Béla Bartók
Violin Concerto No. 2, Sz. 112
Born: March 25, 1881, Sânnicolau Mare, Romania
Died: September 26, 1945, New York City, New York
Year Composed: 1937-38
Thirty years after his First Violin Concerto, Bela Bartók accepted a commission from the Hungarian violinist Zoltan Szekely to write a Second Violin Concerto, which was completed on December 31, 1938. However, when Szekely received the first version, he decided that the concerto was not “showy enough” and refused to play it. Bartók respected that criticism and kindly re-wrote the ending, including more virtuosic displays. The second version was acceptable to Szekely because it seemed to bristle with virtuosic demands and dazzling technical feats. This revised concerto premiered in Amsterdam in 1939, with Szekely as soloist. Bartók was not there, however, having decided to come to the United States to begin a new life for himself and his wife. He did not hear a performance of the concerto until 1944.
Part of the great audience appeal of this work is the inclusion of gypsy inflections. The folk elements embedded within the music create a charm and exotic touch. Including such gypsy elements was a natural course for Bartók. Much of his life had been spent in the study of his native Hungarian music, categorizing and retrieving vast amounts of music which would have been lost without his strong dedication to that research. Bartók was convinced that this music would serve as “the foundation for a renaissance of Hungarian art music.” And he frequently incorporated these sources and musical features in his own compositions. “It is necessary for the composer to command this language so completely that it becomes the natural expression of his own musical ideas,” Bartók asserted. The violin was a favorite instrument of Hungarian gypsies, and this violin concerto was a natural receptacle for the gypsy coloration blending with European traditions.
Exploring the piece
The Second Violin Concerto is written in three movements. The first movement opens with softly plucked triads (chords) from the harp and pizzicato notes from the celli. After a few bars the soloist enters with the broadly arching first theme built from those pizzicato notes. The theme continues its wide scope and enters into a canonic (imitative) dialogue in the strings and the winds. The second theme is particularly notable for its twelve-tone structure, a structure that uses all twelve tones of the scale before repeating any of them. This process further loosened the tonal centers and the quarter-tone intervals played by the soloist toward the conclusion of the movement. Some have suggested that this inclusion was a parody of the avant-garde. A difficult cadenza (virtuosic solo section) filled with double stops (bowing two strings at once), glissandi, and snapping orchestral strings brings the movement to a close.
The second movement, marked andante tranquillo, is a set of six variations on a modal (old scale) theme. Robert Layton commented that, “This movement is one of Bartók’s most allusive and subtle compositions in that, although the formal outline of theme and variations is unambiguous, its details are delightfully delicate and mercurial.” The soloist presents the theme over delicate accompaniment from the harp, low strings, and kettledrums. Each succeeding variation is remarkably different from its predecessor, offering wide opportunities for display of technique and mood. After the variations finish their parade, the soloist repeats the tune in its original form.
The last movement, a rondo, uses material from the first movement, recast into a spirited and dramatic setting. The kinship between the two movements is very close, some critics calling it a re-interpretation of the first. Episodes of violinist prowess separate the central rondo theme and the music concludes with a brilliant and rapid triplet figurations.
Bartók’s Second Violin Concerto is a masterpiece in the genre, ranking with the finest violin concerti of our century. Its notable idiomatic writing, engaging tunes, and flashing colors—as well as its well-crafted logic—will ensure it a distinguished place long into the future.
Ludwig van Beethoven
Violin Concerto in D, Op. 61
Born: December 17, 1770, Bonn, Germany
Died: March 26, 1827, Vienna, Austria
Year Composer: 1806
Beethoven’s monumental Violin Concerto, composed in 1806, was slow to gain traction, critical acclaim, and enthusiasm. At that time, the composer was experimenting with a new personal voice, new ideas, and Opus 61 now took its place amid these innovative and sometimes perplexing works. It eschewed “knock-out” extravagance even though Maynard Solomon characterized this middle period of Beethoven’s compositions as “post Heiligenstadt style, in which his mastery of classical procedures merged with a new vision of art as heroic and individualistic achievement.” Beethoven had now completed his Fourth and Fifth Symphonies, the impetuous Waldstein and Appassionata piano sonatas, which opened new musical vistas and behaviors. Some of the concerto’s innovations were less dramatic but nonetheless significant. A three minute wait for the soloist entry, the strange “knocking rhythm” from the timpani; an unusual direct connectivity (attacca) between second and third movements, a shockingly brusque ending, and comparative “lack” of traditional concerto virtuosity .
But the new-style writing was suitable for the soloist, Franz Clement, noted for “graceful playing, a relatively small but expressive style, and unfailing purity in high positions and exposed entrances.” The dedication for Clement ominously read “Concerto for Clement, out of compassion.” Clement was familiar to Beethoven: he had met him in 1794, when the precocious violinist was only thirteen. At the time, he advised “Continue along the road on which you have already made such a fine and magnificent journey. Nature and art have combined to make a great artist of you.”
On December 23, 1806, the concerto barely survived an inauspicious premier. Beethoven had delivered a confusing hand written score only two days before to the musicians; the twenty-six year old Clement was sight reading most of the time; a cadenza was missing and Clement probably improvised one on the spot. (Most audiences today are used to the Kreisler cadenza.) Between the first and second movements, Clement threw in a couple compositions of his own. One was played with the violin upside down on one string for a bit of saucy, circus style showmanship which regaled the audience. The concerto itself was marginalized at best. A somewhat happier outcome came a year later with another performance, but acceptance was fleeting.
