Jon Nakamatsu, pianist

James Stephenson, composer

Stephenson, Concertino and Fanfare for Orchestra

Hindemith, Symphonic Metamorphosis of Themes by Carl Maria von Weber

Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 3, op. 30, D minor

Paul Hindemith's most popular work is probably his "Symphonic Metamorphosis of Themes by Carl Maria von Weber," composed in 1943, on several themes taken from piano duets by his German forebear.  Born in Germany in 1895, the mature music of Hindemith has been labeled "neoclassical," and his style was certainly very informed by more traditional melodic and rhythmic approaches, with a particular interest in a complex counterpoint, reminiscent of J.S. Bach. The first, third, and fourth movements were constructed from the piano duet themes.  The first movement kicks things off in a forceful, rather raucous fashion, with Hindemith using the full timbrel and dynamic range of the orchestra.  Toward the middle of the movement we have a quieter, dance-like section, before the resounding opening themes return.  The harmonic atmosphere that Hindemith establishes here is rather fantastic and not a little ominous.  One can detect the strong influence that this type of language would have on a coming generation of young film composers (Hindemith had many students all over the world who would become well-known in their own right, including Lukas Foss, Norman Della Joio, and the Oscar-winning film director George Roy Hill). The quiet, mystical opening of the second movement introduces a wonderfully quirky theme (taken from Weber's incidental music to Gozzi's "Turandotte") that returns more aggressively in the low strings, layering gradually, section by section, toward a massive climax.  The winds and brass are trilling like mad, running chromatic scales that give one the impression of being in the center of a cyclone.  The hubbub gives way to a central contrapuntal section in the brass and percussion, followed by the winds.  A percussion interlude heralds the return of the main theme in the low strings again, this time building itself up again only to die away rather quickly, leaving the quiet timpani to close things with a fragment of the theme. The third movement provides a much-welcome, cool oasis of slower, more rhapsodic textures in the strings, with a theme that yearns and swells to several wonderful climaxes.  The fourth movement announces itself with a fanfare that sounds quasi-Middle Eastern.  It is interesting to hear these snippets of "exotic" atmospheres and allusions to Asian scales in certain sections of the work; Hindemith was clearly fascinated by the music of non-European cultures (indeed, he was director of the conservatory in Ankara, Turkey, for a time, helping to establish their curriculum, and so would have had considerable exposure to Turkish music in particular).  This fourth movement pushes forward relentlessly, with swirling winds and brass alternating with aggressive percussion and staccato articulations in the background parts, swelling in wave after wave like the tides, washing us toward the end of the piece with a definitive slam of the door.  

RACHMANINOFF, Piano Concerto, no. 3 op. 30, D minor

Completed in September of 1909 and premiered by the composer himself only two months later, Sergei Rachmaninoff's third piano concerto, his opus 30, stands as one of the most technically challenging pieces in the concert piano repertoire.  Although Rachmaninoff had written it for the great Jozef Hofmann, a pianist of considerable technical skill and artistry, Hofmann was never to perform the work, saying that it "wasn't for him."  Rachmaninoff finished writing the piece at his family's country estate in Russia, promptly leaving for the US shortly after its completion, practicing the work on a silent keyboard that he brought on board ship with him.  After the New York premiere, a second performance was scheduled a few weeks later, under the legendary conductor Gustav Mahler, an experience that Rachmaninoff later said he "treasured."  What must that performance have been like, with Rachmaninoff at the keyboard and Mahler on the podium, sculpting the orchestra into towering structures of pure energy? In traditional fashion, the concerto is structured in three movements, with the third movement following the second with no break.  The opening theme of the concerto is entrusted to the piano straightaway, and the soloist enters, playing the melody very simply in octaves.  As the piano finishes, it begins a sparkling contrapuntal texture and accompanies the low strings as they take a turn at the broad, slightly melancholic theme.  Following a lengthy extension of the original theme with a soloistic break for the piano, we round a corner into the second theme, heralded by the low strings and winds.  This gives our first glimpse of a far-reaching Rachmaninoff orchestral vista:  a huge, lush swell of romantic feeling in the orchestra that leads to a cute little rhythmic dance melody.  The soloist begins to elaborate on this dance theme in a more romantic fashion, eventually accompanied by the bassoon and then the horn, all over a bed of strings.  The climax here is absolute romanticism.  After a wicked little chromatic cadenza, we spiral down into a restatement of the main theme, this time with a change of key and some ominous, muted exclamations in the brass.  The pattern here is very much "statement -- development," and for the rest of the movement we hear the two main themes again and again, albeit in various transformations, elaborations, and disguises. It is rather amazing how much music Rachmaninoff wrings from only two, simple themes! The second movement begins with the orchestra stating a theme which is very nocturnal and lush, subsequently ushering in a gorgeous, romantic variant in the piano.  The whole of the movement is a set of loose variations on this single melody, with piano and orchestra vying to outdo each other in statements that are quietly tender and violently passionate by turns.  The third movement follows immediately with cannon shots in the percussion.  The melodies heard here are variations on the themes from the first two movements, thus creating a very unified whole.  As the finale approaches during the last minutes of the piece, the piano picks up the pace, arching a gorgeous stretch of melody over quick, staccato rhythms in the strings.  We then begin a mad gallop to the finish line, with the piano's final cadenza bursting out of a huge explosion in the orchestra, leading up to the final four-note rhythm that some analysts claim to be Rachmaninoff's musical "signature." 

