Benjamin Franklin, one of our country’s founding fathers, was well-known as a statesman, diplomat, writer, printer, scientist and inventor – but a composer, too? Franklin’s interest in music is well-known. He printed treatises on music, played several instruments (including violin, harp, viola da gamba and guitar), and designed a four-sided music stand for string quartet players. He even invented the glass harmonica – an instrument made of rotating tuned glass bowls played by holding wet fingers against the edges, for which Mozart and Beethoven wrote compositions!
In 1946, a manuscript of a 5-movement string quartet was uncovered in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, bearing the title “Quartetto a 3 Violini Con Violoncello Del Sigre Benjamin Francklin.” It was originally (and unusually) scored for 3 violins and ‘cello to be played in “scordatura” fashion – all on open strings, with specific string tunings indicated for each instrument!
The quartet was published and attracted immediate attention from musicians and scholars, including Alan Shulman, an American composer and ‘cellist (1915-2002). Mr. Shulman, a pre-eminent ‘cellist and member of the NBC Symphony Orchestra under Arturo Toscanini, used excerpts from the Franklin quartet in his score for the NBC radio series “American Portraits” in 1950. In 1963, he created the present Suite based on thematic material from the quartet, maintaining its original key and structure. One of its notable performances was by the Philadelphia Orchestra during the 1976 Bicentennial.
Copland composed Lincoln Portrait for narrator and orchestra in 1942. It was part of a series of musical portraits of great Americans commissioned by André Kostelanetz shortly after American entry into World War II.
In Copland’s own words: “The composition is roughly divided into three sections. In the opening section I wanted to suggest something of the mysterious sense of fatality that surrounds Lincoln’s personality. Also, near the end of that section, something of his gentleness and simplicity of spirit. The quick middle section briefly sketches in the background of the times he lived in. This merges into the concluding section where my sole purpose was to draw a simple but impressive frame about the words of Lincoln himself.”
Copland used excerpts from a few contemporary songs, including “Camptown Races,” to evoke the spirit of mid 19th-century America. The moving words read by the narrator are taken from Lincoln’s letters, speeches and the Gettysburg Address.
The Hebrides are probably the best-known group of Scottish islands off the west coast of Scotland. They are composed of the oldest rock formations in the British Isles. Fingal’s Cave on the island of Staffa is the most famous of all the caves. Nowhere else is there a sea-cave formed completely in hexagonally-jointed basalt. The size, sounds, colors, and remarkable symmetry of this 227-foot cavern is viewed by a natural crude walkway that allows exploring visitors to go far inside. The impact of the cave on all those who enter it is likely to be remembered for life.
In the 1800’s it was common for wealthy young men to undertake a “Grand Tour” of Europe to gain perspective on life. Felix Mendelssohn, being from a wealthy family, went on such a tour. His tour lasted four years and took him through most of the major countries and cities of the time. During his travels he went to Scotland, where he visited the Hebrides and the renowned Fingal’s Cave with his friend Klingemann. In order to see the rock formations, they set out on the newly introduced paddle steamer service. The sea was wild, the weather bad, and all the passengers were ill. Here Klingemann tells of the adventures at Staffa:
“We were put out into boats and lifted by the hissing sea up the pillar stumps to the celebrated Fingal’s Cave. A greener roar of waves surely never rushed into a stranger cavern – its many pillars making it look like the inside of an immense organ, black and resounding, and absolutely without purpose, and quite alone, the wide gray sea within and without.”
With conditions such, Mendelssohn can hardly have enjoyed seeing Fingal’s Cave since he was so seasick. However the visit to Staffa, and the sight and sound of the Atlantic swell tumbling into the cave, made a profound impression on him. Tremendously affected by the loneliness and beauty of this immense place, he quickly wrote down what would later become the opening notes of an overture. The most striking aspect of this overture was its successful tone-painting. Mendelssohn portrays overcast skies, gray seas, and barren a landscape. We can hear the breaking of the waves, almost see the basalt columns and strange colors, and above all, experience the overwhelming vastness of the cavern.
Mendelssohn worked on this composition for many years fine tuning his musical decisions. He wanted the listener to be immersed in the experience, just as he had been when he viewed the cave. Among the numerous sketches, four complete versions with distinct titles exist of this work: The Hebrides Overture (1829), Overture to the Solitary Island (Die einsame Insel) (1830), The Isle of Fingal (1832), and Fingal’s Cave (Fingalshöhle) (1835).
While Mahler wrote most of his 4th Symphony in 1900, he had really started it 8 years earlier – and with the last movement, no less!