After the December concert, Clement suggested that the concerto be re-written for piano. Beethoven did turn out a piano version in 1808 (known as 61a) which was favored by the pianist Muzio Clementi. However except for Clementi’s interest, it was, more or less totally ignored. Reviews of the concerto’s premier were generally bad. Johann Nepomuk Moser commented in the Theaterzeitung “The concerto’s many beauties must be conceded but…the endless repetitions of certain common place passages may easily become tedious…it is to be feared that if Beethoven continues upon this path he and the public will fare badly.” In Harmonicon, William Ayrton wrote “Beethoven has put forth no strength in his Violin Concerto. It is merely a fiddling affair and might have been written by any third or fourth rate composer. “Enduring fame and acceptance would not come until 1844 when the precocious thirteen year old Joseph Joachim performed the concerto at a concert for the Philharmonic society of London, conducted by Felix Mendelssohn. Robert Schumann wrote that it was Joachim’s “skillful hand that led us through the heights and depths of that marvelous structure which the majority explore in vain. The event was transformational, and Opus 61 had a new and prosperous life.
Opus 61 reveals itself gradually. Regarding the long introduction Beethoven once stated to the Schuppanzigh Quartet “Do you think I care about your wretched fiddle when the spirit takes hold of me?”The first movement, allegro ma non troppo, opens with five pulsing strokes from the timpani ( a gesture which will inhabit the entire work, hence the sobriquet kettledrum concerto) with the fifth combined with the first beat of the first theme. This is followed by a calm, gently sculpted melody sung by oboes, clarinets and bassoons. Violins echo the timpani strokes before winds and horn present a second theme in another well-coifed statement. After the expansive introduction the soloist enters with a daring passage of high ascending octaves (no room for an error in intonation) playing in quasi- improvisatory fashion before launching his first theme. A second theme follows, and the two forces work out the ideas in tight collaboration during the huge development, concluding with a quiet section sung by the soloist. The recapitulation is announced by reference to the opening timpani strokes now displayed by full orchestra. Themes from the exposition reemerge with decorative commentary. Before the Kreisler cadenza most soloists made up their own cadenza at this point.; there are more than seventeen cadenzas provided by composers and violinists. Possibly the most unusual and edgy cadenza comes from the Russian modernist composer Alfred Schnittke ( 1934-1998) commissioned by violinist Gidon Kremer. It is thoroughly impregnated by the four-note pattern heard at the beginning: and characterizations include comments such as “ wacky” “contains harmonic oddities.” You can listen for yourself on Youtube. A quote of the second theme concludes the movement as a coda.
Sir Donald Tovey wrote “this movement I one of the cases of sublime inaction achieved by Beethoven and by no one else. “The hymn-like Larghetto offers a stately theme of sixteen measures presented first by muted strings before repetition from clarinet and bassoon. As it moves to a secondary position the violinist embroiders extensive ornaments in graceful arabesques: again in the dangerous high register zone. Basically the form is a theme and variations. The violin spins a secondary theme before the first idea re- emerges in pizzicato articulation. A cadenza passage brings the movement to a close before leading directly into the third movement.
The third movement rondo-allegro flows seamlessly with the soloist presenting a rocking theme on the low g string. Voicing is warm and folk-like, and the orchestra quickly joins in the informal merrymaking. the main idea is repeated three times. Contrasting sections offer colorful changes of mood and key in securely crafted , bold writing. There is ample opportunity for virtuosic fun (including an inserted cadenza), and horns lend pastoral touches throughout. The concerto closes with a flashing coda sealed with a pair of hammered orchestral chords.
Johannes Brahms
Concerto in D Major for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 77
Born: May 7, 1833, Hamburg, Germany
Died: April 3, 1897, Vienna, Austria
Year Composed: 1878
Johannes Brahms’ Violin Concerto occupies space in the repertoire as both “major orchestral work” and “major violin concerto,” and is, ultimately, a major feat of performance from both sides of the stage. Some have described it as a “violin symphony,” and classifying the concerto as work for solo violin feels nearly disingenuous. The orchestral backing is by no means a simple accompaniment—a symphony in its own right—and the violin solo is difficult enough to have been described as “unplayable” by violin virtuoso Henryk Wieniawski.
Brahms wrote the concerto for Josef Joachim twenty-five years into their friendship, and the two worked together on the violin solo. Brahms had been enraptured by Joachim’s 1848 performance of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto (conducted by Felix Mendelssohn), and the two became lasting friends and musical partners. The resulting solo is not ostentatious nor unnecessarily flamboyant. It is technically demanding, certainly, but it is also rife with true musical intention. The violin solo emerges from within, offering its virtuosity to the orchestra in partnership rather than defiance.
The composer knew a grandiose orchestra was necessary to support the magnitude of the violin part, but Brahms also knew to be steadfast in his orchestration as to not obliterate the soloist. Even the best fiddle can only produce so much sound. The result is true Brahms: nuanced layers of countermelody and harmony ripple from the orchestra, allowing the solo violin to bob in and out of the musical foreground. The symphonic texture throughout the concerto is supple and malleable, though never thin. Woodwinds dissipate tenderly at the end of phrases as the violin enters the foreground, and strings provide a levelheaded stage on which the soloist can shine. Brahms’ potent orchestra booms at the appropriate moments, offering the soloist moments of necessary respite after traversing the entire range of the violin, double stops and all.
Perhaps the most significant musical example of equality in the concerto is the second movement “Adagio.” An elegant woodwind chorale is led by a single oboe, presenting a slow, serene theme that the solo violin never actually reiterates. Brahms blatantly hated this Adagio, and considered it “feeble” and “wretched.” Celebrated violinist Pablo de Sarasate had an equal, famed distaste for this movement. The original composition included a “Scherzo” that Brahms decided to cut, partially in service of retaining the three-movement form, widely accepted as most appropriate for concerti. The Scherzo would be reused in Brahms’ second piano concerto.