Jeanne Stark-Iochmans, pianist

PRELUDES Claude Debussy (1910)  Book 1

I  Danseuses de Delphes –Dancers from Delphi      

II  Voiles – Sails      

III  Le vent dans la plaine – The wind in the plain      IV  Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir—Sounds and perfumes swirl in the evening air      

V  Les collines d’Anacapri – The hills of Anacapri      

VI  Des pas sur la neige -- Footprints in the snow      

VII  Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest – What the west wind has seen      

VIII  La fille aux cheveux de lin -- The girl with the flaxen hair      

IX  La sérénade interrompue—The interrupted serenade      

X  La Cathédrale engloutie – The engulfed Cathedral      

XI  La danse de Puck – The dance of Puck      

XII  Minstrels – American minstrels 

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

Sonata Nr. 31 op. 110 in A b Major  (1821)

      Moderato cantabile molto espressivo

      Allegro molto

      Adagio ma non troppo – Allegro ma non troppo

Frederic Chopin (1810-1849)

Fourth Ballade op. 52 in f minor (1842)

     Andante con moto

IX La sérénade interrompue: “The interrupted serenade.” Debussy leaves us in no doubt that we are here again on the soil of Spain, the scene of other of his musical explorations. Serenading time, most probably a nocturnal scene, an étude on a plaintive Moorish melody, a fragment of Iberia—those are our materials for this ironic, mocking short story of the frustrated serenader.

X La Cathédrale engloutie: “The engulfed cathedral.” This prélude is one of the most mystic of Debussy’s piano works. Based on a legend of Brittany, it describes the Cathedral of Ys, engulfed in the fourth or fifth century “because of the impiety of the inhabitants,” but allowed to rise again and to be seen (as an example to others) at sunrise. Strongly believed in, this legend has long been the center of religious, poetic, and scientific observations.

XI La danse de Puck: A charming caricature of a favorite mischief-maker, impish but not really bad, and whose lightness of touch and fleetness in this prélude is one moment a little serious, and then again capriciously teasing.

XII Minstrels: This is not the medieval scene with troubadours and their ménestrels, the household entertainers of great feudal lords. This is the American scene and one of its rich Black heritages, born around 1828 in the plantations, where household servants put on minstrel shows with Bones, Sambo, and Rastus; cake-walks, cornet solos, scratchy banjos and drums, a sentimental song, a few jokes, and feline dances were the main features of minstrel groups which started appearing in Europe around 1900 in fairs, or on the boardwalks of the seaside resort at Deauville.

Judith Ingolfsson, violin

Brahms, Academic Festival Overture, op. 80

Barber, Concerto, violin, op. 14

Symphony, no. 1, op. 68, C minor

BARBER:  VIOLIN CONCERTO, OP. 14

The first of four concerti that American composer Samuel Barber would produce, the Violin Concerto (1939) stands as one of his true masterpieces, loved by performers and audiences alike.  Born in 1910 to a prominent Pennsylvania family, the young Barber became interested in music from an early age, entering the Curtis Institute at the age of fourteen to study piano, composition, and voice.  Through his twenties, success followed success for the up-and-comer, and he enjoyed numerous commissions and premieres by the most respected artists of the day, including Vladimir Horowitz, Francis Poulenc, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, and Arturo Toscanini (notably, Barber was the first American composer to have a piece performed by Toscanini).

Although he was never a groundbreaking composer, Barber's undisputed technical finesse and beauty of expression are what would earn his music a permanent place in the repertoire.  The Violin Concerto utilizes a classical orchestra, smaller than was in vogue in 1939, with the traditional pairs of winds and brass, simple percussion, piano, and strings.  Some critics and music historians have posited that the Violin Concerto was a turning point in Barber's output, as the first two movements seem to encapsulate his earlier, more romantic style, with the third movement signaling a transition to the tighter, more austere approach that he would adopt in the years to come.  Later in his career he would produce three more concerti, which are also counted as some of his best work. 

