4 Oct 2010 ... Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumble Bee. Whether played by a ... Instead, this
was music describing the furious, stinging flight of a magical ...
October 4, 2010
Program Notes
Flight of the Bumblebee Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov (b. 1844, Tikhvin, Novgorod, Russia; d. 1908, Lyubensk, Russia) In the 1996 film Shine about the Australian pianist David Helfgott, whose promising concert career was curtailed by mental illness, there is a memorable scene in which Helfgott goes into a bar, sits down at the piano, and flabbergasts the patrons with the inhuman speed with which he plays Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumble Bee. Whether played by a pianist or a violinist, this little whirlwind of a piece, with its fiendish, nonstop chromatic scales, has become a synonym for instrumental virtuosity. But that was not at all what the Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov had in mind when he created this music as an instrumental interlude for his fairytale opera The Tale of Tsar Saltan, premiered in Moscow in 1900. Instead, this was music describing the furious, stinging flight of a magical bumble bee who is really a prince in disguise. Based on a poem by the great Alexander Pushkin, this opera tells a fantastical story of Tsar Saltan, his exiled queen, and the son he has banished along with her. The Tsaritsa is the youngest of three sisters, all of whom were candidates for the Tsar’s hand. When he chooses Militrisa, her jealous sisters seek revenge. While the Tsar is away at the wars, the Tsaritsa gives birth to a son, and the sisters send a report to Saltan that the Tsarevich Gvidon is a monster, not a human being. Believing this tale, Saltan has Militrisa and Gvidon sealed in a barrel and thrown into the sea. Of course, this being a fairy tale, they are not drowned but washed up on barren island, which is then magically transformed into a beautiful royal city by the Swan-Bird. When Gvidon longs to visit his father, the Swan-Bird changes him into a bee so that he can stow away on the Tsar’s ship and visit him incognito in his far-off realm. There, meeting the two evil sisters and the nurse who had plotted against him and his mother, he stings them viciously. Of course, the tale ends happily: learning the truth at last, Saltan is reunited with his wife and son, now once again a romantic prince. Rarely performed in the West, this colorful operatic fantasy is still very popular in Russia. And the Flight of the Bumble Bee in its original version for orchestra is heard several times in the opera’s third act. Here it is a virtuosic test not just for a single player but for many string and woodwind players.
Violin Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Opus 99 Dmitri Shostakovich (b. 1906, St. Petersburg, Russia; d. 1975, Moscow) During his long career under the Communists, Dmitri Shostakovich seesawed between being the pride of Russian music and a pariah one step away from the Siberian Gulag. His lowest moments Continued
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came in 1936, when he was denounced for his seamy opera “Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk” (he restored himself to favor with his Fifth Symphony), and again in 1948. In that year, Stalin, aging and crazier than ever, attacked musicians, writers, scientists, and scholars — denouncing the most prominent figures to cow the masses. A party resolution condemned composers for “formalistic distortions and anti-democratic tendencies alien to the Soviet people.” Black lists were drawn up, and heading the composers’ list were the names of Shostakovich and Prokofiev. In one of those periods that show human nature at its worst, musicians scrambled to get their names off the list and replace them with those of their rivals. But Shostakovich remained “enemy number one”; his Eighth Symphony had offended because of its “unhealthy individualism” and pessimism, and his frivolous Ninth, supposedly a tribute to Stalin’s war victory, had personally outraged the leader. In 1948, Shostakovich had just completed his First Violin Concerto, but locked it away in a desk drawer; this probing and sometimes sarcastic work might seal his doom with the Soviet authorities. After Stalin’s death in 1953, times were more auspicious. The concerto came out again and was dedicated to the phenomenal Russian violinist David Oistrakh, who played the premiere on October 29, 1955 with the Leningrad Philharmonic. A packed hall gave the composer and soloist ovation after ovation. Taking it on his first American concert tour two months later, Oistrakh with the New York Philharmonic introduced it to equally enthusiastic New York audiences, who realized they were simultaneously meeting a supreme virtuoso and a masterful new work, soon to be established as one of the 20th century’s greatest concertos. Composed in four movements of symphonic weight, this is a true “iron man” concerto, calling on everything in the violinist’s technical arsenal as well as enormous physical and emotional stamina. Even the redoubtable Oistrakh begged the composer to give the opening of the finale to the orchestra so that “at least I can wipe the sweat off my brow” after the daunting solo cadenza that concludes the third movement. The composer readily complied. Defying first-movement conventions, movement one is a quiet, meditative Nocturne. It gradually rises from the lower depths of orchestra and violin, though dark instrumental colors will be