Program Notes
Octet in E-flat, Opus 103 Ludwig van Beethoven
(1770 – 1827)
In spite of its relatively high opus number, the Octet for Winds is a product of Beethoven’s youth. He was still living in Bonn, city of his birth and childhood, when he wrote this “occasional” music (that is, music for a specific occasion). In the 18th and early 19th centuries, it was fashionable for noble and wealthy families to have musical entertainment during often elaborate dinners, celebrating either special events, or merely social gatherings of an elevated nature. Often, the ensemble employed was one that had rather humble beginnings, the Harmoniemusik or wind octet – that is, pairs of oboes, clarinets, bassoons and horns.
Such ensembles were the military music of the day (as regimental bands) and also found in cities where the musicians earned money playing street serenades (early forms of busking). It is reasonable certain that the composer wrote this music for use by the wind band of the Elector of Cologne, who lived in Bonn and was a patron of the young Beethoven. The Elector even used his influence to clear the way for Beethoven to move to Vienna and study with Franz Joseph Haydn. While this did not have the results intended (for Haydn did not want to teach composition) Beethoven was nonetheless grateful for the opportunity to widen his horizons in Vienna.
Beethoven himself never tried to get the work published. Shortly after its composition, Beethoven reworked the piece rather extensively: new thematic material was added and other formal aspects revised. The result was printed as the String Quintet, Opus 4. The quite misleading opus number assigned to the wind composition is the result of editorial decisions at the firm of Breitkopf & Härtel some years after the composer’s death. The reasons are lost over the years since then.
Like the wind serenades of Mozart, the Octet has become one of the most important works in the genre. Even though it was written in his early twenties, it shows many traits that reveal his growing mastery and style. His reworking of the minuet into a virtual scherzo, along with his often humorous dynamic surprises and developmental techniques are signs of his own deeply personal musical expression. As a foretaste of his masterful wind writing in later orchestral compositions, it is quite revealing and, in all, a delightful work.
Symphony No. 45 in F-sharp Minor (Farewell) Franz Joseph Haydn
(1732 – 1809)
For thirty years (until 1791), Haydn was employed by the Esterházy family under Prince Nicholas and his predecessor. His manifold duties included supervision of all musical performances and composition of a vast range of music for the princely establishment. That establishment lived part of the year in Vienna and the remainder at the country estate of Esterháza, which is quite remotely located near Lake Balaton in extreme western Hungary. The development of his compositional range and abilities is too well known to relate here. Suffice it to say that Haydn had probably one of the most ideal situations for a composer, both in terms of stability of employment and availability of musical resources.
Written during Haydn’s Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress) period, the symphony displays the overt emotional outbursts that characterized the style and were shared with other composers, including C.P. E. Bach. As the Classical period progressed, these outbursts were polished and rather more blended into the overall flow of the music, while retaining the ability to inject feelings of sudden emotion and stress.
The symphony’s name comes from the extraordinary happenings in the last movement – the final section of which appears after a sudden and unexpected break in the musical flow previously established. The stormy and energetic motion suddenly halts and a quiet, serene atmosphere appears; quite similar to that of the second movement. During this section, Haydn presents a musical petition to the Prince. That petition is one that his musicians wished to convey and the composer chose to place in a musical format, rather than in a written request. The season at Esterháza had been prolonged beyond the time when the musicians normally returned to Vienna and to their families. They were fatigued and quite tired of the isolation in the country.
Evidently, their musical request was effective, as Prince Nicholas granted permission for the orchestra to return home shortly after the performance of the work. How Haydn chose to express this will be obvious and may be well known. However, just for the sake of surprise, I will leave it undisclosed. You will just have to attend to find out.
Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat Major, K595 W. A. Mozart
(1756 – 1791)
This concerto is the last in a series of compositions, which Mozart either used for his own performance or, in a few cases, wrote for really outstanding pupils he taught. Its composition took place between the operas Cosi fan tutte and Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). Mozart kept a meticulous catalogue of his compositions and entered the work as being completed on 5. January 1791. Its predecessors had been among his greatest musical triumphs in Vienna, establishing him as both the leading composer and pianist of his day. Following that, his fame seemed to decline in Vienna, although it remained quite strong in Prague. Mozart attempted to recoup his position and to create opportunities for generating income with concerts during the Lenten season. The splendid Coronation Concerto was, unfortunately not well received and the composer entered a period of desperate financial straits.
The K595 concerto was seemingly written without commission – an uncommon thing for Mozart, and it had no prospects of immediate public performance. Its essence may be summed up in Winckelmann’s famous statement about Greek art: full of “noble simplicity and quiet grandeur.” Yet, there are also hints of a certain rebellious resignation in the first movement. The great scholar H. C. Robbins Landon considers this concerto to be on the threshold of a “late style” that reveals a resignation and sense of foreboding.
It is, however, the second movement that is the most arresting. Nothing in the previous concertos prepares us for the calm, fatalistic simplicity of the movement. It is some of the most achingly poignant music he ever wrote, with even the restlessness of its chromaticism no longer turbulent, but rather resigned and composed. The final return of the opening theme is thoroughly dramatic in its emotional repose. The solo moves in consecutive octaves, stripped of its harmonic background and accompanied on either side by flute and first violins. In the words of Robbins Landon, “the melody floats, serene and unearthly, into the final tutti.
The following rondo may seem strangely buoyant and almost flippant after such an introspective and introverted movement. But the dancing 6/8 meter is, perhaps, just as resigned. It is as if Mozart says “I know what my fate must be and I accept it with as much equanimity as possible. In the words of A. Veinus, “the heart dances, but not for joy.” It is the prospect of release that brings more than mere earthly happiness. Yet, with all the deep emotion and quiet sense of tragedy, the concerto remains a very beautiful piece, but one in which the quiet waters flow deeply.