The premiere was stressful (Brahms and Joachim had been making edits to the solo and orchestral parts until the last possible moment) and met with mixed reception. Some called it a “cardinal sin” to have written a concerto with an equally important orchestral part. Some others might call it a sin to compose a 90-measure orchestral introduction before the soloist’s first entrance. If either (or both) truly are sins, they have been forgiven tenfold, as Brahms’ Violin Concerto has garnered a legendary place in the orchestral repertoire.
Note by Cynthia Stacy, in kind courtesy of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra
Antonín Dvořák
Violin Concerto in A minor, Op. 53
Born: September 8, 1841, Mulhausen, Bohemia
Died: May 1, 1904, Prague, Czechoslovakia
Year Composed: 1879
When one of Dvořák’s contemporaries complained that conversation with the composer was impossible unless the subject was music, the answer was, “Well, have you talked with him about pigs?” Dvořák was not a complicated or sophisticated man. He was the son of a butcher, born in a rural Bohemian village, and he never abandoned his small town roots and attitudes. He allowed music to flow from his heart, reflecting this simplicity and child-like sincerity. His music is eminently accessible and tuneful. Daniel Mason observed, “His aims in music have always been simple, unsophisticated by intellectualism… Indeed, of all the great composers, he is perhaps least the scholar, most the sublimated troubadour…To him music is primarily sweet sound…”
From a historical viewpoint, Bedřich Smetana and Dvořák are the two great representatives of the Czech school that flowered from the middle to the end of the 19th century. Dvořák’s musical aesthetic was deeply committed to nationalism; i.e., the incorporation of national inflections and folk elements in tunes, rhythms and dances. Although the hallmark of Dvořák’s style is his emphasis on Bohemian folk culture and language, his works rise far beyond the category of mere national specimens. The end result was a refreshing body of music filled with a sweetness and beguiling lyricism that has endured the tests of time and tastes.
Dvořák’s Violin Concerto was composed during the summer of 1879, a period in which he was just beginning to gain international recognition and fame. Several factors contributed to rescuing him from obscurity, but the single most important boost was the endorsement of his talent and his composition by Johannes Brahms. Through the enthusiastic support of Brahms, Dvořák was given a musical pedigree and validated beyond the environs of his native land. Brahms also recommended his work to the great music publisher N. Simrock of Berlin, which insured a respectable publisher for the newcomer. And it was through Brahms that Dvořák met the great violinist Joseph Joachim. This introduction resulted in a request for a violin concerto.
With prompt diligence, Dvořák composed his three-movement Violin Concerto for Joachim within a few months of the request. But Joachim was not pleased. Dvořák then kindly agreed to revised the work, and by May of 1880, he had incorporated the virtuoso’s suggestions. He wrote to Simrock, “According to Mr. Joachim’s wish, I worked most carefully over the whole concerto without missing a single bar. He will certainly be pleased by that. I put the greatest effort into it. The whole concerto has been transformed.” The totally revised concerto was sent to Joachim, who then proceeded to do precisely nothing for two years. Dvořák waited.
Joachim finally agreed to “rehearse” the concerto in 1882. The rehearsal did not go well, and Joachim decided to add even more suggestions. Dvořák’s patience had worn thin by this point, and he asked another violinist, František Ondřiček, to premiere the work in October of 1883 with the Orchestra of the Czech National Theatre. Ondřiček did so with great and immediate success. Although the work was dedicated to him, Joachim – petulant to the end – did not perform the concerto even once in his life. The loss was his. Dvořák’s Violin Concerto has become one of the most popular in the violin concerto repertoire.
The concerto is written in three movements, the first leading directly into the second. A brilliant orchestral introduction opens the work with the violin entering early in the movement. The structure is basically monothematic (one theme), and the music flows easily between soloist and orchestra. There is no recap of the opening; instead, Dvořák writes only a tiny cadenza before sailing directly into the second movement. The second movement, a romance, opens with a long-spanned melody sung first by the solo violin. Two other themes enter the picture in a combination of violin and orchestra. This music rises to rich passion in the center section that includes marvelous bravura passages for the soloist. Dvořák had been a violinist for many years himself, and he knew quite well how to write for the instrument. Especially here he reveals his thorough knowledge of the capabilities of the instrument. A French horn closes the movement, playing the opening them while the solo violin swirls higher and higher above it.
The third movement is quite reminiscent of Dvořák’s Slavonic Dances, written just one year before the original version of his concerto. Like the Slavonic Dances, this movement incorporates distinctive Czechoslovakian rhythms and forms. The form is rondo-like, featuring a series of bright dances. The mood is fiery and exciting. It opens with a dramatic ten-measure tune etched by the distinctive rhythms of the Czech furiant (dance). Everyone engages in a riotous display of energy and drive, which is relieved, at one point, by a beautiful dumka passage. A dumka is music of a serious nature, poignant and melancholy. The buoyant mood returns to close the concerto in a coda of high spirts.
Alexander Glazunov
Violin Concerto in A minor, Op. 82
Born: August 10, 1865, St. Petersburg, Russia
Died: March 21, 1936, Neuilly-sur-Seine, near Paris, France
Year composed: 1904-05
Although Alexander Glazunov’s life lasted well into the 20th century, his work remained grounded in the habits and styles of the Romantic world. Composer and music theorist Jonathan Kramer noted, “his task was, as he saw it, to reconcile Russian nationalism with the centuries of traditions of Western music. This was a more intellectual than spontaneous challenge. Boris Schwartz, member of the Queens College Music Department from 1941-1976, explained, “Within Russian music, Glazunov had a significant place because he succeeded in reconciling Russianism and Europeanism… He was a composer of imposing stature and stabilizing influence in a time of transition and turmoil.”