emphasized throughout. This is profoundly melancholy, even anguished music: an aria for violin with the soloist as a lonely insomniac singing to a sleeping, indifferent world. Darkest woodwinds — clarinets with bass clarinet, bassoon with contrabassoon — paint deep shadows around him. The bleak ending, with tolling harp and celesta accompanying the violin floating on a fragile high harmonic note, is unforgettable. The savage second-movement Scherzo is a Fellini-esque circus of the absurd. “Scherzo” means “joke,” and this is a harshly sarcastic joke indeed. This mood is so common in Shostakovich that it seems the composer’s mocking, self-protective response to the regime he lived under. And in fact, we hear his famous signature motive DSCH: the notes D, S (the German designation for E-flat), C and H (German usage for B-natural). About a minute into the movement, a malicious-sounding ensemble of woodwinds mocks the violinist with this motive, and later the violinist bitterly echoes it. The beleaguered soloist flies through a crazed, driven dance of exacting virtuosity. As he would in other major works, Shostakovich turned to the Baroque passacaglia form for his powerful F-minor third movement, the Concerto’s emotional center. (This was the movement the
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composer was writing at the peak of his 1948 trials.) The passacaglia is a repeating melodicharmonic pattern, usually in the bass. Shostakovich’s theme, which we hear at the outset in cellos and basses accented by timpani, is 17 measures long and broken into choppy two-measure phrases. Gradually, this pattern travels through the orchestra; even the soloist eventually takes it up in fierce double-stopped octaves. Over it, the soloist and other instruments weave heartbreakingly expressive melodies. The movement concludes with one of the longest and most taxing cadenzas ever written for a violinist. It is almost a movement in itself and constitutes the soloist’s commentary on the entire concerto. During its course, we hear reminiscences of the first-movement Nocturne and the Scherzo. The cadenza gradually accelerates into the final movement. The spirit of mockery returns in the Allegro con brio finale, titled “Burlesca.” But here the mood seems less bitter than earlier: more a wild folk dance over a driving rhythmic ostinato. Midway, the passacaglia theme makes a brief, mocking appearance in clarinet, horn, and the brittle clatter of xylophone. Again, shrill woodwinds dominate this finale, while the soloist hurtles through a nonstop display of virtuosity, culminating in a final acceleration to Presto.
Variations on an Original Theme, “Enigma,” Opus 36 Sir Edward Elgar (b. 1857, Broadheath, England; d. 1934, Worcester, England) Seldom in musical history has one work propelled a composer from obscurity to fame to the degree that the “Enigma Variations” did for Edward Elgar. Before the Enigma, he was a provincial composer in the west of England, somewhat in demand for writing oratorios for the regional choral festivals that flourished in that era, but also needing to give music lessons to the local gentry to make ends meet. After the Enigma’s premiere in London on June 19, 1899, Elgar instantly became England’s leading composer. A year later, Cambridge University awarded him an honorary doctorate, and a knighthood followed in 1904. The “Enigma Variations” is an unusual and felicitous blending of the theme and variations form with a series of beguiling, psychologically astute musical portraits of Elgar’s friends and family. It began innocently one evening in October 1898 when the composer was improvising at the piano for his wife. She praised a theme he’d invented, and he began to vary it to match the personalities of members of their circle. So far, the plan was straightforward enough, and although Elgar cryptically labeled the variations with initials, they were easily decoded to reveal his wife and friends’ identities. But a month before the premiere, the composer threw in his “enigma.” In a letter to the work’s first annotator, he wrote: “The enigma I will not explain — its ‘dark saying’ must be left unguessed ... through and over the whole set another and larger theme ‘goes,’ but is not played ... So the principal Theme never appears, even as in some late dramas ... the chief character is never on stage.” Scholars and listeners have wracked their brains to decipher this unheard theme; their guesses have ranged from tunes like “Auld Lang Syne” and “Rule, Britannia” to abstract ideas such as “friendship” and even “the loneliness of the artist.” The secret died with Elgar. But the composer was an incorrigible jokester, and maybe the “dark saying” was just another of his “leg pulls.” Continued