The first movement opens with the soloist and orchestra weaving together a beautiful, arching theme, not a little melancholic, which settles into a lush, pastoral response in the orchestral strings.  Overall, the movement sets the tone with broad, romantic themes (with an undercurrent of menace never far from the surface), with only the occasional violent eruption of orchestral climax.  The second movement provides a lovely contrast, opening with a simple, pastoral theme for the solo oboe.  The soloist finally enters, quietly, with a rising arpeggio, culminating in a vibrantly tense, brooding soliloquy.  The third movement is interesting, and for some years after the premiere was the subject of a controversial back-and-forth between performers and critics, some of whom felt that the movement didn't fit logically into the concerto, and was merely "tacked on" to finish the work and fulfill the commission.  The reasoning behind this stems from the fact that the third movement was delivered to its commissioner nearly a year after the first two.  Apparently the violinist in question was not satisfied, and requested that Barber rework the final movement to expand it and clarify its structure.  Barber declined, although what happened next is a bit unclear.  Some accounts record that he returned the advance he had been given, while others maintain that, though requested to return it he refused, saying that he had spent the advance in Switzerland while composing the first two movements.  Whatever the real story, the third movement certainly stands apart from the first two, and is a technical tour-de-force for the soloist, who plays furiously without pause for nearly the entire duration.  Where the previous movements were expansive, taking their time to unravel and develop, the third is short and concise, a fast-paced and tightly-wound spring of electricity which spins seemingly out of control to the finish line.

BRAHMS:  SYMPHONY NR. 1, ACADEMIC FESTIVAL OVERTURE

Johannes Brahms' reluctance to enter into the arena of symphonic composition has been well-documented.  Many have posited that to Brahms, the all-too-recent (and perhaps to his mind, near-perfect) examples of Ludwig van Beethoven were an ever-present deterrent to his otherwise extremely productive musical imagination; it is easy to imagine a thirty-something Brahms sitting at his breakfast table and feeling the first flickerings of the muse, readying himself to begin work on a large project (perhaps a symphony this time, finally?) only to have his inner fires doused completely by an accidental glance at the well-thumbed copy of Beethoven's Ninth, sagging on his parlor piano.  It is probably fair to say that, standing in the shadow of Beethoven, whose nine symphonies not only enjoyed popular success during their composer's lifetime, but had risen even further in public and critical estimation following his death, this younger Brahms felt a bit cowed.  He wanted to wait until his technique was up to the task of carrying on the tradition of his forebear.

The earliest sketches of what would become Brahms' First Symphony date to 1862, sketches that Brahms nursed and developed for at least fourteen years, until the premiere of the new work on November 4, 1876, when the composer was 43 years of age.  The piece has sometimes been referred to as "Beethoven's Tenth," a nickname that rather annoyed Brahms.  There are several thematic similarities between the finale of Beethoven's Ninth and the finale of Brahms' First, references which were an intentional homage on the part of Brahms.  "Any ass can see that," he is supposed to have remarked, when these similarities were pointed out to him.

The First Symphony is scored for a smaller, classical orchestra, with the addition of a few extra brass players, as well as the contrabassoon.  The first movement combines extremely intense, searching melodies and harmonies with softer, more reflective, softly lyrical sections.  Knowing the history of the work's long gestation, it is easy to imagine the opening themes as a massive floodgate finally thrown open, with the pounding timpani sounding the inevitable heavy crush of Brahms' pent-up creative force.  After many turbulent climaxes, the first movement ends peacefully on several sustained C major chords.  The second movement opens with a lovely, drawn out series of melodies which set the stage for a pair of solos from the oboe and the clarinet, and later by the violin.  The third movement is a charming pastoral frolic, interspersed with several melodramatically tense sections, until the energy picks up, spinning us seemingly faster and faster in a kaleidoscope of whirling color.  The rather desolate opening of the final movement reminds us that there are still things to be sorted out, but the slowly building introduction that follows gradually changes character, like the first glimmerings of sunrise, blooming into a lush cathedral of sound.  After this five minute introduction, the noble main theme follows in the strings.  The finale of the symphony crackles with energy, closing the work with a resounding feeling of affirmation and strength.

The "Academic Festival Overture" was composed 1880 as a musical gift to the University of Breslau, who had awarded Brahms an honorary doctorate.  After the award, it had been Brahms' intention to merely write a handwritten note to signify his gratitude, but a colleague warned him that protocol demanded a musical response from the composer.  Brahms didn't typically enjoy this sort of thing, but he kept his end of the bargain by composing a short orchestral work out of several student drinking songs, probably eliciting many a smile and/or raised eyebrow at the premiere, which he himself conducted.  It is impossible for us 21st century non-Germans (and probably for many 21st century Germans as well) to appreciate the slightly comic effect that the piece might have had for audiences in its day, but no matter; the work remains a staple in concert halls the world over, due to it's expansive beauty and glistening, boisterous energy.

Debbie Gravitte, soprano

Michael Hall, conductor

Music from:

Caberet, A Chorus Line, Chicago, Les Miserables, Evita, and many many more.