Twentieth century music experimentation, sounds and structures were not for Glazunov’s taste or values. The music of his dashing student, Sergei Prokofiev, made him run for the hills. Quite literally, the composer ran out of the concert hall in 1916 upon hearing Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite! All the new experimenting composers were grouped together in his term, “recherché cacophonists.”
Op. 82 was composed in 1904-05, when Glazunov had recently become Director of the St. Petersburg Conservatory. It was dedicated to violinist Leopold Auer, who was soloist in the premiere on February 15, 1905. Auer’s student, Mischa Elman, became ultimately responsible for introducing the concerto outside of Russia. His performance of the work in London on October 17, 1905 was received with approval even though the concerto seemed far out of touch with the times. Nonetheless, this young violinist successfully brought it outside of Russia onto the international stage. Though démodé and to some, superannuated, the violin concerto gained a toehold with its irresistible lyricism and beauty. Nothing within the concerto was hackneyed or formulaic. Its fate determined that Op. 82 was chronologically embedded in a new ear, but nonetheless, it spoke vividly and convincingly, albeit in the language of the past.
The concerto is through-composed; there are no pauses between the three movements, a structure “probably modeled on the piano concertos of Liszt.” The first section, moderato, spotlights two romantic, lyrical themes introduced by the soloist. The first meditative thought is accompanied by clarinets and bassoons; the second theme is accompanied by strings. A small development section moves directly in to the concerto’s second section, a lovely Andante sostenuto. Herein, an explosive idea played on the low G string of the violin occupies center stage. Quotes of the first and second themes re-emerge at the close of this section.
After the Andante, Glazunov inserts a fine cadenza, which ends with a solo trumpet bridging in to the rondo finale. Stirring conversations between soloist and trumpets open the allegro, tunes “ringing out as if the 20th century had never dawned.” (Welsh author and composer Geraint Lewis) The job of the soloist is to embellish the main theme in virtuosic style and to lead the concerto to an optimistic, sparkling conclusion in a virtuosic coda.
Erich Korngold
Concerto in D Major for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 35
Born: May 29, 1897, Brünn, Austria-Hungary
Died: November 29, 1957, Los Angeles, California
Year Composed: 1945
At a glance
- The violin concerto borrows thematic material from Korngold’s movie scores, making the piece one of the most popular of all twentieth-century concertos
- This richly scored work calls for a full array of woodwinds and a variety of percussion instruments including vibraphone, celeste, and xylophone
Erich Wolfgang Korngold was an Austrian composer, conductor, and professor at the Vienna Academy of Music and the first “serious” composer of international stature to write scores for Hollywood. Dismissively nicknamed “Maestro for the Movies,” his greatest fame came from his contributions to the American film industry. But for many years, his movie success influenced opinions about his other compositions. One critic said his romantic music was “more corn than gold.” Korngold defensively stated, “Music is music whether it is for the stage, rostrum or cinema. Form may change, the manner of writing may vary, but the composer needs to make no concessions whatever to what he conceives to be his own musical ideology . . . . Fine symphonic scores for motion pictures cannot help but influence mass acceptance of finer music. The cinema is a direct avenue to the ears and hearts of the great public and all musicians should see the screen as a musical opportunity.”
By the age of four, Korngold had become a noted piano prodigy. By age seven, his first cantata, Gold, was performed before Gustav Mahler who declared him a genius. (Years later he would dedicate Opus 35 to Mahler’s widow, Alma.) At age twelve he wrote his first ballet, The Snowman, which was staged at the Vienna Court Opera. Four years later the wunderkind wrote his first opera, Der Ring des Polykrates. In 1911 his first orchestral work, the Schauspiel Overture premiered in Leipzig. Korngold was setting sail for a career in “serious music.” His father, Julius, was the chief music critic for Vienna’s leading newspaper, and the idea of writing commercially for movies was never anticipated. But destiny had other plans that were unleashed in 1929 when he met the director Max Reinhardt.
In 1934 Reinhardt requested that Korngold go to Hollywood to arrange A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream for Warner Brothers. This film would feature top stars such as Olivia de Havilland, Dick Powell, James Cagney, and Mickey Rooney. Suddenly at age 37, he found himself writing “background music” for the movies, although he was living in a unique community of German and Austrian émigré intellectuals who scorned such activity.
Settling in America for Korngold was initially driven by events in Europe. By the mid-and late-1930s, Austria, both politically and socially, was convulsed by Hitler and the Third Reich, and eventually was annexed in the Anschluss of 1938. After a brief return to Europe in 1935, Korngold, who was Jewish, wisely decided to remain in America until the end of World War II. The Austria he had known and loved was gone. In 1943 he became an American citizen.
Both the United States and Korngold benefited from his decision. In Europe, he was deemed a throwback to another time amid all the experimentalism of twentieth-century avant-garde theorists. Applying his taste and talents in a different culture and medium resulted in stunning successes for him and in raising the standards of music for the American film industry. Grove’s Dictionary concludes, “Treating each film as an ‘opera without singing’. . . [he] created intensely romantic, richly melodic and contrapuntally intricate scores, the best of which are a cinematic paradigm for the tone poems of Richard Strauss and Franz Liszt. He intended that, when divorced from the moving image, these scores could stand alone in the concert hall.”
