Hungarian Radio Symphony Orchestra: Online Concert Programme | Thu 5 December 2024

Zoltán Kodály (1882-1867): Dances of Galánta

When Kodály was commissioned in 1932 to produce a work to celebrate the eightieth anniversary of the Budapest Philharmonic Society he looked back to the happiest seven years of his childhood spent in the region of Galánta (1885-92) and he recalled particularly the sound of a famous gypsy band that he heard, describing this as ‘the first orchestral sonority that came to the ears of the child’.

Galánta is now part of Slovakia, lying about 30 miles east of the capital Bratislava. For several centuries it was part of the Hungarian Kingdom and Hungarian was the main language spoken in the area around the time that the young Kodály spent his idyllic childhood years there. Following the end of the Great War in 1918 the area became part of the new State of Czechoslovakia, and then part of Slovakia after the Velvet Divorce in January 1993.

A book of ‘Hungarian Dances after several gypsies from Galánta’ was published in Vienna in 1800 and Kodály used this collection for the five main dances featured in this work. They are woven together so that the composition takes on the form of a symphonic poem rather than separate dance movements that might be expected from the title of the work.

Kodály remained fond of the area and returned there in the opening decade of the century together with his friend Béla Bartók, recording the folk songs of local people on primitive phonograph cylinders.

Kodály uses surprisingly modest orchestral forces for this colourful 16-minute work, with just double woodwind, four horns and two trumpets and strings. The percussion is only moderately augmented with the addition of snare drum, glockenspiel and triangle to the standard timpani.

The distinctive Hungarian flavour is announced from the opening bars with the cello theme, repeated a few bars later by solo horn. This slow introduction leads to a cadenza passage for solo clarinet who then announces the first of five dance themes; this first dance acts as a rondo theme, recurring to separate the four subsequent dance themes.

The slightly faster second dance is introduced by flute and piccolo, the third by solo oboe which then leads to a more animated passage for full orchestra before giving way to the return of the first dance.

Strings introduce the fourth dance and this has a marked syncopated rhythm allowing for a further increase in orchestral excitement before yet another interruption: this time the unsteady bass and clarinet theme perhaps suggest the benign influence of alcohol on the merrymakers.

However, they return to full strength for the fifth and fastest of the five dances; this builds up to the final climax, accelerating relentlessly until a sudden bar of silence and a last, loving glance at the first dance; a solo clarinet cadenza takes us to the triumphant conclusion.

© Timothy Dowling

Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849): Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor

1. Maestoso
2. Larghetto
3. Allegro vivace

Chopin’s two piano concertos were both products of his twentieth year, the F minor being premiered on 17th March and the E minor on 11th October 1830 in Warsaw. However, their publication dates meant that they were numbered incorrectly: the E minor Concerto was the first to be published (in Paris in 1833) and so was numbered No. 1. His F minor Concerto was eventually published in Leipzig in 1836 and accordingly titled No. 2.

Both concertos reflect the 20-year-old’s infatuation with the 20-year-old singer Konstancja Gładkowska, a passion that seemingly remained undeclared, possibly until his farewell concert prior to his departure from Warsaw in November 1830. He wrote to his closest friend Tytus Wojciechowki on 3rd October 1829: ‘… I, perhaps unfortunately, already have my own ideal, which I have served faithfully, though silently, for half a year; of which I dream, to thoughts of which the Adagio of my Concerto belongs… but how dismal it is to have no one to go to in the morning to share one’s griefs and joys; how hateful when something weighs on you and there’s nowhere to lay it down… You know to what I refer. I often tell to my pianoforte what I want to tell to you.’ (extracts from Frédéric Chopin’s Letters, translated by E.L. Voynich, 1931, Dover publication, 1988).

