Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra: Online Concert Programme | Tue 13 May 2025

Jeffrey Ching (b. 1965): Il maestro di capella

The comic intermezzo known as Il maestro di cappella (The Music Master) and attributed to Mozart’s contemporary Domenico Cimarosa (1749-1801) has always laboured under a twofold musicological handicap: our total ignorance of the circumstances of its creation, and its survival solely through a piano reduction published nine years after Cimarosa’s death. Yet, the ensuing proliferation of inauthentic orchestrations notwithstanding, the piece retains its fascination well into the twenty-first century—in my opinion, because it is one of a handful of works in the history of music (others being Wagner’s Die Meistersinger and Pfitzner’s Palestrina) which dramatize the very act of composition itself. And since, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the composer was normally also the conductor, in Il maestro di cappella the distinct phases of thinking musical thought and sounding it have also become fused and indivisible.

Initially Cimarosa’s Music Master is unable to master his music, with the players constantly entering in the wrong places and playing notes not written in their parts. But gradually, as he mimics their timbres and sings their pitches, they grasp the logic of his grand scheme and begin to create an ‘armonico fracasso’ (harmonious din). At this point—‘Io mi sento consolar’ (That satisfies me!)—Cimarosa paints an uncanny likeness of megalomaniacal smugness such as no composer in the audience could fail to recognize.

To remake Cimarosa’s self-portrait (for that is what it ultimately is) for our time, I have plotted the relations of conductor and orchestra onto a species of graphic notation, taking care to preserve and where possible expand the essential disjunctions of the original, so that for a considerable time the audience is left wondering: Does the orchestra even need the conductor, when he all but wears himself out giving cues, beating time, and marking crescendos and diminuendos that no one is following? By the end, the orchestra does indeed need him, but only after he has summoned in aid the varied and magnificent postures of a traffic police officer.

© Jeffrey Ching

Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847): Symphony No. 4 ‘Italian’

1. Allegro vivace – più animato
2. Andante con moto
3. Con moto moderato
4. Saltarello: Presto

Perhaps here it is well to remember Mendelssohn’s own words about music:

‘People often complain that music is too ambiguous, with me it is exactly the opposite, and not only with regard to an entire speech but also with individual words. These, too, seem to me so ambiguous, so vague, so easily misunderstood in comparison to genuine music, which fills the soul with a thousand things better than words. The thoughts which are expressed to me by music that I love are not too indefinite to be put into words, but on the contrary, too definite.’
Mendelssohn, letter to Marc-André Souchay, 15^th October 1842, in Briefe aus den Jahren 1830 bis 1847 (1878), p.221, translation from Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Letters, Gisella Selden-Goth (ed.) (1945), pp.313-14

It makes good sense to consider these two symphonies together, as they are intertwined souvenirs of Mendelssohn’s grand tour of Europe. He set off at the age of 20 to England and Scotland and then travelled to the Italian peninsula. The first ideas for the Scottish Symphony were born following a visit to Edinburgh in July 1830 and more particularly when he visited the ruined chapel of Holyrood House:

“…grass and ivy grow there and at the broken altar where Mary was crowned Queen of Scotland. Everything around is broken and mouldering, and the bright sky shines in. I believe I found today in that old chapel the beginnings of my ‘Scottish’ Symphony.” (30^th July 1829)

This visit to Scotland also saw the birth of his most famous Scottish work, the Hebrides Overture following his visit to Fingal’s Cave on the island of Staffa in the Hebrides archipelago. This shorter work was completed in 1830 and then subjected to revisions a couple of years later. However, work on the larger scale symphony was suspended following his visit to the Italian peninsula. These four extracts from his letters explain why he temporarily abandoned his Scottish project:

“Why should Italy still insist on being the Land of Art, while in reality it is the Land of Nature, thus delighting every heart!” (January 1831)

“The Italian symphony is getting on well: it is becoming the merriest piece I have yet composed.” (22^nd February 1831)

“Who can wonder that I find it impossible to return to my misty Scottish mood? I have therefore laid aside the symphony for the present.” (March 1831)

“If I remain in my present mood, I might even finish the Italian symphony in Italy.” (27^th April 1831)

No surprise then that the sun-drenched Italian Symphony was completed well before he returned to the Scottish mists. The two symphonies, though, remain interlocked. Both are in the key of A. The Italian Symphony starts in the brightest A major before ending with the lively Salterello in A minor. The Scottish Symphony starts in a misty A minor and then journeys towards a climactic A major coda in the finale where finally the sun shines through in dramatic fashion.