Winners of this year's Montana Association of Symphony Orchestras Young Artist Competetion

Helene Werner, cellist

Jesse MacDonald, violinst

Ashlee Young, pianist

Liszt, Hungarian Fantasy

Elgar, Concerto, violincello, op. 85, E minor (mvt. 4)

Brahms, Concerto, violin, op. 77, D Major (mvt. 1)

Pippin, Everlasting Light

Bass, Glad Tidings with the Bozeman Symphonic Choir

LISZT: HUNGARIAN FANTASY

The Hungarian composer Franz Liszt stands today as one of the most imminent musical personalities in history, not only due to his achievements behind the piano keyboard, but in his extremely influential roles as composer, teacher, writer, and as a patron and advocate for the new. The idea of the "piano recital" itself, a satisfying concert of music for piano only, we owe to Liszt. He was the first to perform with the piano at right angles to the audience, a seemingly obvious setup, as it directed the sound to the audience rather than the wings of the stage. His skills as a performer are well documented; it seems that he was born to play the piano. A reproduction of an original plaster cast made of Liszt's right hand shows that his fingers were rather abnormally slender and very long. In addition, the webbing between the fingers was almost absent, allowing him a reach of (some say) nearly two octaves. As a composer, Liszt was extremely prolific, producing many works for solo piano and piano with orchestra that are staples in today's repertoire. His "Hungarian Fantasy," for piano and orchestra, is typical of Liszt's composing style, which was romantically virtuosic in the extreme. The work begins with a quiet, dark, rather ominous introduction, an exchange between the low strings and winds, and several hammer falls, and sparkling arpeggios from the piano. Then the soloist takes over, forcefully stating the noble main theme. As the orchestra continues expounding the martial-sounding first melody, the piano skips and dances low and high, darting this way and that, weaving a dazzling web of sound behind the ensemble. The charming succession of little melodies that follow are endlessly elaborated by the soloist; it is truly a fireworks display of the most difficult piano technique, and the orchestra continually drops out completely, leaving the soloist free to soar across the entire range of the instrument, seemingly using every trick in the book.

ELGAR: CELLO CONCERTO, OP. 85, movement IV

According to the official account, the origins of British composer Edward Elgar's expansive Concerto for cello can be traced to 1918, when the 61-year-old Elgar suffered a bout of tonsillitis. After rousing from the effects of the sedation, Elgar asked for pencil and paper, and notated the melody that would become the concerto's first theme. Written during the following spring and summer, the autumn premiere of Elgar's new work did not go at all smoothly. Confronted with inadequate rehearsal time (due to a long-winded conductor), and despite the excellent preparation of the soloist, the orchestra was so under-rehearsed that the premiere performance was utter disaster. The concert received scathing reviews, with one critic stating that, "the orchestra made a public exhibition of its miserable self." Premiere intrigues aside, the cello concerto stands as one of the classics in the repertoire for the instrument. The fourth movement, heard tonight, flows directly on from the third, building tension into the entrance of the soloist, who spins out a mournful introductory soliloquy, before the main themes begin. The concerto as a whole has been seen as a working through of many of the negative feelings that Elgar experienced during World War I. Stylistically, the work represented a change for him, who so often had composed rather pleasant, noble-sounding pieces in the past. The finale of the Cello concerto is extremely moody, with searching melodies and many changes of key, giving the listener a feeling of uncertainty as to the outcome of the journey. Only in the concerto's final minutes does the tempo slow, almost stopping entirely, and the atmosphere soften to a hush, as after a storm. The tranquility is shattered by a final menacing burst from soloist and orchestra, ending the piece with a definitive cadence in the minor.

BRAHMS: VIOLIN CONCERTO, OP. 77, movement I

Brahms began sketching out what would become his Concerto for violin, op. 77, during his summer holiday of 1878. Written for his lifelong friend and recital partner, Joseph Joachim, Brahms was able, through a close working relationship with his friend, to craft a technically rather dazzling piece, a concerto that many performers of the day would consider unplayable, feeling that the work perhaps favored stunning technical display over musicality. Referring to the lovely second movement oboe melody, the famed Spanish violinist Pablo de Sarasate is supposed to have declaimed, "Do you think that I would stand there with my violin in my hand and listen while the oboe plays the only melody in the entire piece?" Nevertheless, the concerto is chockablock full of beautiful melodies for soloist and orchestra alike, as well as the vehicle for some dazzling pyrotechnics for the virtuoso soloist. The first movement, heard tonight, is a world unto itself, and opens with a huge fanfare introduction in the orchestra, paving the way for the entrance of the soloist, who wastes no time in getting right down to some seriously technical passagework. The mood is intense, but finally yields to a soft, delicate section with gorgeous, romantic melodies from the violin and a surging orchestral accompaniment. After several rising and falling climaxes, the orchestra takes a turn, restating the main themes. It is easy to hear the movement as a struggle between two opposing forces: the opening theme's insistent, rather harsh intensity, and the second theme's lyrical romanticism. The soloist repeatedly tries to shake off the weight of the opening, finally succeeding during the dazzling cadenza, which slowly, slowly spirals down to end the movement with a sudden surge of bright, affirmative strength.