Although he was writing here about the F minor Concerto it is clear that she was also the inspiration for the E minor Concerto, and particularly the central Romanze. He wrote to Tytus later on 15th May 1830: ‘The Adagio of the new concerto is in E major. It is not meant to be loud, it’s more of a romance, quiet, melancholy; it should give the impression of gazing tenderly at a place which brings to the mind a thousand dear memories. It is a sort of meditation in beautiful spring weather, but by moonlight. That is why I have muted the accompaniment.’

In 1828 the composer Johann Nepomuk Hummel (1778-1837) visited Warsaw and heard the 18-year-old Chopin perform and he was greatly impressed by the 18-year-old’s pianistic skills. Hummel’s concertos provided a model for Chopin; he also learnt much from the concertos of Ignaz Moscheles (1794-1870) whose Adagio from his Piano Concerto No. 3 (1821) appears to anticipate the Larghetto in Chopin’s F minor Concerto. And so, the early Romantic concertos were the major influence for Chopin rather than the classical Viennese school of Mozart and Beethoven.

It is not surprising that Berlioz, whose Symphonie fantastique dates from the same year as Chopin’s piano concertos, was critical of Chopin’s orchestration. This is particularly an issue in the long first movement where Chopin employs the structure of sonata-form, orchestral passages staking out the four bare marking points of the edifice: firstly, the long orchestral exposition at the start (which has been severely cut in some performances without arguably affecting the essential qualities of the movement), then two passages to mark the end of the soloist’s exposition and the start of the recapitulation (allowing time for the soloist to take breath), and finally a short coda passage to close the movement. Otherwise, the orchestra simply provides a subdued background texture to support the soloist’s virtuoso and poetic performance: all the musical material is pianistically inspired.

The musicologist Donald Tovey has criticised Chopin’s limitations in handling larger structures, pointing out that we only have the bare bones of Sonata-form without the dynamic energy displayed by his contemporaries Mendelssohn and Schumann. But – and this is a ‘But’ with a capital ‘B’ – the pianist as protagonist is the sole purpose and lifeblood of Chopin’s concertos. His works therefore need to be heard as the prime examples of the romantic concerto, the heirs of Hummel and Moscheles and also first cousins to the lyrical outpourings of Italian opera’s bel canto style, as exemplified by Vincenzo Bellini (1801-1835).

The central Larghetto remains the heart and soul of the Concerto. We can best appreciate here the possible influence of Bellini’s lyrical gifts – his long-breathed melodies – on his younger contemporary. Bellini’s opera based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, I Capuleti e i Montecchi (The Capulets and the Montagues) also premiered in 1830.

Like the finale of the E minor Concerto, the F minor Concerto’s lively Rondo finale celebrates outdoor life in Poland and the music is more folk-based than the earlier movements. Chopin’s orchestral writing shows more confidence in the finale and comes much closer to partnership with the soloist, rather than what Berlioz described as ‘a cold, almost superfluous accompaniment’ in the earlier parts of the Concerto.

A solo horn call signals the start of the coda, with a transformation of the mood as Chopin allows light to flood the scene. We are happily taken into the brighter world of F major for the concluding bars. It is little wonder that this effervescent and joyous music ensures a positive reception.

Just three weeks after the premiere of the E minor Concerto in Warsaw in October 1830 Chopin left Poland, travelling via Breslau, Dresden and Prague to Vienna. He travelled with his friend Tytus Wojciechowski who returned to Warsaw when they heard news of the uprising in Warsaw on their arrival in Vienna on 29th November. Chopin was stranded in Vienna for the next six months but finally obtained a visa to travel to Paris. He left Vienna on 20th July and travelled via Munich and Stuttgart, arriving in Paris in September 1831. The E minor Concerto triumphed in the French capital and Chopin later performed the work to help raise funds for the burgeoning number of Polish refugees in the French capital following the Warsaw uprising; Berlioz and Liszt were amongst enthusiastic supporters in the early audiences. It was also positively appreciated by the foremost pianist of the day in Paris, Friedrich Kalkbrenner (1785-1849). Kalkbrenner offered Chopin the opportunity of becoming his student, but on the condition that he sign a contract for three years; Chopin wisely declined his offer but tactfully dedicated the E minor Concerto to him. Chopin was well aware of his own abilities as a pianist and realised that he did not need to be bound to a musician who was later to become merely a footnote in musical history.

