No one knows why Haydn’s Symphony No. 59, written during his long employment with Prince Esterházy, is called “Fire,” but its blazing energy makes the subtitle entirely logical. (Some of the symphony’s music was cribbed as accompaniment for a Gustav Grossman play performed in the Esterházy court called Die Feuersbrunst). Haydn dispenses with the usual slow introduction, launching immediately into a Presto first movement with a fiery theme that occasionally dies down or stops altogether, only to flame up again. The tiny second subject does little to tame the movement’s eccentric jumpiness, which is reinforced by fast-flying repeated notes and irregular rhythms.
Haydn was known for inaugurating the 18th-century classical symphony—a remarkably stable and durable form that provides the skeleton of the early Beethoven symphony closing this program—then breaking his own rules when it suited him. There are continual, delightful surprises (the “Surprise” Symphony is by no means the only instance), despite seemingly strict boundaries. In this symphony, we get two inner movements that seem almost like one, a novel procedure for the 18th century. The slow movement opens with a quietly smoldering idea for strings alone, but other instruments suddenly join in for a recapitulation of the second melody. This unusual movement uses the same meter as the Menuetto that follows, and the latter borrows some of its ideas as well, including its second theme, which appears in a major rather than a minor key. The Menuetto has its own witty identity even as it delivers a sense of déjà vu.
The finale returns the symphony to the restless energy that began it. Haydn valued concision, especially in his finales, and this one blows by in a flash. With fanfares and duets, the horns and winds get a spirited workout, as the fire of the opening movement blazes again.
Scholars now believe that this symphony was written in 1768 during the same period as No. 48. There is a freshness, confidence, and determination to try new sounds in this and other early symphonies that are the mark of a true original. Isolated from politics and fashion, a member of his own orchestra, and beholden to no one but his employer, Prince Esterházy, Haydn was keenly aware that he was striking out into new territory in his early symphonies, yet true to the Classical aesthetic, he downplayed his own ego: “As head of an orchestra, I could try things out, observe what creates a good effect and what weakens it, and thus revise, make additions, and take risks. I was cut off from the world; nobody in my vicinity could upset my self-confidence or annoy me; and so I had no choice but to become original.”
Bruch’s G-Minor Violin Concerto, one of the most popular Romantic concertos in the repertory, represents a fascinating paradox, both in its complicated history and multiple identity crises. Celebrated for its seemingly spontaneous lyricism, the work was 10 years in the making—an initial setting down of ideas in 1857, a year of serious work in 1865, a premature performance in 1866 (after two postponements), another year of revision in 1867 (bordering on complete re-composition immediately after a private premiere of a “new” version), and a final “real” premiere in 1868 with renowned violinist Joseph Joachim.
About the Music
Equally torturous was the bickering over what this slowly germinating work really was. With its passionate, cadenza-like first movement and its lack of a break between the two others, it didn’t strike Bruch as a proper concerto. (Bruch continued to have this problem; his next concerto was denounced by Édouard Lalo as a “shapeless thing” with “no first movement.”) Tentatively calling the G-minor work a “fantasie,” Bruch finally sent it to Joachim for revisions, asking him to call it what he liked.
Happily, Joachim found the concerto label fully justified: “For a fantasie, the last two movements are too completely and symmetrically developed. The different sections are brought together in beautiful relationship.” The concerto’s unity, drama, and tunefulness have made it a perennial favorite for audiences and soloists, enough to ensure Bruch a permanent place in the repertory, even though few of his pieces (including two other violin concertos) are programmed with any regularity. The contrast between its convoluted creation and seemingly effortless magic is put in perspective by William Butler Yeats, who once remarked that Romantic art represents only the illusion of spontaneity.
The music of Canadian-American composer Karim Al-Zand is wide-ranging in influence and inspiration, encompassing solo, chamber, vocal, and orchestral works. From scores for dance, to compositions for young people, to multidisciplinary and collaborative works, his music is diverse in both its subject matter and its audience. It explores connections between music and other arts, and draws inspiration from varied sources, such as graphic art, myths and fables, folk music of the world, film, spoken word, jazz, and his own Middle Eastern heritage. He is the recipient of several national awards, including an Arts and Letters Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Al-Zand was born in Tunis, Tunisia, raised in Ottawa, Canada, and educated at McGill University and Harvard University, where he received a doctorate in 2000. In his scholarly work, he has pursued several diverse areas of music theory, including topics in jazz, counterpoint, and improvisation (both jazz and 18th-century extemporization). A longtime resident of Houston, he teaches composition and music theory at Rice University, and is a founder and artistic board member of the contemporary music group Musiqa.
