Overture to Khovanshchina
Modest Mussorgsky, arranged by Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov
b. Karevo, Russia / March 21, 1839
d. St. Petersburg, Russia / March 28, 1881
During the 1870s, Mussorgsky composed numerous sketches for what he called a “music drama of the people,” Khovanshchina (The Khovansky Plot). Left incomplete at his death, it was edited, completed and orchestrated by his friend, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. The libretto, based on Russian history of the late 17th century, tells of the struggle waged by various political and religious factions over the country’s destiny. In the Introduction, sub-titled Dawn on the Moskva River, the first rays of the winter sun strike the golden domes of the Kremlin at a moment that witnesses not only the break of a new day, but the dawn of the reforms, shortly to be instigated by Tsar Peter the Great, that will change Russia forever. A melancholy theme with a distinctively Russian profile is heard; cocks crow to announce the dawn; Moscow’s cathedral bells ring out in somber fashion to summon the faithful to morning prayers.
Flute Concerto
Carl Nielsen
b. Sortelung, Denmark / June 9, 1865
d. Copenhagen, Denmark / October 3, 1931
Unlike his contemporary and fellow Scandinavian, Jean Sibelius, Nielsen did not make a major international impact during his lifetime. Until the last 50 years, his music was hardly known outside his homeland. Thanks to recordings and a dedicated group of performers, his bold, life-enhancing compositions have gradually been reaching the audiences they deserve. After completing his education, he embarked upon a career which saw him, at various times, as a violinist in the orchestra of the Royal Danish Opera, a conductor, and a distinguished academic. All the while, he devoted a significant part of his time to composing. His catalogue of works came to include six remarkable symphonies, three concertos, numerous chamber and solo works, pieces for chorus, and incidental music for stage productions.
He developed a high regard for the members of the Copenhagen Wind Quintet. This led to his writing a piece for them in 1922. He was so pleased with their performances that he promised to write a solo concerto for each player. His plan, alas, proceeded only so far as concertos for flute and clarinet.
He composed the Flute Concerto in Italy during the summer of 1926. It was premiered by its dedicatee, Holger Gilbert Jespersen, at an all-Nielsen concert in Paris. “This evening’s concert was one of the great experiences of my life,” the composer wrote. “The famous Conservatoire Orchestra played magnificently. (The conductor) started the rehearsals in a somewhat cool manner but by the end was glowingly enthusiastic! The cream of musical life was in attendance; Roussel and Honegger and many German conductors paid their respects and the two composers mentioned spoke most highly of me.” Shortly thereafter, Nielsen wrote a new conclusion for the Concerto, and it is this revised version that has been the standard edition ever since.
“The flute cannot deny its own nature,” he wrote. “Its home is in Arcadia and it prefers pastoral moods. Hence the composer has to obey its gentle nature, unless he wants to be branded a barbarian.” Mindful of its personality and sound, in this Concerto he supports it with a chamber-sized orchestra.
There are two movements. The first opens in abrupt, dramatic fashion, but this atmosphere is quickly dissipated by the flute’s entrance with a bright, cheeky theme. This rapid alteration of light and dark elements is a primary characteristic of the Concerto. As expected, a solo cadenza is included, but instead of being totally unaccompanied, it is backed first by timpani, then clarinet, and eventually full orchestra. It winds down to end the movement in an engagingly wistful mood. The second movement opens with gentle humor, only to exchange it for a deep sense of melancholy, even menace. Bolstered by rude remarks from solo trombone, playfulness and wit eventually reassert themselves and the Concerto ends in bright spirits.
Symphony No. 5 in D minor, Op. 47
Dmitri Shostakovich
b. St. Petersburg, Russia / September 25, 1906
d. Moscow, Russia / August 9, 1975
Shostakovich spent much of his life under the oppressive regime of Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin. The brutality of the time naturally left its mark upon as sensitive a creative artist as he. In 1936, his opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District came under fire from Soviet officials as “formalist” music, exactly the sort of personalized, pessimistic music that the country’s composers ought not to be writing. Overnight Shostakovich became persona non grata. He recognized how crucial the reaction to his next symphony, No. 5, would be. Failure would most likely result in his “disappearance,” like those befalling countless victims of Stalinist purges.
Yevgeny Mravinsky conducted the premiere in Leningrad on November 21, 1937, and it won a resoundingly positive reception. Some officials voiced suspicions regarding the sincerity of this symphonic apology, but their concerns were rapidly drowned in a sea of praise. Early in 1938, after the Symphony had firmly entrenched itself, the composer broke his silence regarding his intentions by writing (or having his name unknowingly attached to the following): “The theme of my symphony is the making of a man. I saw man with all his experiences at the center of the composition...In the finale the tragically tense impulses of the earlier movements are resolved in optimism and the joy of living.”
Testimony, the book of memoirs that was published after his death, offered a much different view, especially regarding the seemingly triumphant Finale: “The rejoicing is forced, created under threat. It’s as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, ‘Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing,’ and you rise, shaky, and go marching off, muttering, ‘Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing.’ What kind of apotheosis is that? You have to be a complete oaf not to hear that.”
Is the concluding section “triumphant”? Much depends on the conductor’s approach. At a fast tempo, the coda of the Finale does indeed sound positive, even festive. At a slow pace, it becomes a hollow, agonized funeral march. More important than finding a “definitive” answer to this uncertainty is to appreciate the searing portrayal of human suffering that Shostakovich offers in the third movement. This is the heart and soul of the piece. Its sincerity – as attested by the weeping of the of audience at the premiere – is unassailable.
The first movement opens with the starkest and simplest of dramatic gestures. After much desolate rumination, momentarily brightened by themes on violins and solo flute, a raging emotional tempest is launched by a harsh, machine-like tread in the depths of the orchestra, including piano. Once this blazing, goose-stepping hurricane has blown itself out, the quasi-optimistic flute theme reappears, but only briefly.
The following scherzo-like movement is ripe with grotesquery and satire. With its heavy-footed dance rhythms and intentionally schmaltzy violin solo, it demonstrates Shostakovich’s strong affinity with Mahler, whose music he had been studying for more than a decade. After the tragic third movement, the Finale opens in a mood of defiance. In the wake of a powerful central climax, something of the opening movement’s wistfulness returns. Then comes the conclusion. See what it says to you.
© 2008 Don Anderson. All rights reserved.