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The theme on which the 14 variations are based is an extremely subtle and personal creation: apparently a portrait of Elgar himself. Its first part, wistful and hesitant in G minor, features the yearning melodic interval of a seventh that Elgar loved; its second part, in G major, is more optimistic and aspiring. The beautiful Variation I, C.A.E., stands for Caroline Alice Elgar, the composer’s unfailingly supportive wife. “The variation is really a prolongation of the theme with what I wished to be romantic and delicate additions.” (All quoted descriptions are Elgar’s.) II. H.D. S.-P.: Hew D. Steuart-Powell was the pianist for Elgar’s trio in Worcester. Here, Elgar parodies his characteristic runs over the keys before playing. III. R.B.T.: Richard Baxter Townshend was a local eccentric who was slightly deaf and rode around on a tricycle, constantly ringing its bell. IV. W.M.B.: This blustering, masculine variation portrays William Meath Baker, a country squire, as he “forcibly read out the arrangements for the day” to his house guests (tittering in the woodwinds), then left the room, slamming the door. V. R.P.A.: A pensive portrait of Richard P. Arnold, a young philosopher and son of poet Matthew Arnold. “His serious conversation was continually broken up by whimsical and witty remarks” (the oboes mimic his laughter). VI.”Ysobel” stands for Isabel Fitton, who struggled to learn the viola from Elgar, finally giving up lessons with the explanation, “I value our friendship much too much.” In her honor, the solo viola and viola section are featured. VII.Troyte: Arthur Troyte Griffith was another ungifted student. The music describes his “maladroit essays to play the pianoforte; later the strong rhythm suggests the attempts of the instructor (E.E.) to make something like order out of chaos, and the final despairing ‘slam’ records that the effort proved to be in vain.” VIII. W.N.: A very genteel and gracious portrait of Winifred Norbury and her lovely 18th-century house, Sherridge. IX. Nimrod: The heart of the variations, this noble slow movement restores the Theme in clearly recognizable form and pays tribute to August Jaeger, Elgar’s publisher, untiring supporter, and close friend. “Jaeger” is the German word for “hunter,” and Nimrod was a mighty hunter in the Old Testament. Elgar recalled a moving conversation in which he and Jaeger had discussed the greatness of Beethoven’s slow movements. X. Dorabella: Dora Penny was a charming and very pretty young friend of the Elgars. This variation’s “dance-like lightness” describes Dora’s fondness for improvising dances to Elgar’s playing. XI. G.R.S.: Elgar tells us that this is not actually about Dr. G. R. Sinclair, organist at neighboring Hereford Cathedral. “The first few bars were suggested by his great bulldog Dan (a well-known character) falling down a steep bank into the River Wye; his paddling up stream to find a landing place; and rejoicing bark on landing.”
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XII. B.G.N.: A magnificent variation spotlighting the cello section honors Basil G. Nevinson, the cellist in Elgar’s trio, “a serious and devoted friend.” XIII. *** Romanza: “The asterisks take the place of the name of a lady who was, at the time of the composition, on a sea voyage ... the clarinet quotes a phrase from Mendelssohn’s ‘Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage.’ “ The lady is believed to be Lady Mary Lygon, a patroness of Worcestershire music. But the intensity of feeling in this variation suggests a closer relationship. XIV. E.D.U.: “Edu” or “Edoo” was Alice Elgar’s nickname for her husband. This final variation portrays Elgar himself, overcoming the original tentativeness of his theme and striding with confidence into the future. Reminiscences of the lovely “C.A.E.” variation and “Nimrod” place his two greatest allies, his wife and Jaeger, at his side. As brass and organ peal forth, it is almost as though Elgar intuited the acclaim awaiting him.
Russian March, Opus 31 Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (born 1840, Votkinsk, Russia; d. 1893, St. Petersburg, Russia)) Piotr Tchaikovsky was usually too wrapped up in his music to pay much attention to what was happening in the larger world around him. But in the summer of 1876, the tiny Balkan nations of Serbia and Montenegro declared war on Turkey in protest over Turkish massacres of Christians in the Balkans, and Serbia’s traditional ally Russia soon joined in support. Russian volunteers left to fight alongside the Serbians, money was raised to aid both Serbian soldiers and civilians, and the entire country seemed caught up in sympathy for the suffering of their fellow Slavs. Tchaikovsky, too, followed the conflict with emotional fervor. When his friend and colleague Nikolai Rubinstein, the head of the Moscow Conservatory, approached the composer for a new piece to be performed at a fundraising concert in Moscow for the Slavonic Charity Committee, he responded with enthusiasm — in fact with such enthusiasm that he wrote his Marche slave or Slavonic March in less than a week. For suitable thematic material, he turned to collections of Serbian folk melodies and chose three for his vigorously tuneful work. The most prominent is the somber descending melody that forms its opening section, while a livelier Serbian tune takes over in the middle section. As illustration of Russia’s solidarity with Serbia, in the closing coda we hear the noble strains of the Russian Tsarist national anthem — familiar to listeners for its prominent use in the 1812 Overture —proudly proclaimed by the brass. Marche slave is a big, colorful, and bombastic work designed to appeal to its listeners’ patriotic feelings. That it did most successfully at its premiere in Moscow on November 17, 1876. One eyewitness wrote: “The rumpus and roar that broke out in the hall after this [piece] beggars description. The whole audience rose to its feet, many jumped up onto their seats: cries of bravo and hurrah were mingled together. The march had to be repeated, after which the same storm broke out afresh. ... It was one of the most stirring moments of 1876. Many in the hall were weeping.” Notes by Janet E. Bedell, copyright 2010
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