Extended Concert Programme: National Symphony Orchestra of Ukraine | Tue 17 October 2023

Boris Lyatoshynsky (1895-1968): Grazhyna (1955)

Andante sostenuto – Allegro risoluto – Poco meno mosso – Con moto e poco agitato – Andante – Allegro – Poco sostenuto

The Symphonic Ballade, Grazhyna, was composed to mark the centenary of the death of the Polish poet Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855); Mickiewicz was the prominent Polish writer in the first half of the nineteenth century. He wrote the narrative poem, Grazhyna, in 1822 whilst staying in Vilnius and it celebrates the life of a mythical Lithuanian chieftain and her battles against the army of the Order of the Teutonic Knights leading to her death at the hands of her enemies. Grazhyna had disguised herself as her husband in order to lead the Lithuanian troops into battle and her death is marked at the climax of the symphonic poem.

Lyatoshynsky wrote a detailed programme note at the head of the orchestral score, highlighting the events being portrayed. The seven tempo markings listed above mark the turning points in the story.

The structural pillars of western sonata-form can be detected, the work opening in the depths with a slow introduction (Andante sostenuto); lower strings intone a chant that seems to have been proceeding before the music begins. After two minutes, a memorably expressive cor anglais solo makes its first appearance, and this can be heard as a musical portrayal of the eponymous heroine. We are then hurtled into the first battle sequence (Allegro risoluto), marked by trumpet fanfares and solemn brass chords. Emotional relief (Poco meno mosso) comes with what can be described as sonata-form secondary subject material, with prominent harp and falling string phrases depicting the pity of war.

Increasingly busy timpani and relentless forward motion (Con moto e poco agitato) suggest that we are moving towards the climax of the battle, with a powerful brass chorale-like theme. After we reach the climax, there is a quieter plateau (Andante) as two tam-tam strokes mark the death of Grazhyna, with the timpani providing an appropriate funereal tread, alongside lamentation by strings and horns. However, her death is transfigured through an emotional apotheosis (Allegro), with a more optimistic major mode suggesting her ultimate victory in the struggle. Finally, the slow introductory music returns (Poco sostenuto), with Grazhyna’s cor anglais melody once more prominent in the texture. The symphonic poem gradually ebbs away to silence, ending with two plucked notes on lower strings.

Lyatoshynsky composed this work just two years after the death of Stalin, at a time when there was increased hope for greater freedom in the USSR. Here we have a Ukrainian composer marking the anniversary of a Polish poet, who was describing the Lithuanian struggle for independence. All three countries can no doubt identify with the emotions expressed in what many consider to be Lyatoshynsky’s greatest orchestral composition.

© Timothy Dowling

Max Bruch (1838-1920): Violin Concerto No 1 (1866, rev 1867)

1. Vorspiel (Allegro moderato)
2. Adagio
3. Finale (Allegro energico)

For five years this work topped Classic FM’s Hall of Fame and it remains Bruch’s most popular work, indeed the only work by which he is widely known, other than his shorter Kol Nidrei for cello and orchestra (1881).

Despite its appearance of having been composed in the white-heat of inspiration, Bruch’s Concerto had a difficult gestation and he revised it thoroughly after its first performance in 1866 with advice from the greatest violinist of the nineteenth century, Josef Joachim. After some six re-writes (according to Bruch himself), the version we know today was premiered in early 1868.

Like Mendelssohn’s Concerto the soloist opens Bruch’s Concerto, but this first movement is unusually titled ‘Vorspiel’ (Prelude) and it has a sense of constant anticipation, as if it is an introduction rather than the Concerto’s main centre of gravity. Thus Bruch’s structure does not follow the classic example of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, as Brahms was to do just a decade later.

After the rather restless opening theme we are transported to a radiant episode in the relative major key (B flat). An orchestral tutti passsage then leads to a mini-cadenza section and the soloist exchanges questions and answers (or perhaps more questions) with the woodwind.

This leads directly to the central Adagio movement of the Concerto in a warm E flat major, surely the slowly beating heart of this work. The Adagio is based on three inspired themes that combine together very effectively at its climax before drawing to a peaceful close.

