The seemingly effortless outpouring of lyricism in Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 belies its excruciating composition process. Throughout the late 1890s, Rachmaninoff was plunged into a terrible state of depression (“a paralyzing apathy,” as he called it) that left him barely able to function. This state was occasioned in part by the disastrous premiere of his First Symphony, during which he had fled from the hall in horror, later destroying the score. Nor could Rachmaninoff have been cheered by the reviews, the most notorious of which was composer César Cui’s: “If there were a conservatory in Hell, Rachmaninoff would get the first prize for his symphony.”
Rachmaninoff’s friends were so concerned about his debilitated state that they talked him into seeing Dr. Nikolai Dahl, a pioneer in psychotherapy and hypnosis as well as a gifted violinist and cellist. “You will begin your concerto,” Dr. Dahl assured Rachmaninoff in a mantra during months of confidence-building. “You will work with great ease … the concerto will be excellent.” So dramatically successful was Dr. Dahl’s therapy that by the summer of 1900, Rachmaninoff found “new ideas stirring within me … more than enough for my new concerto.” These became the genesis of the Second Piano Concerto, but Rachmaninoff was so steeped in self-doubt that that he insisted on trying out the second and third movements on the public before writing the first. He presented the work in its entirety in Moscow in 1901, with a moving dedication to Dr. Dahl. Along with Mahler’s final symphonies—composed after Mahler had seen no less august an analyst than Sigmund Freud—the concerto must surely stand as one of the most impressive early advertisements for psychotherapy.
The work does have a kind of therapeutic thrust—a feeling of melodic inspiration bursting out of moroseness. Examples include the dark, bell-like chords for piano alone that open the work and suddenly explode into a passionate stream of interconnected melodies; the soaring return of the elegant tune in the slow movement after pensive woodwind solos and turbulent cadenzas; and the entirety of the finale, which opens with a mysterious march and builds cumulatively toward a spectacular climax that feels like a catharsis for the entire piece.
The concerto has long been a favorite of pianists for its spectacular writing for the instrument—Rachmaninoff wrote it for himself, after all—but the orchestration is equally felicitous. Among the many magical details are the distant horn melody over shimmering strings in the recapitulation of the first movement (one of the most sublime moments in Rachmaninoff), the flute and clarinet solos in the slow movement, and the breathless pedal point following the endlessly quoted second subject in the finale. Most satisfying of all is the seamless blend of soloist and ensemble: This is a concerto in which piano and orchestra are true equals.
Despite its treacherous technical difficulties, many pianists have championed the concerto, most notably Rachmaninoff himself, who performed it in his Carnegie Hall debut on November 13, 1909, with Max Fiedler and the Boston Symphony Orchestra. It became his most frequently performed work at the Hall, where he made nearly 100 appearances as composer, pianist, and conductor over a stretch of 33 years. Other notable artists to perform the work include Philippe Entremont, Gary Graffman, John Ogdon, Krystian Zimerman, Leif Ove Andsnes, and numerous Russians: Vladimir Ashkenazy, Sviatoslav Richter, Evgeny Kissin, Yefim Bronfman, and tonight’s soloist, Denis Matsuev. Ashkenazy remarked that he wished he had bigger hands—Rachmaninoff’s could allegedly span 12 keys—to negotiate the notoriously wide-spread piano chords.
The concerto has always been a favorite in popular culture; not surprisingly, as its wealth of quotable tunes makes it endlessly plunderable. It has been used by pop artists such as Frank Sinatra (“Full Moon and Empty Arms,” “I Think of You”), Eric Carmen (“All By Myself”), and Muse (“Space Dementia”); and in movies old and recent, including Grand Hotel, The Seven Year Itch, I’ve Always Loved You, Nodame Cantabile, and Clint Eastwood’s Hereafter. Most notable is David Lean’s Brief Encounter, which has a poignant sense of yearning that matches the piece.
The immediate success of the Second Piano Concerto encouraged Rachmaninoff to take another plunge into writing a new symphony. Even so, he needed seclusion to try another symphony after the disastrous reception of his first. He resigned from his position as conductor of the Imperial Grand Opera in Moscow, withdrew from piano engagements, and moved to Dresden for two years to devote himself exclusively to composition. (It is sometimes forgotten that Rachmaninoff was a great conductor as well as composer and pianist, enough so to be offered the job of music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.) Freed from distractions and buoyed by an apparently happy marriage, Rachmaninoff completed his Second Symphony, conducting the successful premiere in St. Petersburg in 1908. During his first American tour, in 1909, he conducted the work with The Philadelphia Orchestra, with whom he later premiered his Symphonic Dances. Rachmaninoff’s lush idiom found a happy counterpart in the sumptuous sound of the Philadelphians; the two seemed made for each other.
The Second Symphony is perhaps the most lyrical and unabashedly Russian of Rachmaninoff’s large-scale symphonic works, full of allusions to Russian chants and marches, stuffed with the sinfully luscious big tunes that make Rachmaninoff sound like a Hollywood composer before Hollywood. (He actually did settle in Hollywood after emigrating from Russia, though he never wrote for the movies.) Written before his relatively fleet and concise American works—the Third Symphony, Fourth Piano Concerto, Symphonic Dances, and Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini—the Second Symphony is an expansive summation of Rachmaninoff’s early style. The second subject of the finale and the main theme of the slow movement are two of the most extended tunes he ever wrote, and the soulful opening movement is a continual stream of brooding melody. The epic nature of the symphony has led some maestros to make cuts.
This is the least morose of the three symphonies, but it’s still Rachmaninoff, and a brooding undercurrent haunts the music even in the happier sections. Rachmaninoff was strongly influenced by the aesthetic theories of Poe (celebrated in his favorite symphonic work, The Bells), who advocated an underlying melancholy in all quests for the Beautiful, and whose ideas about art were a perfect match for Rachmaninoff’s temperament. Even the celebratory Allegro molto, with its dance-like brass and tambourines, concludes with a reference to the gloomy motif that opens the first movement. Indeed, the entire symphony is haunted by this idea, suggestive of a dark force of fate that recalls Tchaikovsky’s similar device in the Fourth Symphony.
The orchestration is forceful and colorful, full of generous solos and chamber sections as well as massed orchestral effects. The extended clarinet solo in the third movement, an idea that expands and meanders with remarkable freedom, is a gift to clarinetists; the layered strings in the mysterious opening of the first movement move from dankness to poetic transparency, allowing the violins to show off their full colors; the timpani and percussion in the second movement and finale have a shivery frisson we find only in the Symphonic Dances. In the sweeping coda, the entire orchestra seems to brighten, expand, and open up, as the minor-key motif that binds the symphony together finally resolves into the major before a breathless scamper to the finish line. A consummate musical chef, Rachmaninoff always saved the most sumptuous course for the end.
—Jack Sullivan
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