DON PIPPIN: EVERLASTING LIGHT

“Hanukkah,” or “Chanukah,” is the Hebrew word for “dedication,” or “consecration.” Also known as the “festival of lights,” this Jewish holiday is celebrated for eight days, marking the reconstruction and rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem (the center of Jewish worship at that time, around 167 BC) after it was desecrated by the Greek ruler Antiochus IV, who had outlawed Jewish religious practices and replaced their artifacts with Greek religious symbols. According to the Talmud, at the rededication of the Temple there was only enough consecrated olive oil to burn for one day. Those present decided to light the flame anyway, hoping that one day’s burning would be pleasing enough in the eyes of the Almighty. Miraculously, this small, one-day portion of oil burned for eight days. The new song “Everlasting Light,” written by well-known Broadway composer David Shire and the lyricist Sheldon Harnick, is taken from an as-yet-unproduced Broadway show entitled “Miracles” (to be premiered this Hanukkah season), and remembers the “everlasting light” of the miracle of the oil.

RANDOL ALAN BASS: GLAD TIDINGS

This jubilant work by Texas composer Randol Alan Bass was created for use in the Houston Symphony Holiday Pops concerts during the 2003 Christmas season. It is a 30-minute, embellished narrative telling of the Christmas story, with a musical underscoring that is interspersed with carol arrangements, laid out in such a way that the story itself is brought to the fore.

Ian Hobson, pianist

Scott Kluksdahl, cellist

Mozart, Idomeneo: Ballet Music

Hayden, Concerto, violoncello, Hob. Vllb:2, D Major

Beethoven, Symphony no. 8, op. 93, F minor

MOZART: BALLET MUSIC FROM IDOMENEO

"As there is no extra ballet, but merely an appropriate divertissement in the opera, I have the honor of composing the music for that as well. I am glad of this, however, for now all the music will be by the same composer."

--Mozart, in a letter to his father. December 30, 1780.

Mozart wrote these five little movements for a ballet that was to be included in the performance of his opera "Idomeneo," a dramatic opera, with characters based on figures in Greek mythology. The rather curious custom (to our modern sensibilities, at any rate) of including a ballet within, or sometimes after, an opera performance was well established in Mozart's day. Most often, these little diversions were inserted somewhere in the middle of the opera, and usually featured music written by a different composer. Perhaps the idea was that, at some point in the evening, the audience's ears would need a substantial break from the musical and dramatic atmosphere of the performance at hand. Mozart's comments to his father are telling, perhaps revealing an underlying dissatisfaction with the system (and perhaps especially with the custom of including work by other composers). It must have been rather annoying (if not downright maddening) to have the "foreign" atmosphere of a different musical personality thrust into one's carefully-crafted production! One can easily imagine how this might have led to all manner of rows and grudges among the composers of the day. The following month, Mozart wrote again to his father, saying, "...Till now I've been kept busy with those cursed dances--Laus Deo (praise be to God)--I have survived it all." The music that Mozart composed for the ballet consists of five movements, and has entered the standard repertoire on its own strength, a staple in today's concert halls and recordings. The opening Chaconne could have been intended as an homage to Gluck's "Iphigénie en Aulide," having been nicked almost note-for-note from the Chaconne in that opera. The music is extremely vibrant and exciting, abundant in melody and rich in colors, textures, with beautiful inner lines. Following the Chaconne is a delicate little Pas Seul, a Passapied, and a Gavotte that Mozart was to recycle in his later Piano Concerto (K. 503). The little ballet set concludes with a fiery Passacaille.

HAYDN: CELLO CONCERTO HOB. VIIb:2, D MAJOR

James Webster has written of Joseph Haydn's character, "[his] public life exemplified the Enlightenment ideal of the honnête homme (honest man): the man whose good character and worldly success enable and justify each other. His modesty and probity were everywhere acknowledged. These traits were not only prerequisites to his success as Kapellmeister, entrepreneur, and public figure, but also aided the favorable reception of his music." The fact that Haydn came from rather humble beginnings and that, at least as a composer, he was largely self-taught, makes him that much more extraordinary. From a young age, Haydn displayed musical talent, a fact that did not go unnoticed by his parents. Knowing that he would have no chance to develop his gifts at home, they sent him to live in the house of a choirmaster in a neighboring town, when Haydn was only six years of age. Frequently hungry in his new abode, he was nevertheless able to learn harpsichord and violin, and sang in the church choir. Later, he was sent to sing at St. Stephens in Vienna (no small honor), where he was also frequently hungry, looking forward to the occasional aristocratic performances where the musicians could take advantage of the situation and devour the refreshments. Of course, we now know that from these origins, Haydn was to set off on a path that would push his musical star to the highest heights, and that he was to become one of the most important composers in the history of European music.

