Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra: Online Concert Programme | Thu 3 October 2024

Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958): In the Fen Country

In the Fen Country is the earliest of Vaughan Williams’s orchestral works that he did not withdraw. Its first version was completed by April 1904 and he revised it twice, in 1905 and 1907, before its first performance on 22 February 1909, at the Queen’s Hall, London, conducted by Thomas Beecham. He revised the orchestration in 1935, and despite further performances, particularly by Beecham, more than three decades elapsed before its publication in 1969, well after the composer’s death. Vaughan Williams dedicated it to his cousin, Randolph Wedgwood.

By the time of its premiere the fruits of Vaughan Williams’s folksong collecting activities in East Anglia had become apparent in the three Norfolk Rhapsodies, composed in 1906, in which he quotes from the melodies he had found. However, what is striking about In the Fen Country is the composer’s attempts to find an individual, distinctive voice through composing a main theme of his own, heard on cor anglais at the opening, which shows folk melody characteristics, as well as the influence of the Tudor masters like Tallis and Byrd. Nevertheless at the same time he cannot throw off the shackles of late Romantic chromatic harmony, particularly as the work builds to its climax. All in all it may be likened to a chrysalis struggling to emerge.

Vaughan Williams described the work as a ‘symphonic impression’, and it evokes the flat, lonely landscapes north of Cambridge, with Ely at its centre, which he would have known from his years studying at Trinity College. In its shifting light and shade it conjours superbly the scudding cloudscapes of the fenland. Particularly effective is the conclusion when the opening melody returns embedded in the hushed, rich sonority of divided violas, before the section leader’s solo fades to nothing.

© Andrew Burn

Ludvig van Beethoven (1770-1827): Piano Concerto No. 3

1. Allegro con brio
2. Largo
3. Rondo: Allegro

Beethoven completed his Piano Concerto No 3 in 1800-01; its composition was contemporary with that of the Second Symphony. He conceived the work, as he did all his piano concertos, for himself to perform as soloist, and it is therefore worth noting that when some years later, his increasing deafness prevented him from playing in public, he stopped writing concertos. This concerto, however, is far more than a conventional showpiece. In his previous piano concertos, Beethoven had increasingly sought  to create themes which were simple in outline but suitable for thorough development, and in this concerto, cast in the ‘tragic’ Classical key of C minor, this trend is fully exploited.

The first movement’s opening orchestral tutti is extensive, and immediately gets to the heart of the matter with the first theme, which has enormous potential, containing both lyrical and rhythmic elements as well as phrases which are projected by various sections of the orchestra. Similarly the second subject theme is treated extensively, appearing first in the woodwind before the strings join. But soon theme one is heard in stern outline in the bass, and a rather abrupt cadence prepares the way for the entry of the solo piano, whose three impatient upward scales herald new presentations of the existing material. The piano part is certainly demanding, though at times, for example, during the development section, its manner is restrained. The cadenza, as if in compensation, is long and complex, and during the coda the piano remains involved to the end.

The central Largo is among Beethoven’s most exalted lyrical creations, featuring a piano part which demands great sensitivity in phrasing, and gloriously eloquent writing for the strings. As the music proceeds the florid decorations of the piano line seem to anticipate the style of Chopin, while at the heart of the movement there is a quasi-operatic  duet for bassoon and flute, set against impressionistic piano arpeggios. In due course the serene principal theme returns, now featuring new and ever more elaborate embellishments.

The Rondo finale is high spirited, but beneath the surface there seems to lurk a more intense emotional mood; this is soon confirmed at the first climax, when the trumpets and timpani hammer out the rhythm. The interludes extend the moods yet further, including hints of playfulness and even frivolity, while the textures are occasionally complex, and new tunes give opportunities to woodwind soloists in addition to the piano. In the final stages, the music moves resolutely into the major key, to ensure a high-spirited and triumphant conclusion.