Korngold’s predilection for passionate writing of full-blown romanticism clearly matched Hollywood’s taste for melodrama and fantasy, strong components for the music of the 1930s and 1940s. His music for Anthony Adverse won his first Academy Award (1936), and his music for The Adventures of Robin Hood garnered a second (1938) and his music for The Sea Wolf won a third. “When there are sequences when the eye, and not the ear, is the primary object, then the composer has his fling in the writing of incidental background music. In this branch of musical writing there have been some of the finest examples of orchestral music which our age has produced,” Korngold asserted. And, he added, somewhat defensively, “I do not feel part of a factory. I take part in story conferences, suggest changes in the editing when it is dramatically necessary to coincide with a musical structure. It is entirely up to me to decide where in the picture to put music . . . . As for my working habits, I like the idea of perfection.”
Inside the music
The Violin Concerto is based on themes previously written for film scores: Another Dawn (1937), Juarez (1939), Anthony Adverse (1936), and The Prince and the Pauper (1937). It was dedicated to Alma Mahler (to whom he presented the score on her sixty-eighth birthday) and championed by Jascha Heifetz.
The concerto’s first theme derives from Another Dawn, and the second lyrical theme derives from Juarez. Both are worked out in a loosely corseted sonata-allegro form, deferring to the primary emphasis on passion and virtuosity. The soloist opens the concerto with the main theme followed by a lush orchestral response. After this, the violinist again comes to the forefront with a second rhapsodic melody. The orchestra often remains subdued, at times silent, allowing the soloist to be highlighted throughout the movement. There is an overall sweetness combined with highly virtuosic demands placed on the soloist throughout the movement.
The second movement, Romanze, features a melody derived from Anthony Adverse, a score noted for containing no less than 43 different themes. The music opens quietly, again placing the violinist clearly in the limelight. The main theme swirls, moving seamlessly in high regions above delicate support from the orchestra in an unending cantilena.
His virtuosic finale, Allegro assai vivace, is a rondo, founded on a tarantella-esque theme from The Prince and the Pauper. The movement opens at a rapid pace, with the orchestra discretely providing a light, collaborative role, catching the soloist from time to time in the headlong leadership of the soloist. Opus 35 closes with violin fireworks, sparkling brilliantly, until both forces are united in a definitive ending.
The Violin Concerto premiered in 1947 with Jascha Heifetz and the St. Louis Symphony. Although dubbed “the Hollywood Concerto,” it has survived to become a distinguished and popular work in the violin repertoire.
Felix Mendelssohn
Violin Concerto in E minor. Op. 64
Born: February 3, 1809 in Hamburg, Germany
Died: November 4, 1847 in Leipzig, Germany
Composed: 1839-1844
Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto stemmed from a deep friendship and collaboration with the esteemed violinist Ferdinand David. It was the first “in a distinguished series of violin concertos written by pianist-composers with the assistance of eminent violinists.” In this case, the composer and violinist knew each other well, initially meeting at age fifteen (while David was concertizing throughout Germany), and the two kept up a close relationship throughout their lives.
In 1835, shortly after his appointment as Music Director of the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra, Mendelssohn secured the concertmaster’s post for David. Three years later, in July 1838, Mendelssohn wrote to him saying “It is nice of you to press me for a violin concerto. I have the liveliest desire to write one for you and, if I have a few propitious days, I will bring you something … I would like to compose a violin concerto for next winter. One in E minor keeps running through my head and the opening gives me no peace.”
By 1839, Mendelssohn was frustrated and reported; “this task is not an easy one. You ask that it should be brilliant, and how can anyone like me do this? The whole of the first solo is to be for the E string.” With David’s help, the concerto was eventually completed in 1844. David was responsible both for the cadenza and for giving frequent advice regarding technical matters through the compositional process. Sadly, Mendelssohn was too ill to attend the successful premiere on March 13, 1845 (he would be dead in a year and a half) and Opus 64 was conducted by Niels W. Gade with David as the soloist.
From the beginning of the collaboration, David and Mendelssohn had agreed that this concerto should not be a vehicle for empty showmanship. With this guideline, the outcome was a serious, exquisite, elegant essay in the romantic concerto genre, ultimately ranking among the finest violin concerti written in the nineteenth century. Louis Biancolli assessed, “In classical poise, melodic suavity and refined romantic feeling, it is an epitome of Mendelssohn’s style. Finesse, cultivated taste, and an unerring sense of the appropriate [are] among its chief attributes.” Perhaps David anticipated this when he said to the composer while the work was gestating: “This is going to be something great! There is plenty of music for violin and orchestra, but there has only been one big, truly great concerto (Beethoven) and now there will be two!” “I am not competing with Beethoven,” Mendelssohn replied.
The Mendelssohn concerto, completed seven years after its concept was first mentioned, bore no resemblance to the Beethoven work. Its three movements are played without pause. This concerto discards the usual orchestral introductory exposition, beginning instead with orchestral “accompaniment” style, thereby creating a sense of expectation. The violin soloist obliges quickly with a soaring, restless melody, intensifying as it rises. Completing its statement, the soloist moves to a lower register, and remains in the background, as the second theme murmurs from flutes and clarinets. Mendelssohn’s development provides a structural surprise. In this section, the composer moves a written cadenza from its traditional place at the end of the first movement to a new location at the end of the development. The recapitulation enters from the orchestra with the soloist continuing an arpeggiated figure derived from the cadenza. The soloist is clearly collaborating at this point with the orchestra rather than seizing the stage, revealing one of the concerto’s features of interlocking partnership between the two forces. A solo bassoon, holding one note from a cadential chord bridges this movement into the second.
The middle section, an Andante in C major, offers a tender theme sung by the soloist as its main subject. A middle section spins a minor tune over bustling 32nd notes providing significant contrast to the opening calm. The third section recalls the opening theme, refreshed by new accompaniment. Fourteen bars of transitional material bridge to the concluding section.