And so, we have a series of postcards from Scotland and the Italian peninsula to make up the individual movements of these two symphonic portraits.

Very few nineteenth century symphonies open with the positive energy of Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony. Pulsating wind and just violins immediately evoke sunshine and optimism, a mood that remains constant through to its excited coda.

“I am still tampering with the first movement of the A major symphony and can’t get it right – it must be quite different in any case – but precisely this kind of doubt troubles me about every piece.” (1835)

Listening to such spontaneous music it is surprising to hear that Mendelssohn struggled with revisions of this symphony and continued to have doubts. It is hard to imagine this when one hears the finished product.

The second postcard shows a different a different Italian scene as we join a band of pilgrims on their journey. The walking bass continues almost uninterruptedly and links us with those other great musical walkers Haydn, Beethoven and Schubert. We can also link up with Berlioz’s portrait, Harold in Italy: Berlioz also included a pilgrim’s movement in his contemporary symphonic study.

The third movement is all grace and refinement, a flowing Minuet that harks back to an earlier age and a Trio with distant horn calls – a very mellow echo of the Trio from Beethoven’s Eroica. The Minuet then returns and dies away quietly, making the opening of the finale all the more startling: a Saltarello in A minor which has some reminders of the fairy music from his Midsummer Night’s Dream, but this is much more vigorous and lacks the forest innocence of that delightful creation. We are carried relentlessly in a whirlwind to the exciting conclusion with just a hint of flagging energy before the brief final peroration.

© Timothy Dowling

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893): Rococo Variations

The German cellist Wilhelm Fitzenhagen (1848-1890) was born into a musical family in Saxony; he started lessons on piano, violin and cello at the age of 5, specializing as a cellist from the age of 14. His playing at the Beethoven centenary concerts in 1870 attracted the attention of Franz Liszt, who tried to secure him as principal cellist with his orchestra at Weimar. However, the 22-year-old Fitzenhagen had been offered a professorship at the Moscow Conservatoire, and he moved to Moscow that same year. He soon befriended his fellow professor, Pyotr Tchaikovsky, who clearly appreciated his musicianship: Fitzenhagen played at the premiere performances of Tchaikovsky’s three string quartets as well as his only piano trio. As a result, Fitzenhagen was emboldened to commission the current Variations on a Rococo Theme for cello and orchestra.

The commission came at an opportune moment for Tchaikovsky, who had recently completed his stormy Francesca da Rimini, a symphonic fantasia after Dante. Other contemporary works at this time include his opera Eugene Onegin and Fourth Symphony, both completed in 1877. These three compositions reflect Tchaikovsky’s tempestuous inner struggles, which culminated in his ill-fated marriage with Antonina Ivanovna Milyukova.

Tchaikovsky was always attracted to music from the classical period, and especially the last fifty years of the eighteenth century. In particular, he regularly hailed Mozart as his favourite composer; he paid tribute to Mozart in the Faithful shepherdess interlude in his later opera, The Queen of Spades, and also his fourth orchestral suite, Mozartiana. The Rococo Variations is perhaps his freshest contribution to his works in the ‘classical style’.

He was not accustomed to using variation form, but he cleverly adapted an original 18^th century-style theme, and he linked the variations with a brief tail-piece, frequently scored for wind instruments alone. Tchaikovsky accordingly scaled down his orchestral forces to reflect the classical period: pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons and horns, plus strings.

Tchaikovsky’s first reference to the composition was in a letter to his brother Anatoly, dated 15^th December 1876: ‘I am writing variations for cello solo and orchestra’. He completed the version for cello and piano (the piano part forming the later orchestral accompaniment) in January 1877. Tchaikovsky showed the draft version to Fitzenhagen who suggested various changes. This is where complications started.

Although I stated earlier that Fitzenhagen ‘commissioned’ the Rococo Variations there is no documentary evidence concerning this, but it is generally considered to be the case. This is probably why Fitzenhagen felt able to make such substantial changes to the score, regarding the composition almost as his own property. Initially, he concentrated on his solo cello part and Tchaikovsky seemed to be happy for Fitzenhagen to write the cello part into the original score. However, when Tchaikovsky left Russia for a prolonged period of recuperation following the disastrous collapse of his marriage, Fitzenhagen took it upon himself to make more substantial changes to the work. In particular, he changed the playing order of the variations, promoting the sixth variation to third place and moving Tchaikovsky’s third variation to the final position, excising Tchaikovsky’s eighth variation in the process.

