Program Notes: December 13, 1998
In the early 1790s, after a lifetime spent in the opulent but isolated Esterháza, Franz Joseph Haydn made two extended trips to London, staying for a total of three years that he claimed were his happiest. The Londoners were especially appreciative of the twelve symphonies he wrote for these trips, and he learned quickly how gratifying it was to play to their unabashed need to be entertained. No wonder, then, that he gave them only one symphony in the minor mode (and that written before he made his first trip), and frequently used elaborate jokes to ward off tedium in the slow movements. Thus, the "surprise" in the "Surprise" Symphony is introduced in the slow movement, as are the "military" instruments in the "Military" Symphony and the "rude noise" in Symphony No. 93 (from which the British sense of decorum has, however, withheld a pet name). Symphony No. 101 (1794) is no exception; again, it is the slow movement, with its "ticktock" accompaniments, that is honored in its nickname ("The Clock"). But if Haydn shamelessly entertained his London audiences, he did not pander to them; over and over he challenged them to anticipate what he might do next, only to confound expectations in a manner that was (somehow!) both delightfully unexpected and satisfying in its sometimes perverse logic. Thus, the "clock" in the slow movement of this afternoon’s symphony finally pops a spring after a few early warnings, but when it is "fixed" (that is, when normalcy is restored after a violently disruptive minor-key episode) it continues in sublime (mechanical?) indifference to the disruption. In the boisterous Minuet, Haydn reverses the effect of disruption, suspending activity for long stretches during the central Trio. The most dramatic disruptions, however, are reserved for the finale, which, surprisingly, takes its theme from the mysterious slow introduction of the first movement. Once again, a complacent tone is shattered by an extended violent outburst; this time, however, recovery is more gradual, and complacency returns only after an extended sotto voce fugue. Throughout, the symphony brims over with typical Haydn verve, especially in his colorful writing for winds and in the dramatic, energetic tutti sections.
We find decidedly different, yet nonetheless distinctively Russian profiles in Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio Espagnol (1887) and Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto (1901). The former displays a typically Russian fondness for vibrant orchestral color and imported exoticism. "Rach II"–until Shine the best known of the Rachmaninoff concertos–is a much more serious affair, progressing from its opening somber piano chords to the full-blown ecstacy of the finale’s lyrical second theme, the whole fairly dripping with the particularly Russian Angst that enshrouds so much of Rachmaninoff’s music. Dedications for both works were tokens of gratitude; Rimsky-Korsakov’s to the orchestra that wildly applauded the first rehearsal (!) and Rachmaninoff’s to Dr. Nikolai Dahl, whose post-hypnotic suggestions during a period of intense melancholy allowed the composer to complete the work.
Rimsky-Korsakov originally planned a violin fantasy for the Spanish themes of his Capriccio, so it is not surprising that a virtuosic string idiom saturates the work. But the more elaborate setting allows him to bring many other soloists to the fore, as well, in what frequently takes on the appearance (to use Bartók’s useful designation) of a "concerto for orchestra." Particularly striking in this regard is the series of cadenzas that launch the "canto gitano" movement; after an opening brass fanfare, we hear not only from the solo violin, but also from the flute, clarinet, and harp before the fiery "gypsy song" truly gets under way. Composed in five relatively short movements, the Capriccio unfolds almost as an extended Rondo, with the carnivalesque opening material dominating the odd-numbered movements. While it may seem odd to hear an ostensibly "Spanish" work from the leader of the fervently nationalistic "Mighty Five" (or, more accurately translated, "Mighty Little Heap"), being "Spanish" turns out to be but one way–and a rather important way, at that–of being "Russian."
Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto is his most optimistic, tracing a quintessentially romantic path "from darkness into light." But the victory in this case seems closer to a hard-won escape from melancholy than the extended joy celebrated in the Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, heard here last concert. Thus, the "light" achieved through the climactic theme of the finale in its third and most elaborate appearance seems more moonlight than sunlight–in this, at least, the popular song based on this theme ("Full Moon and Empty Arms") has it right.
--- Raymond Knapp
back to Santa Monica Symphony page