A tiny introduction and brass fanfare opens the brilliant finale. The soloist answers with lightly scampering arpeggios. A bright main theme from the soloist dances over fairy-like accompaniment from the orchestra. Echoes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream are everywhere. Changing this delicate mood, the orchestra asserts a strong second theme, which steadily loses its initial weight, gains flexibility, and finally runs off in a playful mood. The soloist provides a lyrical theme in the development section leading to continued collaboration with the orchestra until a dazzling conclusion.
Note by Marianne Williams Tobias, in kind courtesy of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra
Niccolò Paganini
Violin Concerto No. 1 in D, Op. 6
Born: October 27, 1782, Genoa, Italy
Died: May 27, 1840, Nice, France
Year composed: 1811
Both the life and musical feats of Paganini left 19th century audiences spellbound. He was fearsome of demeanor, scary in his presentation and magical in his technical wizardry. Explanations for his exceptional talents ranged from respectful awe to assurances that he was in league with the devil. Opinions concerning his alliance with the devil were so persuasive that after his death Paganini was denied burial in consecrated ground for three years. (His heirs three years post mortem obtained a special Vatican decree that he could finally be allowed a Christian burial.)
The poet Heinrich Heine recalled legendary concerts saying, “he would appear in all black with trousers flapping around bony legs…in the angular contortions of his body there was a wooden horror – Is this corpse risen from the grave, a vampire with a violin who would suck if not the blood from our hearts, at least the money from our pockets?” Paganini capitalized on that fear and the dazzling nature of his style. He introduced new bowings, artificial and natural harmonics sometimes reproduced in pairs, and soared with incredible speeds over the fingerboard. Basically, he was a born showman, fully indulging the spell he cast. But Paganini was far above being a charlatan: he was a consummate musician. Aside from the dark magic of his presentation, he was also a composer of enormous gifts.
One of the magnificent pieces he left was his fire-breathing Violin Concerto in D major. The concert was written in 1811 or perhaps 1820. One cannot be sure, because Paganini hid his manuscripts so others could not play his works or see what was “really there.” This concerto was actually written for the key of E-flat, a key of great difficulty for violin players. Paganini would play the work in E-flat (thereby stunning his listeners), by means of a special trick. He tuned his violin secretly so that all the strings sounded a half tone higher. This allowed him to use the easier fingerings of the D major scale with the sound of E-flat, thereby creating a super brilliance and penetrating sound which was unprecedented. Today, violinists simply play the concerto in D major, and it is hard enough in that key anyway!
The dazzling concerto is a tour-de-force from beginning to end. With only four fingers and four strings, Paganini takes us to magical worlds. One would expect a cadenza (solo portion which shows off the violinist), but curiously we have no cadenza furnished by Paganini himself. We imagine that he probably had several of his own which were performed by him alone.
One critic described the opening of the concerto in this way: “He commenced with a soft, dreamy note of celestial quality and with three or four whips of his bow elicited points of sound that mounted to the third heaven.” Two themes occupy the subjects of the first movement, but the overall effect is one of unending pyrotechnics. The solo exposition sets the stage with wide leaps and forceful presentation. We are taken on an electrifying ride to close with magnificent trills and stunning left hand pizzicatos (pluckings) at the close.
The second movement marked adagio moves to a highly passioned statement which is lyrical and warm. The melody is ardent, bel canto in inspiration, and ruminative. Some have said that the movement was inspired by a stage performance of Demarini in which that actor begged God for salvation. “The tones are more than human, wrung from the deepest anguish of a broken heart.” (Ewen)
The third movement reverts to the wild display of the first. Bowing ricochets all over the strings, and the music is cast in the form of a brilliant rondo. Sometimes the melody moves into the stratosphere in the harmonic passages. These extraordinary tones are produced by partially depressing the string to create high vibrations. Not content with single harmonics, Paganini writes for double harmonics as well.
Paganini’s Violin Concerto in D is filled with high risk for any performer; the rewards are commensurate for soloist and audience alike. In every sense the concerto is an extravaganza.
Dmitri Shostakovich
Violin Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Op. 99
Born: September 25, 1906 in St. Petersburg, Russia
Died: August 9, 1975 in Moscow, Russia
Composed: 1947-48
Shostakovich wrote his two violin concerti for his friend, master violinist David Oistrakh, who was very helpful to him in the writing of the solo parts. The First Violin Concerto, written in 1947-48, lay hidden in a desk drawer until its premier October 29, 1955, with the Leningrad Philharmonic and the dedicatee as soloist.
It was not safe to bring it out until two years after Stalin’s death. The 1946 Zhdanov Doctrine, named after his “Witchfinder General” Andrew Zhdanov, had stated that the post war world was divided in two camps: the imperialist United States and the democratic Soviet Union, and it included a thinly disguised warning: “The only conflict that is possible in the Soviet culture is the conflict between good and best.”
Although a decree on music was not specifically issued until February 10, 1948, Shostakovich knew that the meaning of the Zhdanov Doctrine would apply to his work; that “best” meant adherence to specific government cultural standards. And he also knew that his First Violin Concerto would not have been acceptable: it was too individualistic. Too complicated. Too novel. Too atonal. Too incomprehensible for the lowest denominator of Soviet music audiences to easily enjoy.
The decree was not limited to an artistic critique. It also meant direct persecution and possible expulsion to the Siberian Gulag and forced labor camps. The term GULAG was the acronym for Main Administration of Corrective labor Camps. It was easy to get a one-way ticket on the Trans-Siberian railroad during Stalin’s regime, and during his dictatorship, over a million people would lose their lives in exile to one of the camps. And Shostakovich and Stalin did not get along. The composer was suspect. In 1948 he was condemned for formalist perversions and antidemocratic tendencies in music, alien to the Soviet people and its artistic tastes.