Fitzenhagen was proud of his contribution and he wrote to Tchaikovsky after performing the work in June 1879 at the Wiesbaden Festival: ‘I produced a furore with your variations. I pleased so greatly that I was recalled three times, and, after the Andante variation [Tchaikovsky’s sixth variation, promoted to third place], there was stormy applause. Liszt said to me: “You carried me away! You played splendidly,” and regarding your piece he observed: “Now there, at last, is real music!”

After the completed cello and piano version was published in 1878, Tchaikovsky commented that Fitzenhagen had done a bad job when reading the proofs prior to publication. His anger surfaced more bitterly ten years later when the work was being prepared for the publication of the fuller orchestral version: the cellist Anatoliy Brandukov (1859-1930) later recalled, ‘On one of my visits to Pyotr Ilich I found him very upset, looking as though he was ill. When I asked; “What’s the matter with you?” Pyotr Ilich, pointing to the writing table, said: “That idiot Fitzenhagen’s been here. Look what he’s done to my piece – he’s altered everything!” When I asked what action he was going to take concerning this composition, Pyotr Ilich replied: “The devil take it! Let it stand as it is!” (as recounted in Dombayev’s Tchaikovsky’s Works, Moscow 1958)

Tchaikovsky’s original score was finally unearthed in Moscow in the 1930s. It was reconstructed with the assistance of the Scientific Research Institute of Criminology who had been asked to analyse the damaged, changed and pasted parts of the piano autograph score as arranged by Fitzenhagen, as well as the autograph score.  The original version was then premiered by the great Soviet cellist Daniel Shafran who later said, ‘I gave my first performances of the original version of the Rococo Variations in 1940; these were also my last. For me, the Fitzenhagen version is better. For example, the variation in D minor should be like a culmination, as it is with Fitzenhagen (Variation 7). In the original it comes too early (Variation 3).’

The study version of Tchaikovsky’s original score was only published as late as 2009 by Eulenburg. Fitzenhagen’s version continues to be performed more commonly, although renowned cellists who have recorded the original version include Sviatoslav Knushevitsky (who made the first recording of the original version in November 1950, although the CD recording incorrectly states that it is the Fitzenhagen edition), Steven Isserlis, Raphael Wallfisch, Julian Lloyd Webber and Pieter Wispelwey.

The performance at this concert is in the version as revised by Wilhelm Fitzenhagen.

© Timothy Dowling

Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958): The Lark Ascending

Vaughan Williams prefaced his score with some lines from the poem by George Meredith (1828-1909):

He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound,
Of many links without a bread,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake….

For singing till his heaven fills,
’Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup,
And he the wind which overflows
To lift us with him as he goes….

Till lost on his aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.

In an interesting programme that was broadcast over 20 years ago on BBC Radio 3, Ursula Vaughan Williams spoke candidly about her husband’s antipathy towards country life, as he was basically a townie. This may be a surprise to us because we can easily imagine him to be a pastoral composer, rooted in country life.

It is perhaps helpful to stress that Meredith’s poem was the inspiration for the music rather than the actual song of the skylark, represented by the solo violin in Vaughan Williams’ portrayal. This is idealised birdsong rather than imitative in the manner of Messiaen or indeed Beethoven in the Pastoral Symphony.

But there is no doubting the beauty and tranquillity of his vision as we bask on a peaceful summer’s day where all is quiet save for the song of the lark, with quiet accompaniment by chamber orchestral forces.

Vaughan Williams composed the music 100 years ago in 1914 and he then set it aside and revised it when he returned from the Great War, working on it during 1920 prior to its first performance under Adrian Boult with the work’s dedicatee Marie Hall as soloist on 14^th June 1921. It has since always been one of his best-loved compositions.

© Timothy Dowling

Georges Bizet (1838-1875): Carmen Suite No. 1

1. Prélude (Act I)
2. Aragonnaise (Entracte, Acte IV)
3. Intermezzo (Entracte, Acte III)
4. Les dragons d’Alcala (Entracte, Acte II)
5. Les toréadors (Prélude, Acte I)

“I am certain that Carmen will be the most popular opera in the whole world in ten years time.” The words of Tchaikovsky when he went to the first performance of the opera in St Petersburg in 1878. And he proved to be correct, as it made its triumphant progress through Brussels, Budapest, Stockholm, Dublin, New York, London, Melbourne, Hamburg, Prague, Milan, Mexico City, Buenos Aires, Malta, Riga, Lisbon and Amsterdam.

