Carnival Overture, Op. 92
Antonin Dvořák (1841-1904)
It was 1891, the year that Antonin Dvořák would turn 50 and the year before his departure for the United States. It was the year in which the composer reflected deeply on nature, life and love. And, as usual, he put the fruits of his musings into music — in this case a trilogy of concert overtures. The composer named the group Nature, Life and Love, but they have since become entirely separated except for a musical theme that appears in all three works. The overtures were finally retitled In Nature’s Realm, Carnival and Othello.
The Carnival Overture opens brilliantly with full orchestra and a series of musical ideas illustrating Dvořák’s program:
A lonely, contemplative wanderer reaching at twilight a city where a carnival is in full sway. On every side is heard the clangor of instruments mingled with shouts of joy and unrestrained hilarity of the people giving vent to their feelings in songs and dance tunes.
Following this, we hear a quiet, reflective interlude — “a pair of straying lovers,” Dvo ř ák states. This contemplative mood is interrupted, however, by a re-working and reprise of the earlier “Carnival” ideas capped by a splendid conclusion.
Violin Concerto
Einojuhani Rautavaara (1928- )
Einojuhani Rautavaara is probably Finland’s finest composer since Jean Sibelius. Rautavaara, however, was just coming into his own as Sibelius was in his last years of life. In fact, on Sibelius’s recommendation he was awarded a Koussevitzky Foundation scholarship in 1955, enabling him to study in the United States with Aaron Copland and others. Returning to Finland, Rautavaara taught at the Sibelius Academy as Lecturer (1966–76), Artist-Professor (1971–6) and Professor of Composition (1976–91).
A prolific composer, Rautavaara has gone through several stages in his stylistic development, ranging from neo-classic to modernist, post-modernist and neo-romantic. The last perhaps better termed “stylistic pluralism” began in the late 1960s and continued well past the composition of his Violin Concerto in 1977. Concerning his idealistically romantic approach, Rautavaara has written, “A romantic has no coordinates. In time, he is in yesterday or tomorrow, but never in today. In place he is over there or over yonder, never here.” This statement plays out interestingly in the colorful orchestral opening of the Violin Concerto. A feeling of timelessness and outer space introduce the opening movement before the violin’s entrance. Both against and with the orchestra, the violin becomes a dramatic protagonist with its own personality, distinct from that of the orchestra. We hear frequent solos, sometimes interacting with individual orchestral instruments. Yet, toward the end of the movement, the composer interweaves the violin into the thick mesh of orchestral texture, leading to a quiet, “space odyssey” close.
In complete contrast, the concluding movement begins with a relentless, driving energy. The violin leads this perpetual-motion opening, which proceeds to a series of soloistic dramatic assertions punctuated by the orchestra, at turns percussive, pensive or discursive. In a long, slow, time-suspended section, solo orchestral instruments (notably the oboe) come to the fore to make statements of their own before a lengthy, pensive response from the violin alone. As the orchestra “sneaks” in, the violin continues its leadership. Pressing forward, the music soon finds itself back in the energetico drive of the movement’s opening. Gathering even more momentum than before, yet compressed into a shorter time space, the concerto arrives at its climactic moment with a few rhythmic strokes, which dramatically drawn down a quick curtain.
Symphony No. 2 in E Minor, Op. 27
Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873-1943)
“To hell with them! I do not know how to write symphonies, and besides, I have no real desire to write them.” This statement by Sergei Rachmaninoff several years after writing the Second Symphony must have already come into his mind many times. His First Symphony, premiered in 1897, had been a critical failure and had plunged him into a deep depression. The Second would be a great success, but the composer could not see that as he struggled to complete his largest orchestral composition ever.
In the fall of 1906, Rachmaninoff began to draft a symphony, which he kept a secret. But when his friend Alexander Siloti leaked the news to the press, saying that Rachmaninoff would soon conduct the symphony’s premiere, it infuriated the composer. As he wrote in a letter of February 1907, “While I was planning to put it in ‘clean’ form, it became terribly boring and repulsive to me. So I threw it aside and took up something else.” Rachmaninoff turned again to the symphony that summer, finishing its orchestration for the immensely successful premieres in St. Petersburg and Moscow. His misgivings turned out to be unfounded. Russian concert-goers took the work immediately to their hearts, and the rest of the world soon followed.
The motive introduced at the opening in the low strings has vast consequences in the symphony, generating much of the symphony’s raw material, which appears in every movement. The Adagio, with which this motive opens, unravels for sometime until we meet the main Allegro. Unlike most symphonists before him, Rachmaninoff does not feel obliged to provide a dramatic or rhythmically marked theme to open. Instead, both of the principal themes are lyrical and long-lined. Dramatic intensity comes later, but it does not upset the smooth nature of the movement.
The second movement provides some of the symphony’s most bright and cheerful moments. The striking main theme interchanges with episodes in alternating lush, march-like, and mercurial styles. In the center comes a long, flowing reminder of the composer’s lyrical gifts.
For eloquent lyricism, Rachmaninoff reaches one of his career peaks with the Adagio, the main theme of which is among the most ravishing melodies he ever wrote. Although he presents a complimentary theme immediately and reintroduces material from the first two movements, the composer knows what everyone wants and satisfies them by continually returning to and developing the main theme.
The finale opens with athletic vigor. Its main theme alternates with contrasting episodes and references to previous movements. At one point, the composer even stops everything to quote from the Adagio. Yet the exuberance of the main theme wins out, generating a long and satisfying finish to Rachmaninoff’s finest symphonic testament.
Program Notes by Michael Fink and Notes, Inc.
