Alexander Borodin (1833-1887)
In the Steppes of Central Asia (1880)
When is an amateur not an amateur? It is a tough question to answer with respect to Borodin. ‘By day’ he was an internationally respected chemist specializing in valerian aldehydes. ‘By night’ he became one of the most well-known of the St. Petersburg School of Russian nationalist composers from the latter half of the nineteenth century. In the end, Borodin’s status as an amateur (or not) is beside the point – he wrote great music which has endured. In the Steppes of Central Asia was written in 1880 as one of twelve pieces commissioned from various Russian composers to accompany a series of tableaux vivants illustrating events in the first quarter century of the reign of Tsar Alexander II.
Borodin described In the Steppes as: “In the silence of the steppes of Central Asia is heard the refrain of a peaceful Russian song. One also hears the melancholy sound of oriental song, and with it the steps of approaching horses and camels. A caravan, escorted by Russian soldiers, traverses the immense desert, and continues its long journey, trusting confidently in the protection of the Russian soldiery. The caravan steadily advances. The song of the Russians and that of the natives mingle in one and the same harmony. The refrains are heard for a long time in the desert, and at last are lost in the distance.”
In the Steppes of Central Asia is a tone-poem. There are two main themes – one Russian sounding (introduced by the clarinet, and then the horn), the other more oriental (sung by the cor anglais), all over a glittering high E in octaves from the violins (initially just two players, but eventually embracing the entire first violin section). These themes are echt-Borodin, though ‘appearing’ to be true folksongs. The themes are cleverly conceived, as Borodin hints in his note, to create interesting contrapuntal possibilities when combined. In the Steppes is in arch form, emerging quietly from nowhere and, with time (just listen to the camels padding persistently across the landscape in the pizzicato off-beat lower strings), disappearing quietly over the horizon.
The essence of the score is not about thematic development – there is none – but about orchestral colour and atmosphere; it is an evocation of an exotic, distant place. The magician Borodin succeeds brilliantly – as if, like the great English painter, Turner, who was ever-ready with his sketch book, he had ‘buzzed’ the caravan on his flying carpet and had made notes as the sun cast and eliminated shadows on the travellers below. At high noon, the Russian theme is thundered out by the full orchestra, the only tutti in the entire work.
Valerian aldehydes must be potent stirrers of the imagination!
© David Gardner
Jean Sibelius (1865-1957)
Violin Concerto (1903)
Allegro Moderato
Adagio di molto
Allegro, ma non tanto
How many pieces did Sibelius write for solo violin? One, many would think. The better-informed might put it at around ten. In fact the total is over sixty! Salon miniatures at first (up to about 1894) then, from 1914, a glorious ‘late’ flowering of miniature masterpieces for violin and orchestra. Bang in the middle between those two periods, lies this concerto. Written between 1902-1905, it is a great peak of a piece; moreover, it is his only concerto. Might all this go some way to explaining its unusual combination of caution and mastery?
In its general shape and character, Sibelius modeled his concerto after the 19th century masters. Its three movements, each shorter than the one before, fall in a familiar pattern. The Allegro Moderato offers the most thoroughgoing musical argument while the Allegro ma non tanto closes the piece with a dance and flourish. Between those extremes lies the spiritual and lyrical heart of the piece, the Adagio. Change the movement titles and that description could apply equally well to Brahms’s or Beethoven’s violin concertos. But while Sibelius is content to follow his musical ancestors thus far, he shows a highly personal mastery of all other aspects of the concerto. His affinity with the violin is no surprise - after all he had played it from an early age. Even so, the dialogue between solo and orchestra is handled with rare and idiosyncratic skill. His concerto also shares those marvelous qualities of just proportion and deep musical thought with the great orchestral works that had already made his name: his first three symphonies, Kullervo, En Saga, the Lemminkaïnen Legends.
The truth is that those qualities were hard won. Sibelius did not strike gold first time, but withdrew his first version of the concerto immediately after its premiere in 1903. He declared that it needed two years of revision. He put it away for the first year, then subjected it to a radical re-write, editing out around 10% of its original material. Having streamlined it, and toned down the showiness of the solo part (deleting one whole cadenza) he revealed the piece anew to an expectant musical world. In the audience was the man who had inspired Brahms’s concerto: Joseph Joachim. His verdict was damning – and shared by others: ‘boring.’ This time, however, Sibelius himself had no doubts. He knew that he had expressed exactly what he wanted in the Concerto and he stood by it. It took some time, decades in fact, but slowly the rest of the world came to share his high opinion of it.
© Svend Brown
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Symphony No 5 in C minor, Op 67 (1808)
Allegro con brio
Andante con moto
Allegro
Allegro
"Three G's and an E flat. Simple. Baby simple. Anybody could do it. Maybe." Leonard Bernstein's famously laconic comment on the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony spotlit the astounding effect in this work of a motif the composer had already employed, to quite different effect, in his third and fourth piano concertos. Beethoven's own comment, as quoted by his unreliable friend Schindler, was that in the Fifth Symphony the notes represented Fate rapping at the door. The description went down in history, though it prompted the Austrian theorist Heinrich Schenker to ask whether the same motif in the fourth piano concerto therefore represented Fate rapping at a different door or whether someone else was doing the rapping. In fact the motif was a regular Beethoven fingerprint during a certain period in his career, though he never used it to more potent effect than in the Fifth Symphony, where it pervades the opening movement and returns in both the scherzo and finale. It is a motif which, in any case, had already been employed by Cherubini in his Hymne du Pantheon, as Beethoven surely knew.
The thematic unity of the first movement of the Fifth Symphony is nevertheless one of its strongest features, transcending not only Cherubini's but Beethoven's own previous use of it. Hurled at us at start of the work, it makes its point unequivocally and goes on making it. Not even the plaintive little oboe cadenza which quietly intrudes at the height of the action can impede its progress for long. But whether, as has often been claimed, the music's inexorably marching motion represents Austria expelling the French is hard to say. Certainly, although some listeners are unwilling to see it that way, this is a profoundly militaristic work, and the brassy fanfares in the slow movement, the screeching piccolo and braying trombones in the finale, are in themselves enough to demonstrate this. Not for nothing did a member of the Napoleonic guard, on hearing it for the first time, feel impelled to spring to his feet at the start of the finale crying: "C'est l'empereur." Though that would suggest he had got the wrong end of the stick, it was for the right reasons. The music is ceremonial, victorious, exultant, even brutal in a way that the composer did not always feel to be necessary.
Beethoven, who had once contemplated settling in Paris rather than Vienna, held famously self-contradictory views on Napoleon, as well as possessing a considerable admiration for French music. It was Berlioz, a Frenchman, who said that Beethoven's ability to sustain such a height of effect in this work was prodigious. Yet it took a long time - four years, from 1804 until 1808 - for him to shape the music to his satisfaction. The slow movement, originally conceived as a sort of lumbering minuet, eventually became a theme and variations through whose notes a hint of minuet motion remained discernible. The scherzo, originally an extended movement on the lines of those of the fourth and seventh symphonies, eventually grew shorter. The finale, linked to the scherzo by ghostly drum taps and stealthy strings, announces itself with the most famous burst of C major in musical history, but later refers back to the ghostly passage already heard.
Yet the work as a whole is not purely about progress from the darkness of C minor to the sunshine of the major key. The four notes with which it opens - those three G's and and an E flat - are not specifically in the key of C minor at all. Nor are they played by the full orchestra, though that is the effect which their initial statement on strings and clarinets manages to convey. Beethoven's Fifth may be the most often performed of all his symphonies, but it still has the power to surprise.
© Conrad Wilson
Conductor Emeritus Joseph Swensen sweeps through more than a century of Romanticism in this concert – from the triumph of Beethoven’s Fifth, to Borodin’s epic and exotic landscape and Sibelius’ arresting concerto.
The Orchestra performed Beethoven's Symphonies Nos 1-8 at the 2006 Edinburgh International Festival, under Sir Charles Mackerras. The performances were recorded by Hyperion and released as a 5-disc CD box set. The Philarmonia Orchestra perform Symphony No 9. Buy from the SCO Online Shop.

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