“Shostakovich’s First Violin concerto is a veritable ‘iron man’ concerto, calling on everything in the violinists’ technical arsenal, as well as vast physical and emotional stamina. Even Oistrakh begged the composer to give the opening of the finale to the orchestra so that ‘I can at least wipe the sweat off my brow’ after the daunting solo cadenza that concludes the third movement” (Program notes, Baltimore Symphony Orchestra).
There are four movements in Opus 77 (sometimes also called opus 99 after its publication in 1956). At one time, Shostakovich noted that his concerto was “a symphony for solo violin and orchestra.”
The first movement is titled Nocturne, beginning in a low register, a slow pace, and producing a haunting atmosphere. The soloist begins with a long expansive melody which is based on the orchestra’s introduction, a part which seems to meditate on the introductory ideas. From time to time the bassoon offers contrapuntal commentary, and the winds offer complimentary color. The focus remains steadily on the violinist who is given biting, dissonant heavy discourse. “Only in the central episode where the soft celesta chimes, does the music give way and there is a glimpse of lightness or freedom.” At the close, the opening eerie mood returns, continuing what Oistrakh called “suppression of feelings.”
The second movement, Scherzo, bounces out quickly from the winds, followed by a sassy, rough answer from the soloist, likened to an “unruly vodka-fed folk dance.” Rhythms are brusk, crude and uneven, set within frenetic tempi. There is nothing playful or happy herein; if anything, we find a sardonic parody of jollity. For added impudence, Shostakovich inserts his own musical initials in the second section (the tones D, E-flat, C, B), the first time he put this four-note pattern into his music: a ploy he would use in other future works as well.
The third movement, Andante, is a passacaglia, producing a set of nine variations over the repeated baseline pattern of seventeen measures. From time to time, this baseline is passed along to other parts of the orchestra, aside from the low strings and tuba, such as the English horn. At the close of the ninth variation, the orchestra freezes on a long-held F: preparing for the gigantic cadenza, which bridges to the finale.
The finale continues with wild abandon in a Burlesca marked Allegro con brio. A brisk tune moves relentlessly forward with heavy timpani accents, sometimes called a “kicking Stalin gopak.” The soloist enters in a brilliant, fast-paced statement. Some elements of Stravinsky’s Petrushka are also quoted, lending a celebratory element in what could be liked to a crazed Shrovetide festival. Dynamics remain loud most of the time; orchestra and soloist combine with frequent interactions, which each performing force seizes aggressively. The passacaglia theme makes another appearance, but this time with a fast-paced presto running below it. There is no letup in the inferno as the concerto ends in scorching conflagration.
Note by Marianne Williams Tobias, in kind courtesy of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra
Jean Sibelius
Concerto in D Minor for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 47
Born: December 8, 1865, Hämeenlinna, Finland
Died: September 20, 1957,Järvenpää, Finland
Year composed: 1903
When he was ten years old, Sibelius began to study the violin, practicing from “morning to night” and desiring to “be a celebrated violinist at any price.” Fifteen years later he commented, “I came to the very painful awakening when I had to admit that I had begun my training for the career of an eminent performer too late!” Michael Steinberg said that Sibelius wrote this “for a kind of ghostly self.”
In 1903, he began to work on his only Violin Concerto. Though plagued by a severe ear infection and throat complications, he worked assiduously, occasionally taking a bit of time off for some fun in certain Helsinki bars. Sometimes he was gone a couple of days on his “fun times.” When the finale of the concerto needed parts to be orchestrated, Mrs. Sibelius had to go with conductor Robert Kajanus to find him. Sibelius was on one of his little drinking interludes. He was found in time and all was well. The concerto premiered on February 8, 1904, to a modest reception. The soloist was Victor Nováček, a fine violin teacher, but not a performer. Undeterred, Sibelius reworked Opus 47 and a new premiere in Berlin took place on October 19, 1905, with Richard Strauss conducting and Karl Halir as soloist, which produced a far better result.
His concerto is extremely difficult, demanding multiple double stops (playing two strings at one time), placement of activity and themes in the high area of the instrument (difficult intonation), fast tempi, and incredible bowing requirements to negotiate wide leaps and sustaining of long melodies. These difficulties kept the concerto from wide circulation until after World War II. Perhaps violinists had improved? Sibelius was well acquainted with violin technique and not afraid to demand the ultimate.
The first movement demonstrates his demand for bow control in the display of the opening idea (marked allegro moderato). The rhapsodic theme measures thirty measures and is sung by the soloist over an undercurrent of muted, divided strings. Entering on an off beat, and “delicately dissonant,” the first note grabs attention. “I have had a marvelous opening idea,” the composer wrote to his wife. Winds, in low register, share commentary on the idea. A second soulful theme is delivered by celli and bassoons. The development shortens and compresses the ideas, offering sharp contrast to the extended, long-winded lines of the soloist. This interior section includes a formidable cadenza (sometimes therefore called development/cadenza section). This section leads directly to the recapitulation with the themes considerably altered from their first visit. A second cadenza occurs followed by a flashing coda featuring the soloist soaring above full orchestra, closing the movement.
A tender, romantic tune sung by paired clarinets and oboes in thirds opens the second movement. The idea is quickly overtaken by the soloist presenting a long lyrical theme, marked sonoro ed espressivo. Horns and bassoons provide a secure foundation before other instruments add subsidiary comments. The initial meditative, Nordic atmosphere, is interrupted by wind, strings, and timpani in jolly spirits, and the soloist quickly joins the fun. During the exuberance, one of the concerto’s most incredible demands—playing a fiercely difficult passage including both theme and accompaniment—swings into action, careening to a flashing climax. The orchestra restates the opening theme, now decorated by limpid violinistic figuration, leading to a quiet close and a few nostalgic phrases.
