Dvořák’s Piano Concerto, a work from his middle period, is the first of his three concertos (all of which are performed by the Czech Philharmonic in this series). For many years, it was regarded as stubbornly problematic, though now it has plenty of champions. When Dvořák wrote the concerto in 1876, he admitted it was not a conventional showpiece: “I see I am unable to write a concerto for a virtuoso; I must think of other things.” What he came up with was a large-scale symphonic work, almost 40 minutes long, in which the piano blends intimately with the orchestra rather than opposing it, rippling and singing with transparency and sophistication. Although it presents one memorable melody after another, pianists of the time shunned it because of its notoriously challenging piano part, complaining that it wasn’t flashy enough, lay awkwardly under the fingers, and was much harder to play than it seemed.
Another issue was Dvořák’s status as an artist. As a Czech composer, he had to fight to be taken seriously in a world dominated by German music, even though Brahms himself admired the concerto. According to H. L. Menken, a fervid Dvořák champion, he suffered from ugly classist subcurrents and was “commonly regarded as a sort of inspired clodhopper.” By the time Dvořák wrote his epic Cello Concerto, a later work from his American period, his fight for legitimacy had been largely won: He was invited to direct the National Conservatory of Music of America in New York precisely because of his huge fame and popularity.
Dvořák revised the Piano Concerto numerous times before its publication. It was further altered by Czech pianist Vilém Kurz to make the piano sound more conventionally “virtuosic,” but once Sviatoslav Richter revived the original version it became popular (treated almost like a fresh piece) and has stayed in the repertory. Numerous pianists have championed it since, including Jenő Jandó, András Schiff, and especially Rudolf Firkušný.
Dvořák uses a modest, relatively small Classical orchestra, which interacts intimately with the piano. The three-movement layout is also traditionally Classical, though Dvořák invests these forms with Slavic sensibility. By the time he wrote this concerto, he had moved away from his saturation in the music of Liszt and Wagner, using Czech folklore as a main source of inspiration coupled with nods to Mozart and Beethoven. The lively opening movement, in sonata form, features a distinctly Czech theme, full of suspense and soul, as well as an imposing cadenza. The second theme is one of his most gorgeous, reminding us that Dvořák was an admirer of Mozart. The serene Andante sostenuto presents a theme that keeps growing and blossoming, intoned first by horns, followed by an unpredictable middle section. At the end, the soloist ascends with heavenly trills. A jaunty theme opens the Finale, which is full of catchy melodies and a surprising fugato. A beguiling slower melody becomes increasingly prominent, lifting the concerto to a lyrical ecstasy.
Leoš Janáček wrote his Glagolitic Mass, one of his most exultant and ambitious works, at age 73 during an astonishingly productive creative period. His inspiration was aroused by the new independence of his country and by his passionate infatuation with Kamila Stösslová, the wife of an antiques dealer who was 37 years his junior, and to whom he wrote more than 700 love letters. During this period, he composed (among other works) three operas, including The Cunning Little Vixen and From the House of the Dead, as well as the Second String Quartet (a chronicle of his love for Kamila entitled “Intimate Letters”) and the Sinfonietta, the latter one of the glories of 20th-century orchestral repertory. All these propelled him to a new level of international fame.
The Glagolitic Mass raises a fascinating question: How could Janáček, who was adamantly nonreligious, write such powerful religious music? According to his niece, “He had a positive aversion to organized religion, even to churches. He would not go into one even to get out of the rain.” “The church to me is the essence of death,” Janáček explained, “graves under the flagstones, bones on the altars, all kinds of torture and death in the paintings. The rituals, the prayers, the chants—death and death again! I won’t have anything to do with it.”
Yet here we have the Glagolitic Mass, an exalted piece of sacred music. This paradox—paralleled by the masses of Berlioz, Brahms, Verdi, Delius, Fauré, Vaughan Williams, and other nonbelievers—reminds us that spirituality and religiosity are different phenomena. For Janáček, the former was inextricably linked with his adoration of nature and Slavic folk culture, as he stated in a poetic forward to the mass: “The fragrance of the forests around Luhačovice was incense. The church was the giant forest canopy, the vast-arched heavens, and the misty reaches beyond. The bells of a flock of sheep rang to signify the transformation of the Host. In the tenor solo I heard a high priest, in the soprano solo a girlish angel, in the chorus our folk. The candles are tall forest firs with stars for their flames.” We might recall T. S. Eliot’s statement that in literature one should be able to feel what it is like to have a religious experience even if one is not religious, an insight that clearly holds true in music as well, for composers as well as audiences.
In composing his mass, Janáček ignored the usual Latin text (though he had begun an earlier Latin version), opting instead for the ancient church Slavonic text, whose written characters were called “Glagolitic.” It was premiered by the Brno Arts Society, conducted by Jaroslav Kapil, in Brno in 1927, after which it underwent several revisions by Janáček and others. Though its formidable demands and large forces make it hard to program, it is a popular, frequently recorded work.
Janáček stated that the mass is “festive, life-affirming, pantheistic, with little of what we could call the ecclesiastical.” Festive it certainly is, eschewing gloom and hellfire. The scoring is massive, including a large orchestra, double chorus, organ, and vocal quartet. Throughout, it juxtaposes raucous, primitive outbursts with tender lyricism and understated nuance, jerky syntax (a Janáček trademark) with flowing lyricism, rarely in ways one would expect, making for an experience that is thrillingly unpredictable from beginning to end. Joyful fanfares with pounding timpani erupt at critical moments in the piece, reminiscent of those in the more familiar Sinfonietta.
Those fanfares blare out in the Introduction, leading to the Kyrie, which begins somberly in the basses with a motif taken up by the woodwinds. A radiant chorus enters, followed by a passionate soprano solo equaled by the tenor’s solo in the Gloria. In the Credo, the orchestra has extended sequences featuring elegant contributions from the woodwinds. The Sanctus opens with a beatific melody from the strings and solo violin, eventually bringing in all four soloists and ending with a triumphant final chord in the brass. Mysterious motifs permeate the Agnus Dei, which features a flowingly lyrical section for the choir. Out of nowhere, a spectacular organ solo suddenly sounds out, adding another layer of drama and excitement.
The work ends with a triumphant Intrada, the latter movement normally coming at the beginning of a work, not the end—another way Janáček upends the usual procedures. Some scholars believe Janáček wanted the Intrada to be performed at both the beginning and end, giving this work, which often resembles controlled chaos, a certain symmetry. Certainly no one would object to hearing this inspiring movement twice.
—Jack Sullivan
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