Apart from the Andante spianato et grande polonaise brillante, Opus 22, that he had started composing in 1830 and completed in 1834, Chopin concentrated on music for solo piano for his remaining years and so avoided further orchestral forays.

© Timothy Dowling

Franz Liszt (1811-1886): Mephisto Waltz

Der Tanz in der Dorfschenke: Erster Mephisto-Walzer (The Dance in the Village Inn: First Mephisto Waltz)
Based on a version of the Faust legend by Nicolaus Lenau (1836).

Liszt originally envisaged the Mephisto Waltz being published together with another scene from Lenau’s Faust, Night procession. However, it has since nearly always been performed as a separate item. Liszt prefaced his orchestral score with the following descriptive programme: ‘There is a wedding feast in progress in the village inn, with music, dancing, carousing. Mephistopheles and Faust pass by, and Mephistopheles induces Faust to enter and take part in the festivities. Mephistopheles snatches the fiddle from the hands of a lethargic fiddler and draws from it indescribably seductive and intoxicating strains. The amorous Faust whirls about with a full-blooded village beauty in a wild dance; they waltz in mad abandon out of the room, into the open, away into the woods. The sounds of the fiddle grow softer and softer, and the nightingale warbles his love-laden song.’

The Mephisto Waltz was composed in three different versions at around the same time. Firstly, both for solo piano and also as an orchestral work. Thirdly, there is a version for piano duet, this being a transcription of the orchestral version. The solo piano version is forbiddingly virtuosic. The orchestral version, which we are hearing at this concert, is the most frequently performed version.

Alan Walker, in his three-volume biography of the composer, points out that Liszt was the first composer to write a true harp glissando (in the concluding section Mephisto Waltz No. 1), inspired by the virtuoso harpist Jeanne Pohl, who played with the orchestra in Weimar. Liszt was equally at home in writing for solo piano, and also for the symphony orchestra. He was particularly well placed to develop his orchestral skills during his years at Weimar (1848-1861).

© Timothy Dowling

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827): Symphony No. 7 in A major

1. Poco sostenuto – Vivace
2. Allegretto
3. Presto – Assai meno presto – Presto – Assai meno presto – Presto
4. Allegro con brio

‘The apotheosis of the dance’ (Richard Wagner). It is rare to read a programme note on Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony that does not include Wagner’s surprisingly brief, but apt description. The reason for the ubiquitous presence of this quote is obvious once the first movement’s Vivace is established: rhythm is the key to this celebration of energy and life.

After completing his Fifth and Sixth Symphonies in 1808, Beethoven concentrated on other music forms for the next couple of years, although the theme of the second movement Allegretto does feature in an 1806 sketchbook for possible inclusion in the third of his Razumovsky String Quartets. Beethoven, however, opted for another Andante con moto, quasi Allegretto (also in A minor) for the Opus 59 no.3 Quartet and saved the famous theme for the next six years for inclusion in the Seventh Symphony.

Beethoven started work on the Seventh Symphony in September 1811 and continued through the winter months 1811-1812, completing the main work by April 1812; he then immediately embarked on the Eighth Symphony, apparently with the plan of producing a trio of symphonies, but he only completed two symphonies in the end. Beethoven sent a copy of the Seventh to his friend Archduke Rudolf in July 2012. Problems in producing the orchestral parts meant that the first private performance was delayed until 21st April 1813 at Archduke Rudolf’s palace; it was not until 8th December 1813 that it received its first public performance in Vienna, nearly five years after the premiere of his Fifth and Sixth Symphonies.