Sibelius characterized the finale as a “danse macabre.” Sir Donald Tovey called it a “polonaise for bears.” Heavy stamping, intense rhythms, and technical bravura combine in a showstopper. Immediately, the soloist reveals a tense, jagged theme with kettledrums and strings thumping a strong undercurrent. As complexity grows, the violinist is unrelentingly taken through a massive display and demand of superlative technique with fiery arpeggios, harmonics (specially formed notes with partially depressed strings) and soaring melodies. A brief gasp of air is allowed in one slower melody, but the urgency resumes to a sudden explosive close. With its extreme virtuosic demands, this concerto can be considered a real throwback to the familiar romantic tradition of high wire performance danger and daring as the sine qua non of the concerto concept.
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 35
Born: May 7, 1840 in Votkinsk, Russia
Died: November 6, 1893 in Saint Petersburg, Russia
Composed: 1878
In early 1878, Tchaikovsky’s patron, Nadezhda von Meck, gave the composer money to use for an extended holiday. She felt that his failed marriage in 1877 and suicide attempt by drowning in the Moscow River warranted a trip outside of Russia to recover his spirits. Taking violinist Joseph Kotek as a companion, Tchaikovsky set off for Clarens, Switzerland. The two read through reams of violin music, including Edouard Lalo’s Symphonie espagnole. Lalo’s Symphonie was a seminal force in Tchaikovsky’s decision to write his own violin concerto, which he began on March 17 and completed in only two weeks. Little did he realize he had created a lightning rod for criticism. To start it off, Mme. von Meck wrote of her personal displeasure with the concerto. “I shall not give up the hope that in time the piece will give you greater pleasure,” Tchaikovsky responded.
Its first dedicatee, Leopold Auer, head of the violin department of the St. Petersburg Conservatory and concertmaster of the Imperial Orchestra, refused to play the concerto deeming it “unsuitable to the character of the instrument.” Critic Edouard Hanslick wrote that it was “a rare mixture of originality, crudity, of inspiration and wretched refinement, with an audible, odorously Russian stench.” Continuing on in the Neue freie Presse, Hanslick’s disgust gained momentum: “(In the first movement) vulgarity gains the upper hand. The Adagio is well on the way to reconciling us and winning us over when, all too soon, it breaks off to make way for a finale that transports us to the brutal and wretched jollity of a Russian church festival. We see a host of gross and savage faces, hear crude curses and smell the booze.” Hanslick lobbed grenades at Tchaikovsky as well. “The Russian composer is surely no ordinary talent, but rather an inflated one, obsessed with posturing as a man of genius and lacking of all discrimination and taste.” Tchaikovsky cut out the review and literally carried the critic’s words in his pocket for several months, becoming very depressed. The concerto’s future seemed catastrophic.
Things began to look up when, on December 4, 1881, Adolf Brodsky, the second dedicatee, premiered the work in Vienna and wrote, “One can play the concerto again and again and never be bored. And, this (repetition) is a most important circumstance for conquering its difficulties.” The concerto was revived.
It is true that the concerto demanded new violin techniques, but not impossible ones. In this regard, the concerto was forward looking, ranking among those musical works whose demands initiated new technical abilities and expertise from the performer. Ultimately, as violinists improved, Tchaikovsky’s work has become one of the great showpieces in violin repertoire. Its fanciful gypsy-like tunes, colorful Russian orchestration and pyrotechnics make it a timeless thriller. “I never compose in the abstract,” Tchaikovsky explained. “I invent the musical idea and its instrumentation simultaneously.” Concept and instrumentation were one.
Years later, Auer regretted his early refusal to play the concerto. In the Musical Courier, January 1912, he stated, “I have often deeply regretted (my refusal) and before Tchaikovsky’s death received absolution from him.“
A brief introduction from the first violins opens the concerto. After a small crescendo, the soloist is launched unobtrusively with a tiny solo and presentation of the main theme, sung above minimal string accompaniment. The subject becomes increasingly elaborate, gains strength, and the orchestra adds weight and coloration. A second theme, marked con molto espressione, is similar and equally beguiling. Such lack of contrast between the two main themes is unusual, but the composer’s intent was to write idiomatically for the violin, not to genuflect to traditional formal controls. The development section savors the main theme before growing into a fiery cadenza. A recapitulation follows the soloist’s high-wire performance, but then the orchestra takes a bow with its own extravaganza in a coda, which asks for no less than four accelerations of tempi.
The second movement (canzonetta) is exactly that: a small, quiet, song. Both its structure (ABA) and texture are simple. Woodwind chords prepare the soloist’s setting. Two elegant themes are quietly presented with accompaniment from violins, violas and French horns. In the third section, the woodwinds return with a recall of the opening, and lead directly into the finale.
In contrast, the third movement immediately ignites renewed vigor and acrobatics. The soloist whips out a dance-like tune, which is capsulated in rondo format (alternating theme and episodes). Tchaikovsky releases all orchestral stops and the soloist, now launched on a frenetic ride, is front and center. Keeping up, he must navigate perilous scales, double stops, dangerous leaps with blazing speed and accuracy. Herein lie many of the technical difficulties alluded to earlier. The effect is undeniably stunning. Michael Steinberg concluded that “Although Tchaikovsky could not please Dr. Hanslick, he has no trouble at all winning us over!”
All notes by Marianne Williams Tobias except where noted, in kind courtesy of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra