. While of his thirteen symphonic poems only Les préludes remained in the standard repertoire, he led the way for generations of composers. Subsequent audiences have come to enjoy symphonic (or tone) poems as an integral and essential element of concert life.

--Wm. E. Runyan

© 2015 William E. Runyan

The Moldau (Vltava) | BEDŘICH SMETANA

Smetana is the first great Czech composer of the nineteenth century, and—owing to the general trend towards nationalism during the late romantic period—the first significant Czech composer to integrate indigenous folk elements into his musical style. He is known the world over for having composed what is more or less the Czech national opera, The Bartered Bride, as well as a wealth of other works. He exerted a significant influence on his younger colleague, Antonín Dvořák, and along with the latter, is honored with his own museum in present-day Prague. The tone poem for orchestra, a distinctive creation of the progressive wing of composers during the nineteenth century, may be said to be the brainchild of Franz Listz, and in 1857 Smetana visited Liszt in Weimar, and took his ideas to heart. The Czechs and Russians really adopted Liszt’s tone poem ideas with much greater alacrity than did his countrymen, and consequently, we have numerous examples by Smetana’s successors: Dvořák, Fibich, Janácek, Novák, Suk and Ostrčil.

Between the years 1874 and 1880 Smetana wrote a cycle of six tone poems, each depicting some important aspect of Czech history or geography. The whole cycle is entitled, Má vlast, or My Fatherland; The

Moldau is the second of the six works, and, unfortunately, the only one of them that is regularly heard in this country. Actually, the real title of the The Moldau is Vltava, the Czech name for the river, over which spans the bridge in Prague crowded by tourists today. Moldau is the German name for the river, which foreign oppressors used during the long years of Czech domination by German-speaking countries; it was not used by Smetana, nor today by anyone else.

It is easy and pleasing to follow the “story” of this tone poem, for Smetana “painted” the elements in the changing trip down the river most evocatively. Moreover, he left us signposts in his own written notes. The river begins high in the hills as a small mountain stream, heard in the burbling woodwinds and strings. It courses through the forests and meadows, passing along the way a rustic peasant wedding heard through a folk dance. It then moves into darkness, illuminated only by the moon, and we hear mermaids dancing serenely in the night. The famous St. John’s Rapids inspire a stormy passage, with swirling whitewater. The music broadens majestically (with the river) as we approach Prague, and Smetana calls upon the brass to paint the imposing crags of the rocks of Vyšehrad —the magnificent overlook in Prague, home of the mythological origin of the Czech people. Incidentally, both Smetana and Dvořák are buried there in Vyšehrad Cemetery, the resting place of the cultural “heroes” of the Czech people. Finally, the music soars to its emotional heights as the river leaves Prague on its way to the (smaller) Elbe and the sea.

--Wm. E. Runyan

© William E. Runyan

Pines of Rome, P. 141 | OTTORINO RESPIGHI

After Respighi moved permanently to Rome in 1913--at the time, a center of orchestral concerts in Italy--he turned more attention to the composition of instrumental music. His first big success was the symphonic poem, Fountains of Rome, from 1916, although it did not garner accolades immediately. But, by the early 1920s it was fast becoming an international hit, and he was on his way to world-wide recognition—not to speak of a much more secure financial future. He followed up on this success with two more symphonic poems evocative of his home: Pines of Rome (1924) and Roman Festivals (1926). Collectively, they are often known as his “Roman trilogy.” They all are showpieces for orchestra, spectacular evidence of his mastery of orchestration, vivid musical imagination, and flamboyant penchant for instrumental color. He had listened well to his predecessors who were successful in this vein.

Pines of Rome is cast into four movements, all using the conceit of pine trees that happen to be growing by various evocative Roman locations to tie everything together. Respighi scored the work for a large orchestra: the usual and familiar full complement, with additions of piano, organ, celesta, off-stage brass band, and (for the first time in musical history), a sound recording of a bird. All of these resources receive a full workout. What else would one expect from a composer who, in a later composition (Brazilian Impressions) adroitly depicted snakes and spiders in a Jungle research institute! Pines of Rome was an immediate hit; Toscanini was so enamored with it that he included it in the first concert—and nineteen years later, the last—that he conducted with the New York Philharmonic.

The first movement, “Pines of the Villa Borghese,” is a sparkling, lilting evocation of children playing on a Sunday morning, madly dashing about, full of youthful delight. The Villa Borghese is one of the largest public gardens in Rome, built in the informal English garden style, containing spectacular plantings, lakes, pathways, and buildings. It has long been a favorite with tourists and natives alike, and Respighi conjures up a bright musical context that depicts the cheerful setting. A filigree of attractive rhythmic figures and simple tunes clearly evoking childhood mirth sustains the fun-filled, light-hearted atmosphere. Woodwind trills, cheeky dissonances, glissandi in the harps and keyboards, high register brass, and the complete absence of “gloomy” low instruments sustain the joy.

It abruptly ends, though, as we enter the dark world of a catacomb. The second movement (“Pines Near a Catacomb”) is set in the malarial region of the Roman campagna, abandoned in ancient times, but with extraordinary stark beauty. The ominous, dark atmosphere of the burial caverns is aptly portrayed by most of the instruments that we did not hear in the first movement. Trombones, with the deepest of organ notes beneath them, don the garb of priests as they solemnly chant the melodies of the dead. The gloom is then broken by a shimmering solo trumpet, offstage in a lonely elegy. The chanting soon returns, building to a huge climax, more affirmatively, perhaps alluding to triumph over death. All soon dies down (no pun intended), as the brass returns to a crespular chant.

The “Pines of the Janiculum” is a tranquil visit at night to the prominent hill west of Rome where St. Peter is popularly thought to have been crucified, and which is now the site of a number of universities, colleges, and academies. It offers a spectacular view of Rome, and is named after the Roman god, Janus, who famously looked simultaneously in two opposite directions: the past and the future. This movement is a nocturne, opened by the gong and piano, introducing various woodwind solos that quietly evoke the moon on the pines. Apparently, a nightingale is perched in one of them, for as the music gradually fades away in trills, his song is faintly heard.

The nightingale is chased away, and the mood is ominously broken by the distant tread of the Roman Legions on the Appian Way (“Pines of the Appian Way”), beginning far off, perhaps in the morning mist, as they grow inexorably closer. A sinuous solo in the English horn adds a bit of mystery. Fanfares are heard, both in the orchestra and in the off-stage band that portrays the ancient Roman buccine—the large circular horns familiar from Roman mosaics. Everyone in the orchestra gradually joins in as the Legions march closer, and the music grows inevitably to a paroxysm of aural grandeur. It’s one of the most impressive moments in orchestral sound, and never fails to please.

--Wm. E. Runyan

© 2015 William E. Runyan