Haydn's second Concerto for Cello, in D major, was written in the usual classical form of three movements, alternating fast, slow, and fast tempi. The first movement begins with a full exposition of the main theme in the orchestra, finally yielding to the soloist who plays it and then embroiders it with a series of moving little technical passages. While the orchestra chugs away in tempo, the soloist skips ahead in double time, then pauses to play the main theme again with the orchestra, very quietly and delicately, taking the foreground again with some virtuosic fireworks. The first movement is rather large, with a central development section in which Haydn explores nearby minor keys, also allowing the soloist many beautiful melodic passages and plenty of opportunity for technical display. The second movement provides a quiet contrast, as expected, with a broad melody, spun out slowly by the cello. Haydn uses simple melody to the best effect here; nothing flashy or technical in this movement, just tender melody, tenderly played. The final movement is the shortest of the three; a gorgeously lilting little tune, with a wonderful main theme that, to our delight, returns again and again.

BEETHOVEN: SYMPHONY NR. 8, OP. 93

Beethoven's Eighth Symphony has occasionally been a bit of a mystery to concert audiences, who, especially at the time of its premiere, thought that it didn't quite get to the same exalted place as Beethoven's previous symphonies, in particular the Seventh Symphony, which was also performed on the premiere of the Eighth. When later asked by his student Carl Czerny why the Eighth was less popular than the Seventh, Beethoven replied, "because it is so much better." It is easy to imagine that, especially when put right up against the intense, searching music of the Seventh, the public simply wrote off the piece as a "lighterweight" diversion, certainly charming and well-crafted, but not an impressively complex manifesto! Perhaps in the rapidly evolving romantic ideal of Beethoven's day (an ideal that has been in full flower now for over 150 years!), "delightful and charming" was becoming synonymous with "outmoded and bourgeois." Captivated by emotional sturm and drang, people tend to forget that it's much more difficult to write convincingly in the major key, rather than in the minor. But no matter; Beethoven's Eighth is simply sunny and noble, classically proportioned, and full of beautiful melodies. He is said to have referred to it as, "My little one." The first movement opens with the vigorous, rhythmic main theme. The second theme is brightly pastoral, leading into a tense little section with tremolo strings in the background, turning around again into a restatement of the first theme. The central section of the movement uses a nifty little octave figure from the end of the second theme as a backdrop for some key-exploring and a little quasi-fugue passage. Very exciting stuff, leading us back to the main theme once again. The second movement is dance-like and playful, and perhaps a loving parody of the metronome, which had just been invented around that time. You can hear the metronome begin right away with the little "bump bumps" in the winds. Overall, it's a short little diversion with shifting rhythms and a real peasant-dance charm. The third movement returns us to lilting triple-meter, with rough and tumble accents making the whole thing gently raucous. The final movement is brilliantly quick, with many unexpected twists and turns, changes of key, dynamics, and other tricks to keep us on the edge of our seats.

Joel Jahnke, actor

Loren Acton, actor

R Strauss, Also Sprach Zarathustra (introduction)

Custer, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Main Theme)

Holst, Saturn, Bringer of Old Age from the Planets

Williams/Whitney, Empire Strikes Back Medley

Horner/Moss, Apollo 13

Holst, Jupiter, The Bringer of Jollity

Williams/Ployhar, Theme from E.T.

Joseph Gramley, percussionist

Mendelssohn, Midsummernight's Dream: Overture, op. 21

Torke, Rapture

Rimsky-Korsakov, Scheherazade, op. 35

MENDELSSOHN:  MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM: OVERTURE, OP. 21

Born in Hamburg, the son of a banker, the young Felix Mendelssohn had many opportunities to interact with some of the greatest minds in Germany, many of whom were frequent visitors to the family home.  Felix's father, Abraham, had many notable friends and acquaintances; renowned mathematicians, philosophers, writers, and musicians were constantly swirling about the house during Felix's childhood.  Many scholars today have agreed that he was probably the greatest child prodigy after W.A. Mozart, with many early public performances on the piano, and his first compositions published by the age of thirteen.  The young composer had many opportunities for public performances of his work, made possible through a series of concerts in the Mendelssohn home, complete with a private orchestra, for members of Berlin's intellectual community.  Indeed, not a few of his most popular compositions are from this early period.  His overture to "A Midsummer Night's Dream" was written when he was 17, and shows his raw talent for melody, dramatic shape, and instrumental color.