Luctus Profugis is a lament for string orchestra and percussion that reflects on the 2015–2019 European refugee crisis. The title translates roughly from Latin as “Grief for the Displaced.” The word profugus has a connection to the opening lines of Virgil’s Aeneid, which describes one of the earliest refugees: Aeneas fleeing the Trojan War to the shores of Italy. In Luctus Profugis, the percussionist at the heart of the ensemble plays a simple three-note motif that repeats for the duration of the piece. Its persistence symbolizes for me the refugees’ journey, their tenacity, courage, and resilience.
The European refugee crisis started in 2015, when tens of thousands of migrants began fleeing their war-ravaged homes to seek asylum in the West. Displaced families, primarily from Syria and other areas of conflict, endured perilous journeys to reach safe destinations in the European Union. The most dangerous routes have included crossings of the Eastern Mediterranean to ports in Greece and Italy. Thousands of migrants are estimated to have perished at sea. In the United States, which arguably has played the largest role in catalyzing the migration, the reaction to the crisis has been characterized politically by inaction and fear-mongering. Governors in 26 states (including Texas) have refused to settle Syrian asylum seekers. To date, the US has settled 0.05% of the total number of refugees. Canada and Germany have settled over 19 times that number. It is my hope that Luctus Profugis serves as not only an elegy, but also as a call to action.
About the Work
The first symphonies of great composers are fascinating, both for what they do and do not foretell. Schubert and Sibelius, for example, made their symphonic debuts with works that sound distinctly “early,” though with revealing glimpses of the men to come. On the other hand, the first symphonies of Brahms and Mahler are already thoroughly characteristic of the composers’ sound worlds. In a few cases, such as those of Wagner and Stravinsky, the first symphonies offer almost no clues of innovations to come.
With Beethoven, the matter is tricky. Seen today as a bridge figure who brought 18th-century music to a dramatic climax even as he ushered in that of the 19th, Beethoven completed and premiered his First Symphony, appropriately, in 1800. The work is like a transition to a transition, with bright echoes of Haydn and Mozart, as well as teasing glimmers of the new energy and sweep that Beethoven was soon to bring to music in the “Eroica” Symphony. He was clearly struggling to come out of the shadows of Haydn (with whom he had studied) and Mozart, just as Brahms would later struggle to emerge from Beethoven’s own symphonic legacy.
The famous opening of the Symphony No. 1, with its odd pizzicato chords that lead the listener into ambiguous tonal territories, is the perfect overture to Beethoven’s symphonies. In a limited sense, it even foreshadows the opening to Beethoven’s final symphony, except that here the opening is more a tease than a mystery; it is a final cadence rather than an opening phrase, an avant-garde version of a Haydn musical joke.
Certainly, the ensuing music—a vigorous and joyful Allegro con brio, a lyrical Andante cantabile with fugato sections, an emphatic Menuetto, and a lively finale—are thoroughly steeped in 18th-century style and spirit. The wind trio in the Menuetto, with its delicate string accompaniment, is as elegant as similar moments in Mozart, just as the sonata structure in the first movement is as firm as that of any Classical symphony.
Still, the elemental energy that is perhaps Beethoven’s most striking characteristic sweeps through even this early symphony, despite Berlioz’s statement that the First is “not Beethoven,” but merely a work that “imitates with ingenuity”—a remark that has set the tone for criticism of this symphony ever since. The earthiness of the Menuetto, to cite the most noticeable innovation, is barely shy of a Beethoven scherzo, just as the suspense, tension, comic turns, and sudden pauses in the finale have Beethoven’s rhythmic imprint.
At the very least, this symphony, which Beethoven himself premiered from the podium, irritated pedants and traditionalists: “Too much woodwind writing,” wrote one. “Such liberties and peculiarities are not suitable for the opening of a grand concert in a spacious opera house,” wrote another. For that alone, the symphony deserves to stand at the beginning of Beethoven’s symphonic revolution.
—Jack Sullivan
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