Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra: Online Concert Programme | Thu 26 Feb 2026

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827): Violin Concerto

1. Allegro ma non troppo
2. Larghetto
3. Rondo: Allegro

Beethoven wrote his Violin Concerto, Op. 61, for Franz Clement, the leader of the orchestra at the Theater an der Wien, completing it only just in time for the scheduled premiere on 23 December 1806. That winter season found the composer at his most prolific; for example, during the preceding weeks he had been much preoccupied with work on the Fifth and Sixth symphonies. In these circumstances, it is perhaps not so surprising that Clement gave the first performance of the concerto without the luxury of prior rehearsal, nor that Beethoven decided to make alterations subsequently to his score.  Another interesting aspect of the premiere was that at the end of the concert, Clement also played a series of showpiece items, some with his instrument turned upside down!

Clearly Beethoven’s contemporaries held the Violin Concerto, which is in the key of D major, in lower esteem than have subsequent generations. The following is typical of the reviews: ‘Amongst other excellent pieces, the remarkable violinist Clement also played a concerto by Beethoven, which was received with great applause.  However, the opinion of connoisseurs, while admitting that there are beautiful passages, confesses that the context often seems broken and that the endless repetition of unimportant ideas produces a tiring effect.’  This opinion was evidently influential, since it was not until the famous violinist Joseph Joachim took the piece into his repertoire, first playing it as a teenager in London in 1844, that he ensured that the music’s true stature and value became fully appreciated.

Beethoven begins the substantial first movement in a manner that seems frankly self-effacing. But the initial five-note drum figure and the simple woodwind tune prove to be the germ for practically everything that follows.  This opening phase is certainly more lyrical than those of the first four piano concertos, reflecting perhaps the legato nature of the solo instrument.  The ‘drum beat’ motto is maintained beneath the magnificent second theme, building the music up to a fully scored climax. When this subsides, the soloist enters.

Although the mood is not changed by the presence of the solo violin, the full range of the instrument is certainly exploited. Thus, the fulfilment of the soloist’s opening paragraph comes with the first subject presented in the violin’s highest register. The development is every inch as imaginative as we would expect of Beethoven, since it is dominated by the timpani rhythm and the first theme, while the solo part abounds in decorations which always relate closely to this prevailing material. The earliest surviving cadenza is of course that of Joachim, but Fritz Kreisler’s is also popular with soloists today. There is also a cadenza by Beethoven, which remarkably includes the timpani also, but this was intended for his piano transcription of the concerto.

The second movement is lyrical in tone, the music’s smaller scale and lighter mood probably determined by the scale and size of the first. There are two lyrical themes, plus a somewhat ornamental subsidiary idea, and these are presented in various guises, often with a solo line containing decorative arabesques.

A brief cadenza forms a bridge to the finale, which follows without pause. The solo violin immediately presents the rondo theme, but once the orchestra takes this over, the music becomes more robust. There are various episodes whose function is to provide variety, and the second of these, cast in the minor key, brings an intensification of the mood. However, it is inevitably the rondo theme which dominates the movement. Its ‘hunting’ style reflects the Viennese taste of the period, and it is this theme that brings the concerto to its close in suitably festive mood.

© Terry Barfoot

Edward Elgar (1857-1943): Symphony No. 2

1. Allegro vivace e nobilmente
2. Larghetto
3. Rondo: Presto
4. Moderato e maestoso

Elgar composed most of his Second Symphony in 1910. At the same time, Mahler was writing his Tenth, Sibelius his Fourth, Stravinsky was working on his ballets The Firebird and Petrushka, and Strauss was completing the opera Der Rosenkavalier. All these composers responded differently to the intensity of their time but there is no doubt that a sense of political insecurity and social change inspired this extraordinary confluence of musical masterpieces. Some embraced the global upheaval of the day with great excitement. Others weren’t so sure and relinquished their 19th-century certainties with reluctance and trepidation.

For the first half of Elgar’s life, to be British was to rule the world. The British Empire controlled 450 million people over an area that made up a quarter of the earth’s land surface. The confidence this must have instilled is hard to imagine. And yet Elgar could see that such entitlement was hollow and misplaced and would not last. He knew that the pride of patriotism could be hijacked by the ignorance of xenophobia, and he was deeply troubled by many of the choices he saw being made.

The symphony starts confidently enough though, introducing us immediately to a musical gesture that Elgar labelled the ‘Spirit of Delight’. It’s a phrase that comes from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Song, the first line of which Elgar copied out on to the front page of his score. It does not take long for the opening’s Victorian swagger to give way to music of more vulnerable circumspection, a transition that makes sense when you read the whole of Shelley’s poem, something that Elgar was keen for us to do. Its first verse suggests something nostalgically elusive:

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
‘Tis since thou art fled away.

 The wide ranging first movement (by far the longest of the four) expresses both the presence and the absence of the ‘Spirit of Delight’, a combination that has confused those who perhaps dislike the idea that music can be ambiguous. There is much that feels intimate, full of dying falls that Elgar said should draw us ‘out of the everyday world.’ But the movement ends as it began, with a brightness of bravado – a stiff upper lip giving maximum support to the Edwardian moustaches of the time.

The second movement is a funeral march, though for whom is unclear. Edward VII died in 1910, and with the symphony dedicated to the memory of the late King, the answer seems obvious. Yet sketches for this music can be dated back to 1903, when the unexpected death of his great friend Alfred E Rodewald, a cotton merchant and keen amateur musician, hit Elgar especially hard. The music is connected to Elgar’s personal grief as much as it is a symbol for a nation in mourning.

Elgar said that the start of the third movement was inspired by a trip he had just taken to Venice, and its charming opening can well be imagined as something the musicians in the Piazza San Marco would play. But these joyful beginnings become manic over time, and a terrifying central section suggests a more disturbing reality. Elgar described this section as the ‘madness that attends the excess or abuse of passion’. He knew where Europe’s gathering storm clouds were heading.

How does one follow a first movement that reflects uncertainty, a second which laments the past, and a third which looks into the future with terror and unease? Well, according to the instruction Elgar gives the musicians at the start of the finale, ‘with dignity.’ This request, possibly unique as a musical suggestion, gives us an inkling as to what Elgar thought the answer was. The tune has a nobility that is not grandiose, a pride that is not arrogant, and above all a humanity that transcends personal passion and political power. The end is a simple and sincere expression of human frailty but delivered with such eloquence that it has a certain triumph of its own. In a letter to his publisher Elgar wrote that the piece ends in a ‘calm and elevated mood.’ Maybe that is how he interpreted the ‘Spirit of Delight’.

The work’s first performance in May 1911, which Elgar conducted, was not a success. With the impending Coronation of George V, the expectation was for something celebratory. But the symphony ends with a question, which with hindsight, is far more pertinent for the time. Its conclusion suggests that no one can know what’s going to happen and we have to make peace with our doubts if we are not to limit our opportunity to make good choices for the future. Not every question has an answer. In fact, the most interesting questions have none. That is not a reason not to ask them, especially when they can be expressed with such beauty and eloquence as this.

© Mark Wigglesworth