TORKE:  RAPTURE

Here's Michael Torke, discussing his percussion concerto, "Rapture":

Commissioned by the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, Rapture is the first new work written as that orchestra's Associate Composer. I collaborated closely with Colin Currie, the soloist, to learn how to write for percussion.  In a surreal late poem by W. B. Yeats, "News for a Delphic Oracle", he describes a mythic and transcendent sexual state. A kind of rapture.  "…Those Innocents re-live their death… Through their ancestral patterns dance.."  A brute beating of drums may connote an earthly violence, but when it is organized and insistent, it begins to have a ritualistic effect, and incite a kind of rapture. It is that kind of transcendence that I am interested in discovering in this composition.  I have often believed there is a thin line that separates religious rapture from sexual rapture. Music has the capability of reflecting that intersection.  When Yeats writes, " …Down the mountain walls, From where Pan's cavern is, Intolerable music falls….", he is characterizing this transfigured state as over- brimming, over- flowing, and overpowering. Since it is too much to bear; this rapture, we can only submit.

My usual approach to composing is to think of melodies as the building blocks of a piece. Faced with the task of writing for non- pitched percussion instruments, like drums, wooden instruments, and metallic instruments, I was challenged to find a way to shape and develop the music.  My solution was to shadow everything the soloist is doing. For example, in the first movement, which features drums and woods, when Colin plays a pattern on three high Tom-toms, clarinets and trumpets play three and only three assigned pitches. At exactly the same rhythm. Every percussion instrument of Colin's at the front of the stage is mirrored by specific instruments in the orchestra. In the third movement, which features metallic instruments (a kind of "industrial rig", as Colin would say), tins are matched with flutes and piccolo, pipes with clarinets, cow bells with oboes and bassoons, gongs laid flat with horns, cymbals with trumpets, and brake drums with trombones. The energy of the outer two movements finds repose in the slower middle movement, that features mallets: marimba and vibraphone.

This technique is reinforcing: the soloist gives an edge, a pronouncement, to the notes from the orchestra, and the orchestra gives a context and a melodic value to the rhythms the soloist is playing. Reinforcement gives confidence and power to the overall result.  The concerto explores a new idea of the roles of soloist and orchestra. In my piece, the tight correspondence between the two is the antithesis of the romantic struggle between the soloist as hero, conquering his foe, the orchestra- rendered in the end as only an accompanist. Yet my soloist is the leader, the initiator of every rhythm that the orchestra is bound in a slave-like way to shadow. The orchestra, however, is not subordinate in their role because by shadowing, they add vital color and perspective without which the soloist's patterns would not have much meaning on its own.

RIMSKY-KORSAKOV:  SCHEHERAZADE, OP. 35

The Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov was, at least in his earlier years, a world traveler.  Having studied from a young age at the School for Mathematical and Navigational Sciences in St. Petersburg (and despite having shown prodigious musical talent as a boy), he subsequently joined the Imperial Russian Navy, only turning to music seriously after an auspicious meeting with fellow Russian composer Mily Balakirev.  He composed his first symphony while on a three-year world cruise for the navy, completing many of his earlier works while on such voyages.  He only turned to music as a full-time pursuit at age 27, when he accepted a position as composition teacher at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, despite his lack of "official" training.

Rimsky-Korsakov is known as a master of orchestration, the art of using combinations of instruments within the orchestra to achieve different "colors" and effects.  It is well-known that he experienced music as color (synesthesia) as well as sound, so that he would "see" different color combinations in his mind, based on the major or minor key center that he was hearing with his ears.  His symphonic suite "Scheherazade" is a riot of color, and uses a romantic orchestra, with slightly expanded winds, brass, and percussion.  The suite could be seen as a pastiche of atmospheres taken from the folk stories collected in the "1001 Arabian Nights."  In the Arabian Nights, a nasty Sultan commands each of his many concubines in turn to tell him a bedtime story; at the end of the story, she will be killed.  This continues for some time, until the clever Scheherazade is called in to entertain the sultan.  She deftly weaves tales of adventure, passion and peril into an unbroken chain, continuing night after night, each time leaving the sultan unwilling to kill her until he can hear the end of the fascinating tale at hand.  After 1001 nights, 1001 stories, the sultan agrees to spare her life.

Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scherezade" is structured in four movements to which he had originally assigned titles, though it is important to realize that this was at a colleague's suggestion, and after the music had been composed.  Later, he changed his mind and removed the titles so as to discourage any continued "literal" readings of the music.  It is interesting to put the titles aside and simply experience the panorama of sound for what it is, as I feel that this deepens the meaning of the music.  Movement titles aside, we do know that Rimsky-Korsakov intended several of the main themes to have specific associations.  In the first movement, the first theme we hear is that of the sultan; loud, vicious, and powerful.  After a beautiful series of framing chords in the winds, we hear the gentle, lilting theme of Schererazade herself, in the solo violin.  This theme returns in every movement, in various guises and colors, spinning out, twisting, and weaving itself into the fabric of the continuously-unfolding aural canvas of the four sections.  Listening to the piece as a whole, it becomes easy to lose yourself in the colorful themes and variations as they unfold, until you wake again to find yourself sitting in front of Scheherazade, who gently reminds you that all of this is, after all, only a story.