© Terry Barfoot

Gustav Holst (1874-1934): The Planets

1. Mars, the Bringer of War
2. Venus, the Bringer of Peace
3. Mercury, the Winged Messenger
4. Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity
5. Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age
6. Uranus, the Magician
7. Neptune, the Mystic

“As a rule I only study things that suggest music to me … recently the character of each planet suggested lots to me and I have been studying astrology fairly closely”, Holst wrote to a friend in 1913, when an orchestral suite based on astrological associations of the planets was fermenting in his mind. The Planets was composed between 1914-1917 and first heard under the young Adrian Boult in 1918 at a private performance generously funded by Holst’s friend and fellow composer Henry Balfour Gardiner.

Apart from the sheer inventiveness of the music, its originality impressed from the outset. Not only had Holst deployed huge orchestral forces with virtuoso panache, but also a suite for orchestra on this scale was quite unprecedented. Clearly, he had also absorbed contemporary continental influences: Debussy, Strauss and Scriabin, as well as Schoenberg and Stravinsky, whose Five Orchestral Pieces and The Rite of Spring were first heard in Britain in 1912 and 1913 respectively. Surely it is no coincidence that Holst referred to the work occasionally as ‘Seven Orchestral Pieces’.

From the outset it was assumed that Mars, the Bringer of War reflected the carnage of the First World War, yet it was written before hostilities commenced and before the tank was invented. Nevertheless, the music with its persistent rhythmic figure, begun menacingly on col legno strings, a relentless 5/4 metre, coiling chromatic phrases and massive discordant climaxes, does create a metaphor for the desolation and horror of war. Perhaps most eerie of all is the canonic passage for trumpet and tenor tuba, a chilling aural image of relentless pursuit.

The rising horn phrase and descending woodwind chords of Venus, the Bringer of Peace, usher in an ethereal contrast. Lapping chords perpetuate the serene mood, whilst in the centre of the movement the solo violin introduces a melody whose lush harmonies are reminiscent of Scriabin.

The scherzo, Mercury, the Winged Messenger, is a miracle of scoring; the music fleet of foot as cross-rhythms abound  – a reflection of Holst’s enthusiasm for the Elizabethan madrigalists, in particular Morley and Weelkes. The trio is formed from a little fragment of melody that is passed from one instrument to another, a subtle evocation of the swift flight of the God.

Boisterous good humour characterises Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity whose vitality is fuelled by syncopated rhythms. During its first performance, Holst’s daughter, Imogen, recalled that ‘”cleaners working in the corridors of the Queen’s Hall put down their scrubbing-brushes and began to dance.” The music too has a Falstaffian quality; indeed Holst told Boult that he had in mind “one of those jolly fat people who enjoy life.” But he said too that it portrayed “laughter holding both his sides,” and the noble melody of the central section, with its tinge of melancholy, is a reminder that laughter and tears are often inextricably mixed. It is a splendid tune which only later took on its unfortunate association with school speech days and patriotism after Holst adapted it for the hymn Thaxted. Too often the true nature of the music is obscured when it is performed as a solemn dirge.

Holst’s own favourite movement was Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age. Austere oscillating flute and wind chords, a bleak phrase whose poignancy derives from a falling semitone, and a solemn processional form the basis of this portrait of the dust and ashes of old age. It rises to a terrifying climax, with the wild clangour of bells, a musical equivalent, perhaps, to Dylan Thomas’s line of poetry, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Ultimately though, the music is enveloped in tranquil radiance, a symbol of acceptance for the inevitable passing of life.

Aided by brilliant orchestration, some of Holst’s cleverest musical images in the work occur in Uranus, the Magician: for instance, the opening four-note brass motif – as if a conjurer were casting a spell – and the three bassoons, like spirits responding to his command. The movement develops into a jig-like dance, then a quick march that resembles Fêtes from Debussy’s Nocturnes. The ending, gigantic chords intermingled with stillness, seems to pose a question: “Was it all illusion?”

Neptune, the Mystic is the most original movement, formed predominantly from static harmony and  swirling orchestral colour, an idea possibly derived from the ‘Farben’ movement of Schoenberg’s ‘Five Orchestral Pieces’. Throughout the orchestra is instructed to play as quietly as possible. But in the boldest stroke is the introduction of the women’s voices who steal in amid mysterious harp and celeste decoration, their hypnotic repetitions ever receding into the vastness of space.

© Andrew Burn