Sadly, the opera had been received very differently when it was first performed in Paris in March 1875; the atmosphere in the theatre progressively cooled during the evening and the final act was received ‘in an icy atmosphere’, according to one of the co-librettists, Ludovic Halévy, the evening culminating in a fiasco. Within three months of the disastrous first performance, Bizet died at the age of 36 in June 1875, never knowing the triumphant success of his opera across the world within a few years.

Carmen was admired by contemporary composers who might be seen as opposites, including Wagner and Brahms, Debussy and Saint-Saëns, Puccini and Stravinsky

Bizet himself had suggested the short story by Prosper Mérimée (1845) as the subject matter for his final opera, stating that he wanted to have more realism on stage. He wanted to break away from the traditional operatic storylines, featuring the upper classes of society; instead, he wanted to portray the more earthy stories of characters who might be on the fringes of respectable society, including the band of female workers at the cigarette factory, soldiers and gypsies. And at the centre of the plot appeared the free spirit, Carmen and the obsessive and possessive soldier, Don José. His murder of Carmen in the final moments of the opera was shockingly played out on stage.

© Timothy Dowling

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893): Swan Lake Suite

1. Scene (beginning of Act II)
2. Waltz (from Act I)
3. Dance of Cygnets (Act II)
4. Scène Pas d’action (Act II)
5. Hungarian Dance (Act III)
6. Spanish Dance (Act III)
7. Neapolitan Dance (Act III)
8. Mazurka (Act III)

Tchaikovsky worked at his first full-length ballet during the winter of 1875-76; composition was interrupted by work on his Third String Quartet and a trip to Bayreuth as a music critic for the first performance of Wagner’s Ring Cycle in the summer of 1876; Wagner’s epic music drama clearly left Tchaikovsky mostly underwhelmed. Swan Lake was then completed in time for its premiere in March 1877. It has since remained one of the most popular ballets in the repertoire with its tale of tragic lovers overwhelmed by circumstances beyond their control. The freshness of its vision and melodies will certainly ensure its ongoing success with the public.

Taking his cue from the French composer Delibes, Tchaikovsky was keen to prepare orchestral suites from his ballets. He wrote to his publisher in 1882: ‘Since ballet is an ephemeral genre Delibes made suites out of them for concert performance. The other day I remembered my Swan Lake and would very much like to preserve this music from oblivion for it contains some quite decent numbers.’

The brief Introduction to Act II provides an outline of the emotional content of the ensuing drama, presenting the first ‘Swan’ theme at the start together with the descending ‘Fate’ theme that will later dominate the unfolding tragedy.

We then turn back to the opening scene of Act I of the ballet: the scenario marks the celebrations for Prince Siegfried’s birthday. Thus, the scene is set for one of the most famous waltzes in the history of music and one of Tchaikovsky’s most endearing creations.

The Dance of the Swans from Act II, whilst appearing as a divertissement in the narrative of the drama, actually forms a crucial part of the plot development.

The central Scène from Act II provides a lyrical duet for the hero Siegfried and Odette to declare their love for one another. In this Andante Scène, solo violin and solo cello symbolize the central pair of lovers. The music here had originally appeared as a love duet in his recently abandoned opera Undine; Tchaikovsky also raided the same operatic corpse to provide the Andante marziale second movement for his Symphony No. 2.

The Czardas (Hungarian Dance), Spanish Dance, Neapolitan Dance and Mazurka form part of a sequence of national dances that brings Act III of the ballet to a lively conclusion.

Tchaikovsky had wanted to play a key role in assembling the Suite and was keen to point out to his publisher the relevant numbers to be included; Tchaikovsky feared that there would be difficulties in getting hold of an orchestral score in order to make his arrangement. The Swan Lake Suite was only eventually published in November 1900; this was seven years after Tchaikovsky’s death and it is not known how involved he was in the final selection of pieces that comprise the published Suite.

For this particular concert, the orchestra is performing more of the national dances (that form part of the finale to Act III of the ballet) than appear in the published Suite.

© Timothy Dowling