Maureen O'Flynn, soprano

Stephen Bryant, bass-baritone

Sibelius, Symphony no. 1, op. 39, E minor

Stroope, Commissioned work for acapella choir

Dvorak, Te Deum, op. 103

SIBELIUS: SYMPHONY NR. 1, OP. 39

"Even by Nordic standards, Sibelius responded with exceptional intensity to the moods of nature and the changes in the seasons: he scanned the skies with this binoculars for the geese flying over the lake ice, listened to the screech of the cranes, and heard the cries of the curlew echo over the marshy grounds just below Ainola..."

--Erik Tawaststjerna, biographer of Jean Sibelius

The first symphony of Jean Sibelius opens with a long, plaintive solo for clarinet, shadowed for a time by an ominous timpani accompaniment. This quiet introduction is abruptly shattered by an intense burst from the violins, with the broad and expansive main theme heard below it. First time listeners may detect the influence of Brahms and Tchaikovsky, especially in the soaring romanticism of the themes. This is the drama of nature; listening, one can hear the vast landscapes of Finland, peer into its deeper forests and secret places. The second movement begins as a kind of beautiful lullaby, with a quiet strumming and a gentle, melancholy melody, pulsing forward. The music of night. This peace does not last, however, as a little counterpoint section in the woodwinds signals a transition to a more urgent, yearning set of variations on the main theme. Indeed, the culmination of this movement is so energetic and dramatic, and such a contrast to the opening, that it might have functioned as the finale of the whole symphony. The third movement is a rough and tumble scherzo (Italian, meaning "joke"). It's a wonderful melange, with charmingly colorful passages for the woodwinds, and a vigorous, folk-dance joy. There is also something of a "grand ballroom" air that comes through in certain sections, a beautiful contrast to the rather rough, peasant dance rhythms in the opening. The Finale, marked "Quasi una fantasia," opens with a dark, phantasmal introduction, with melancholy solos in the winds. Initially, the mood is rather forlorn, but soon the orchestra begins to gather its forces, in the form of quietly intensifying, darting rhythms that continue to build, yet suddenly surrender into a beautiful, languidly romantic theme in the strings. No sooner have we relaxed into this wonderful atmosphere than the dark, quasi-fugue-like, scurrying figures return, this time seeming to have massed even more strength into a final assault. The romantic theme answers again, however, this time building into the ultimate climax of the symphony, though not without a final word from the darker powers that began the movement, as Sibelius ends his symphony with a cadence in the minor key, and two quietly ominous plucks from the strings.

DVORAK: TE DEUM, OP. 103

Dvorak's "Te Deum" was written in July of 1892, for the National Conservatory of America in New York. The new work was to be premiered during the 400th anniversary festivities of Columbus' discovery of the new world. In addition, the piece was supposed to function as a celebration of Dvorak's arrival in America to take up the directorship of the National Conservatory, a position that he was to begin that autumn. He had been contacted the previous month by the founder of the conservatory, Jeanette Thurber, who requested that a new work be written for these occasions, a work that would be based upon a text that she would choose herself and then send on to Dvorak, who was still in Europe. When some time had passed and the text had not arrived, Dvorak grew worried and decided to start working, choosing the hymn "Te Deum Laudamus" as his new text. Interestingly, the text from Mrs Thurber did eventually arrive. It was called "The American Flag," and though Dvorak did set it to music, the piece is not often performed today.

The "Te Deum" opens with a joyous, pounding timpani fanfare and orchestral introduction, which prepares the entrance of the chorus by creating a wonderful atmosphere of excitement and expectation. When the voices do enter, the whole ensemble seems to burst at the seams with an unstoppable energy. The chorus alone provide the hushed transition to the Sanctus, and a gorgeous solo for soprano. The accompaniment in the strings is muted and restrained, providing a lush bed for the voice, which alternates the text with several refrains in the low voices. This creates a quiet, spiritual atmosphere which is abruptly shattered by the triumphant return of the main theme with full orchestra and chorus. The Tu Rex Gloriae follows without a break, with a lovely and noble solo for bass voice. Dvorak chooses a wind accompaniment here, with light pizzicato in the strings providing an ample rhythmic motor. The refrains in this movement again alternate with sections in the chorus, this time including the female voices, which are absolutely transparent, light as air, gorgeous. The next section, the Aeterna Fac, has a more urgent character, with it's minor key, driving pulse, and tense bursts of tremolo in the strings. The chorus itself acts as vocal soloist in this movement, and Dvorak uses them to play with rhythm and dynamics, creating a rather ominous atmosphere. The final section, the "Dignare, Domine," follows immediately, with a lyrical solo for soprano. Dvorak slowly begins building this final section to a climax for both soloists and the full choral and orchestral ensemble that is nothing short of staggering.