The Seventh shared the stage with the premiere of Wellingtons Sieg, the famous ‘Battle Symphony’, Opus 91, celebrating the allies’ triumph over Napoleon at the Battle of Vitoria; indeed, the Seventh was in danger of being overshadowed by this popular crowd-pleaser. But in the event, the Seventh was also well received – the composer and violinist Louis Spohr was amongst other eminent musicians who participated in the performance. Spohr reported that the Allegretto had to be encored both at the premiere and the follow-up performance on Sunday 12th December. However, Friedrich Wieck (father of Clara Schumann), who was present during rehearsals for the premiere, expressed another viewpoint: he said that the consensus amongst players and other listeners was that Beethoven must have composed the Symphony whilst under the influence of alcohol.

Beethoven had introduced trombones into his symphonic orchestra for the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies, premiered in 1808, but he returned to Haydn’s standard classical orchestra for the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies: strings, plus pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, horns, trumpets and timpani.

For the private performance at Archduke Rudolf’s palace, Beethoven stated that there should be a minimum of four first and four second violins, four violas, two cellos and two double-basses, but these numbers would have been substantially enlarged for the public performances.

The Poco sostenuto opening is the only slow(ish) music in the entire Symphony and serves as an ideal introduction to the first movement proper, culminating in 62 (if my counting is correct!) high dominant Es as the flute finally states the joyous theme that then dominates the proceedings. Its infectious 6/8 rhythm carries us right through to the exultant ending.

Neither the Seventh nor Eighth Symphony contains a slow movement, this being replaced by Allegretto movements in both works. The Eighth features the famous tick-tock joke, all over in less than four minutes; the Seventh’s Allegretto is one of the best known movements of all Beethoven’s works; its relentless rhythm was memorably described by Hector Berlioz as ‘a dactyl followed by a spondee, tirelessly sounded, now in three parts, now in just one, then in all the parts together’ (Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris, 11 February 1838).

It is important to stress that this is an Allegretto and accordingly needs a good walking pace. Schubert, another great walker (and wanderer), was clearly inspired by this movement, although he took his time to assimilate its spirit into his instrumental compositions. Listen also for the characteristic opening wind chord that identically closes the circle as the final sound to be heard in this brief interlude.

It is interesting that William Kinderman in Beethoven refers to the Trio section of the third movement as the ‘still centre of the Symphony. Its majestic, yet almost static character…’ But this is surely not what Beethoven intended, even if it sounds so apt a description of a performance such as Otto Klemperer’s account of the Symphony. The score actually marks this passage ‘Assai meno presto’, thus suggesting only a relatively small change of pace from the opening Presto.

Having been brought up on the Otto Klemperer and Herbert von Karajan recordings of the Seventh, it was a real shock to hear Arturo Toscanini’s earlier version with the Trio taken at twice their speed. However, Toscanini’s approach is closer to Beethoven’s intention; it is notable that Klemperer omits the repeats in the Trio section, as otherwise the movement would have ended up being the longest of the Symphony!

The Klemperer account is still a marvel to hear – the Symphony hewn from granite, as solid as a rock, a truly monumental experience. However, this is a case where the metronome reveals a different story, where the dance continues and the energy never relaxes.

Ideally, we should move without a break into the Finale in order to maximize the shock of the sudden downward shift from the third movement’s F major to the opening of the fourth movement in E major before Beethoven works his way back to the home key of A major.

Beethoven has beguiled us with a variety of rhythms for the first three movements but nothing can prepare us for the energy of the Finale, Beethoven as Dionysus reincarnated. The Allegro con brio drives ever forward, with barely a pause for breath, towards its intoxicating climax. The coda is underpinned by a powerful ostinato, with cellos and basses providing the swaying but sure foundation for the final triple fortissimo peroration. Sir Henry Wood memorably described the cellos and basses ‘sawing away regardless’ during this triumphant passage.

© Timothy Dowling