Mahler was enchanted by “Des Knaben Wunderhorn” (the Youth’s Magic Horn), a well-known collection of German folk poems, many of which Mahler set to music. Mahler arranged one of these poems, “Das himmlische Leben” (“The Heavenly Life”) in 1892 and wanted to use as a last movement for one of his symphonies. But his 3rd symphony was already lengthy, and it took him until 1900 to finally use it as the foundation for this lyrical 4th Symphony. The song tells of the wonders of heaven from a child’s point of view, with its angels, beauty, dancing, endless food of all types (listen for the bleating lamb and bellowing ox!) and “heavenly music that is not of this earth.”
The first three movements, which Mahler composed in 1899-1900, take much of their thematic material from the last movement. Most notable is the way in which the symphony starts, with sleighbells – the first time time they were ever used in an orchestra. Even though Mahler did not have an explicit “program” for his 4th Symphony, one can almost conceive of the first movement as a depiction of the earthly life – full of pleasant beauty, but interrupted with wails and shrieks, and discordant harmonies in the middle section.
For the second movement, though, we have a clue – Mahler described it as “Death strikes up” – almost like a a danse macabre – and uses a violin purposely tuned a whole tone up to disturbing effect. In typical Mahler fashion, these unsettling moments are interspersed with pastoral interludes, punctuated by raucous clarinets.
The lovely third movement is made up of eight variations – opening and closing with great beauty and calm, but interspersed with moments of utter, tragic despair. Towards the end of the movement there is a sudden orchestral thunderclap, through which we may perceive the very gates of heaven itself.
And then on into the last movement, the vocal solo to be sung with “childlike simplicity” – a vision of a child’s view of the sublimity of heaven. The symphony ends in utter calm and contentment.
This is one of Bach’s best-known solo cantatas, and one of the relatively few non-religious cantatas composed by the master. It is scored for solo soprano, three solo instruments (oboe, violin, bassoon), strings and continuo.
It begins with an introspective opening adagio (“Weichet nur, betrübte Schatten”–“Depart melancholy shadows”), with a sinuous duet between the solo oboe and soprano against a background of rising chords in the strings. The following movements describe the sensations, pleasures and fulfillment of love in a series of descriptives recitatives and arias.
Some of the images evoked include the world reborn, and the sun god Phoebus Apollo racing above and inspired to be a lover himself (“Phöbus eilt”); love wafting through the air like spring breezes in a flowery meadow (“Wenn die Frühlingslüfte”); the joy of love, and how to practice it (“Sich üben im Lieben”).
The Cantata ends in a lilting Gavotte, with the hope of a fruitful and contented married future (“Sehet in Zufriedenheit”).
Born in 1865, Jean Sibelius grew to be considered a national hero in his native Finland. A Romantic Nationalist, Sibelius even had his picture on the $100 Mark for a time.
Sibelius’s rise to fame came as Finland was fighting for independence against Lenin and the Soviet Union. “Finlandia,” one of Sibelius’s most famous works, was written during this period and at one point was considered the Finnish national anthem.
As a boy, Sibelius had dreams of becoming a famous virtuoso violinist. However, he started his training as a lawyer at the University of Helsinki. His love for music eventually got the best of him, and he transferred to what is now the Sibelius Academy of Music, which at the time was called the Helsinki School of Music.
Widely known as a symphonist, Sibelius wrote seven symphonies and had agreed to write an eighth, which was scheduled for a premiere but never came to fruition.
Sibelius’s Violin Concerto (the only concerto he wrote) is symphonic in scope and is marked by melancholy melodies and dark harmonies. Sibelius uses the violin as part of the texture while displaying the instrument’s virtuosic qualities and giving the orchestra equal importance.
Though Sibelius was himself a violinist, he composed only one violin concerto. This music did not come easily, perhaps because he was so close to the instrument.
The violin concerto was premiered in Helsinki in February 8th, 1904 and was considered a disaster. This was partially Sibelius’ fault as he didn’t finish the piece until the last minute and therefore didn’t give the soloist enough time to learn it.
After the first performance, Sibelius revised the work extensively to the version we know today. It was given a second “premeire” in Berlin, conducted by Richard Strauss, and was received very well. After this performance it was played a few more times, but slipped into obscurity until 1991 when the Sibelius estate allowed one performance and one recording to be published. Since that time it has become a mainstay in the violin repertoire.
By 1903, Sibelius had already composed his first two symphonies and a series of overtly nationalistic works: the Karelia Suite; the choral “Kullervo” symphony; the four Lemminkäinen legends; and the famous tone-poem Finlandia. All of these bore the hallmarks of late Romanticism; but his style was about to undergo a marked change.
By the time of the Third Symphony (1907), his music had become harder-edged, condensed, and rigorously organized. The Violin Concerto thus stands at a turning point in Sibelius’s output. Janus-like, it looks two ways at once: back towards the expressive romanticism of his earlier years, and forwards toward the concise, rugged, highly concentrated music of his future. Both of these elements can be heard in this work, which remains one of the pinnacles of the violin concerto repertoire.
