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Concert IV, 2021-2022 season

Conductors Galore


Overture to The Marriage of Figaro
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

In the nineteenth century, opera overtures typically included at least some of the tunes that the audience would hear later sung by the main characters; they were like movie trailers in that respect. Eighteenth-century overtures almost never worked that way, though Mozart began to offer teasers in his overtures for both Don Giovanni (1787) and Cosi fan tutte (1791). The Marriage of Figaro, written in 1785, two years before Don Giovanni, follows the older model of a piece not thematically linked to its opera, and quite self-sufficient. The opera is a virtuoso display of comic misunderstandings, split-second timings, and bad intentions foiled by cleverness and good-heartedness. The overture can easily be heard as embodying these qualities in general, though no specific events in the opera can be linked to any particular passages of the music.

Colin Britt

The composer writes:

“I wrote "Storm" in 2006 while I was an undergraduate composition major at the Hartt School. I was looking to write a programmatic orchestral piece, and something about the natural drama of a thunderstorm inspired me to compose this work. The piece begins with the calm before the storm: a solo clarinet plays mysteriously over a transparent cloud of string harmonics. The harp and percussion signal the first drops of rain, which gradually spread to the piano, followed by a flute solo. As winds pick up, the horns and strings have an ascending motif, which is passed on to the upper woodwinds. After a brief lull in the storm (portrayed by the oboe), the storm hits in full force; the woodwinds and upper strings play a swirling line while the brass and low strings depict swelling wind and thunder. Finally the storm is over, and the piece returns once more to an eerie calm.”

“Pas de Deux” from The Nutcracker Suite
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

This couple-dance is usually performed by the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cavalier, the Prince de Coqueluche. The music features the harp in an accompanying role, and a gradually growing orchestra which moves from a sweet tune in the cellos to a grand, full-orchestra apotheosis.

Symphony No. 5
Gustav Mahler

Unlike some composers, who spread their talents across many genres, Mahler was primarily a symphonist. The other genre in which he specialized was songs, often with orchestral accompaniments. Despite being a renowned opera conductor he (again, unusually) had apparently no interest in writing operas: indeed, the human drama that opera offers composers is found in spades in Mahler’s nine (or ten depending on how you count) symphonies.

Like his first, (fourth), sixth, seventh, and ninth symphonies, the Fifth is written for orchestra without voices (the second, third, and eighth include chorus, and the fourth includes a soprano solo in its last movement). Also, like his other purely instrumental symphonies (with the possible exception of the first), the fifth avoids an explicit “program” (story or sequence of images). Nonetheless, the music of this work—as of Mahler’s style in general—is highly suggestive of emotional states and gestures. Taken as a whole, these do not tell a coherent story, exactly, but they do give the strong impression of one or several human protagonists having a series of intense experiences.

Mahler achieves this in several ways. First of all, the flow of the music through time seems to mirror subjective experience in being simultaneously very vivid and extremely capricious. The vividness is achieved by his extraordinarily colorful use of the orchestra, by the use of extreme dynamics (both terribly loud and very soft), and by his constant deployment of musical models (funeral march, waltz, song, etc.) that are entirely familiar to us, and yet appear always somewhat askew—either actively distorted or just not quite as we would normally expect.

This combination of familiarity and strangeness can work a bit like a dream and, like a dream, remain in our consciousness long after the music has stopped. The capriciousness is achieved by Mahler’s incessant use of disruptions—completely new musical ideas that just barge into whatever happens to be prevailing at a given moment. Sometimes that disruption seems to signal a move from a public point of view to something painfully intimate (or vice versa).

For example, the first movement of the symphony (entitled “Funeral March”) opens with a solo trumpet fanfare—a public gesture if ever there was one. The funeral seems to be a mass occasion. The strings join in the fanfare rhythm briefly before the brass takes over again. But then, in a kind of “jump cut” experience, the listener is suddenly transported to a private moment of desolation played mostly by the strings; the public venue seems to have melted away. This in turn transforms (more like a panning shot) into the opening fanfare, which is again abruptly interrupted by private desolation. This sequence is blasted away by a section that Mahler marked “wild”—hysterical waves of sound in the high winds and strings, and the trumpet fanfare audible above it all. This comes as a complete shock, but also (dreamlike) as a logical combination of the public fanfare and the intensity of the desolation we’ve already heard.

I’ve used film terminology in part because it’s part of our modern experience, and I think it helps us hear the kinds of moves Mahler makes to get from one “scene” to another. We don’t know whether Mahler ever watched a silent film, though it was theoretically possible. But along with Northern European artistic explorations of painful emotions (think Munch’s famous “Scream” painting from 1893), and operatic explorations of the fraught interfaces between public and private (think Verdi’s Otello or Don Carlo), all of which Mahler would have known, the sensibilities that produced the jerky surrealism of early film were part of Mahler’s mental world, and do, I think, help us make sense of his hugely long and sometimes overwhelming works.

The second and third movements of the Fifth Symphony feature similar cuts and transformations to the first. The fourth movement, designated “Adagietto” (“little Adagio”) by contrast, sustains a mood of timeless introspection—sometimes wistful, sometimes passionate—for its whole ten-to-eleven minute length. Like the other movements, its basic material is of a familiar, even banal, type—in this case a sentimental parlor song. But Mahler uses the slow tempo and churning dynamics to stretch and re-form the material (much as Munch does with a human face in “The Scream”) so that it seems to express something simultaneously alien and deeply (if not comfortably) familiar.

The last movement is also “about” music, but (at least to my ears) in a less psychologically intense way. It opens with a self-consciously naive, country-like tune, which Mahler turns into a kind of fugue (something like a round—think “Row Row Row Your Boat”). The mix of folk-like and clever is an old musical joke—Haydn and Beethoven were masters at it. Then Mahler introduces much faster material, beginning in the double basses; this also turns into a fugue, sounding almost Bach-like. This kind of fugue was common in the last movements of nineteenth-century symphonies, but it usually came close to the end of the movement, not right at the beginning. (And this play with counterpoint goes on through the whole movement.) One might regard the references to earlier symphonic fugues as a joke, if a rather heavy-handed one. However, I think that in the context of this symphony, it’s part of the overall pattern of manipulating familiar material to create an experience of simultaneous familiarity and distance: a story both about music “itself” and about emotional life—at least as it was figured in turn-of-the-century Europe and as that continues to resonate today.


© Copyright Mary Hunter 2021