However, not a full close, because the Finale clearly needs to follow directly, as its ‘opening’ in E flat major carries on the tonality of the Adagio before moving back to the Concerto’s home key of G, with a lively Hungarian dance-type tune in the major key. This alternates with a glorious second theme which could have Elgar’s nobilmente inscribed as its marking in the score. But there is no Elgarian lingering here and Bruch rushes headlong towards an exultant ending.

There have been advocates for his later concertos, but in truth Bruch never recaptured the spontaneous rapture of this romantic warhorse. Sadly, he sold the rights for the work cheaply early on and its unending popularity (together with his failure to live up to the inspiration of the G minor Concerto) was a source of bitter regret in the later years of his long life. Like his close contemporary Saint-Saëns (1835-1921), Bruch remained oblivious to the developments in music across Europe at the turn of the nineteenth century and he died virtually in poverty and oblivion in 1920.

Bruch’s G minor Concerto owes much to Mendelssohn’s E minor Concerto, just as Grieg’s A minor Piano Concerto is similarly indebted to Schumann’s in the same key. The Concertos by Bruch and Grieg are often paired together with their respective role models. Perhaps the original models do strike deeper chords, but there is no denying the sheer romantic attraction of the two works inspired by the timeless masterpieces of Mendelssohn and Schumann.

© Timothy Dowling

Jean Sibelius (1865-1957): Symphony No 1 (1899)

1. Andante ma non troppo – Allegro energico – Tranquillo – Tempo I (Allegro energico) – Tranquillo – a tempo
2. Andante (ma non troppo lento) – Molto tranquillo – Tempo I
3. Scherzo: Allegro – Lento (ma non troppo) – Tempo I
4. Finale: Quasi una fantasia: Andante – Allegro molto – Andante assai – Allegro molto come prima – Andante (ma non troppo) – Più largamente poco a poco

Sibelius concentrated on instrumental and chamber music in the 1880s and only moved into the orchestral world in the early 1890s, focussing purely on programmatic and illustrative music. He did not shy away from larger forms, as demonstrated by his large-scale Kullervo Symphonic Poem, in 1892. Sibelius later referred to this as his ‘Kullervo Symphony’ but made it clear that it was not one of his symphonies. The other large-scale orchestral composition of this period was the Suite of Four Legends, known as the Lemminkäinen Suite. Alongside several other works, both Kullervo and the Lemminkäinen Suite derived their inspiration from the Kalevala (1835-1849), a nineteenth-century work of epic poetry compiled by the physician and philologist Elias Lönrot (1802-1884) from Karelian and Finnish oral folklore and mythology.

Sibelius was closely involved with Finland’s struggle towards independence, providing stirring music to accompany various pageants that celebrated Finnish history and national identity. His first substantial contribution was the incidental music for a series of historical tableaux for the Karelian homeland in 1893 (Karelia Suite). The Russian Czarist authorities became increasingly concerned by the political situation in the Duchy of Finland and the authoritarian response was increased censorship.

Sibelius was then asked to compose music for the ‘Press Celebrations’, part of a mass movement to counter the censure of free speech in Finland. Sibelius provided a Prelude and music for six tableaux, each portraying either historical or mythical events connected with Finland. The last of these tableaux, Finlandia, remains one of his most popular compositions and was composed around the same time that he started work on his First Symphony.

Inevitably, contemporary audiences assumed that there would be a political message and/or programme for his Symphony No. 1, but Sibelius was always very clear that his symphonies cannot be interpreted in these simplistic terms. Sibelius later declared his personal vision of the symphony:

‘A symphony is not a composition in the ordinary sense. Rather, it is a declaration of faith…. A better name for the symphonies would be: ‘prayer’. Preghiera. Although misleading….’

‘A propos symphonies: for me, they are declarations of faith at different ages. That is why all of mine are so different: Tempora mutantur et nos illis mutamur [Times change, and we change with them.].’

Several years later, when Karl Ekman was writing his biography of Sibelius (published in 1935), Sibelius recalled a discussion with Mahler in 1907: ‘When our conversation touched on the essence of the symphony, I said that I admired its strictness and the profound logic that creates an inner connection between all the motifs. This was my conviction, based on my creative work. Mahler had a wholly opposite opinion: “No!” he exclaimed, “the symphony must be like the world. It must contain everything.” ’

And so, Sibelius was driven by his inner need to find and express the profound logic in his musical material; the opening movement of his First Symphony provides one of the great examples of his newfound symphonic mastery. It demonstrates the musical journey that Sibelius had travelled in the seven years since his Kullervo Symphony, although admittedly Kullervo was a programme work that did not necessarily require the same depth of thematic development.

Given the prevailing political mood at the time it is ironic that the main musical inspiration seems to come from the Russian symphonists, and particularly Tchaikovsky. This is not surprising given that the Pathétique had been premiered in Helsinki 1894, following its premiere in St Petersburg just weeks before Tchaikovsky’s death in November 1893. Sibelius himself said, ‘There is much in that man that I recognize in myself.’

Commentators have drawn attention to the similarity between the main theme of the opening movement and that of Alexander Borodin’s First Symphony, premiered some thirty years prior to Sibelius’s own First Symphony in 1869. Sibelius denied having heard Borodin’s work although there is a report of it having been performed in Helsinki in the 1890s.

The opening clarinet solo could not be more unassuming, as it steals in espressivo over the pianissimo drum roll and much of the following music can be traced back to this introductory Andante, ma non troppo, growing organically from the various phrases quietly sung by clarinet. Its most dramatic return will come at the start of the Finale, when it returns forte (largamente ed appassionato) on full body of strings.

The first movement is notable for its dramatic sweep and sense of forward momentum, with powerful rhythms always taking us to the next stage of development. Even the contrasting pastoral-type music, with birdlike calls first heard on a pair of flutes, can be traced back to that opening clarinet solo.

Sibelius had learnt his art as a musical story-teller in his earlier symphonic poems and he now employs those same musical devices to portray an abstract emotional drama. Each listener can identify with the powerful emotions herein portrayed without necessarily being able to translate them into words.

The two middle movements are perhaps more straightforward; each demonstrates the respective Russian and Austro-German musical traditions that inspired Sibelius. The Russian-influenced slow movement is dominated by the brooding main theme on muted strings, with its gently sighing motif. The radical change in atmosphere after the opening movement is managed by the unusual choice of key, stepping down a semitone from the first movement’s E minor to a warm E flat major. The memorable theme recurs between various episodes, including characteristically powerful brass-fanfares and further pastoral woodwind sections.

The Scherzos of Beethoven’s Third Symphony (Eroica) and Bruckner’s Third Symphony (which Sibelius heard whilst in Vienna in 1890) are echoed in the quiet, pulsating energy of Sibelius’s third movement, similarly turning pastoral for a peaceful central interlude. Again, the new sound-world is partly down to the unusual choice of key, starting out in a bright C major for the faster outer sections, before swaying into E major for the more reflective central ‘trio’ section.

Sibelius labelled his Finale ‘Quasi una Fantasia’, although its formal structure is relatively straightforward after the complexities of the opening movement. As mentioned earlier, the Finale opens with an anguished restatement of the Symphony’s opening clarinet solo on full-bodied strings as part of a slow introduction to the main body of the movement. Its hesitant phrases, interrupted by four dramatic pauses, give way to an Allegro molto, initially bursting with energy. Sibelius soon introduces a heartfelt Tchaikovskian theme, sung by massed first and second violins on their richest G string, cantabile ed espressivo, with harp arpeggios confirming its romantic quality. After the energetic development section this theme returns in full glory at the emotional climax of the work; however, the concluding bars remain far more ambivalent, Sibelius quietly signing off with pizzicato strings, echoing the sparse conclusion of the first movement. Sibelius has no plan as yet to match Finlandia’s unambiguously triumphant conclusion; his Second Symphony will soon continue his symphonic journey, this time achieving triumph through very different means.

Given his dedication to programmatic music through the 1890s, Sibelius’s First Symphony marks a major change in direction, the first of his seven completed symphonies composed over the next quarter century. His determination to stay true to absolute music has meant that all seven symphonies have obstinately avoided all attempts at suggested external programmes or additional titles.

Curious listeners might like to explore the Symphony in F minor by Sibelius’s younger Finnish contemporary, Ernst Mielck (1877-1899). This was premiered in 1897, just two years prior to the premiere of Sibelius’s own First Symphony. Sakari Oramo has recorded this work in a dramatic performance with the Finnish Radio Symphony Orchestra. Sadly, Mielck died at the age of 22 in the same year that Sibelius presented the start of his own symphonic journey.

© Timothy Dowling