Oct. 27, 1783, 9:30 a.m: Mozart (then twenty-seven years old) and his wife, Constanze, leave Salzburg, where they had been visiting Mozart’s father. Heading back to their home in Vienna, they spend the first night of their journey in Vögelbruck.
Oct. 28: They arrive in Lambach in time for Mozart to play organ during the morning Mass.
Oct. 29: Opera and party in Ebersberg.
Oct. 30, 9:00 a.m: After three busy days on the road, they arrive in Linz, where they stay with Count Johann Joseph Anton Thun-Hohenstein.
Oct. 31: Mozart dashes off a quick note to his father: “….On Tuesday, November 4th, I am giving a concert in the theater here. And, as I didn’t bring a single symphony with me, I’ll have to write a new one at breakneck speed, since it has to be finished by that time. I must close now, because I have to get to work.”
Nov. 4 (four days later): Mozart conducts the premiere of his new symphony with Count Thun’s orchestra.
The idea for 4th Box of Maps first occurred to me while in Venice. The Basilica of San Marco is the obvious Venetian destination for a musician, and indeed it was inspiring to stand where Willaert and Gabrieli made their polychoral music over four centuries ago. I’m sure that reawakened my interest in site-specific antiphonal music.
More important to me, however, were certain things I noticed while wandering in that great labyrinth of a city. First, all Venice city maps are necessarily incomplete: The maze of streets and canals is too dense. To preserve legibility, a map must leave things out – sometimes up to a third of the streets in the city. Each map omits different streets, however, so you often find yourself in a place that doesn’t seem to exist, until you check another map. The implication is that there is a Platonic ideal of Venice, of which you can only catch glimpses. In addition, the topological changes around each corner (wide streets to narrow alleys, open piazza to confined courtyard, stone to water) produce changes in the ambient sound of the city. This is yet another, more subtle map, invisible but audible. As a result of all this, I had a curious sense of being simultaneously in several cities, all very similar but no two identical. Also, I became intensely aware that I was creating my own map – the map of my own journey, my own experience as I turned left instead of right, looked here but not there, or retraced my steps at a different time of day.
Venice changed my sense of place. I realized that every space and every time implies many maps, some not at all obvious. When I began to explore the Sanctuary of the Broadway Presbyterian Church, I found the variety of visual and acoustic perspectives highly suggestive. Though a concert is a communal event, each concertgoer creates his or her own map of their journey, listening from different vantage points, concentrating on different elements, experiencing different parts of the physical space, directing their attention to different people in the audience or onstage, and letting their mind wander at different times to different places.
Finally, I took inspiration from a short poem by Erica Jablon. In just a few lines, she touches so many of these ideas:
Pillars of leaves circle the rustling garden
White, they remember the moon’s theater
Remember the white stones
And the dark pool
The imagery evokes a particular place and time. But below the surface, the poem’s rhythm, internal correspondences, repetitions and almost-repetitions open up a complex and ambiguous world: maps within maps.
Mozart’s one-act comic opera “der Schauspieldirektor”, or The Impresario, was originally composed in 1786 as a “Singspiel” – a German type of play interspersed with various musical numbers – at the request of Emperor Joseph II for a private performance at the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna. Mozart wrote The Impresario at around the same time as The Marriage of Figaro.
It contains marvelous music – a well-known overture, and four vocal numbers. The original libretto, however, presents a number of challenges in mounting a full-fledged production. For this performance, we are fortunate indeed to have an English adaptation authored by William J. Brooke, who also happens to be our stage director and play the title role of Impresario (all at once!). In his adaptation, the first two solo arias are largely sung in the original German; the trio and finale are done in English, as is the dialogue.
The story itself is about the woes of an opera company director (Scruples). His scheming assistant (Bluff), who longs to sing bass roles on stage, engages a banker (Mr. Angel) to financially “rescue” the opera company’s upcoming season. In return, Mr. Angel merely requests Scruples to showcase Mr. Angel’s two paramours (Madame Goldentrill and Miss Silverpeal) each of which happens to be an opera singer, and each of which thinks she should be the prima donna for the upcoming opera season!
Of course theatrical and musical fireworks ensue, before leading to a most unlikely (yet satisfactory) conclusion.
Rossini composed his opera based on the Cinderella story in 1817, one year after writing the Barber of Seville, at the age of 25. Rossini “borrowed” the music for this overture from one of his unperformed operas – standard practice at the time – and it works remarkably well in this context.
As with most Rossini overtures, it opens with a slow section in which one can almost imagine the scolding stepmother and the heroine scrubbing the floors. The following allegro is light and lively. It prominently features the winds (particularly the clarinet, his favorite instrument), as well as two versions of the famous long “Rossini crescendo” presaging a happy ending to the story.
