Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Overture, Fidelio (1814)
Beethoven’s Fidelio, his only completed opera, was a triumph of personal will. He composed three versions of it, four overtures to it, and no fewer than eighteen variants of Florestan’s melody before he was satisfied that he had got it as right as it was ever going to be. The four overtures symbolised his struggle. Each of them contained masterly music. Yet, as one authority has put it, they were written by a composer who was worried either that he had not attained his object or that he had been mistaken as to what that object should be.
The three Leonora overtures, named after the opera’s plucky heroine, were inspired examples of trial and error. Only then, a decade after he had first written the opera, was Beethoven confident enough to produce an overture which would become known as Fidelio rather than Leonora No 4. The name carried an air of finality, though the overture was shorter and lighter than its predecessors and was written in haste – just in time, in fact, for the second performance of the perfected opera in Vienna’s Karntnertortheater in May 1814.
The lightness of touch was deliberate. By the time he recognised the need for it, Beethoven had become aware that Leonora No 3, for all its greatness, was too hefty a masterpiece for an opera whose heroic message was delivered through music which, at least in the opening numbers, had the pace and style of operatic comedy. The Fidelio Overture’s horn calls, clarinet extensions, cloudy modulations, and changes of pace may anticipate the romanticism of Weber, but the crackling energy of much of the music possesses an almost classical concision, to which Beethoven added his own characteristic pungency.
To say that the result is less great than Leonora No 3 is perfectly true but beside the point. The Fidelio overture was not meant to be great, but it was certainly meant to fit its context and to make the audience sit up. In both these aims it succeeds admirably.
© Conrad Wilson
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Violin Concerto in D major, Op 61 (1806)
Allegro ma non troppo
Larghetto -
Rondo: Allegro
The piano was Beethoven’s instrument, the one upon which he proved himself a brilliant soloist and improviser, and for which he composed the bulk of his sonatas, concertos, and sets of variations. But like Haydn and Mozart before him, he also studied the violin and learned enough about it to produce what posterity has decreed to be the greatest of all violin concertos. Insufficiently adept to play the work himself, he entrusted its first performance to the leader of the orchestra, Franz Clement, a Viennese virtuoso whose musical versatility included such feats of showmanship as improvising a sonata on one string with his violin turned upside down. It was doubtless the latter trick that prompted Beethoven to inscribe on his manuscript the pun, "Concerto per Clemenza pour Clement"; but, as things turned out at the Theater an der Wien in December 1806, Clement did not give Beethoven the clemency he sought. After playing the first movement without incident, he inserted one of his own freakish sonatas before proceeding to the sublime larghetto.
Beethoven’s may have been a pianist’s violin concerto - so were Brahms’ and Mendelssohn’s - but it is as inspired in its tiny details (such as delaying the use of pizzicato notes until the finale, and then using them in just one single bar) as in its long-spun lines. Clement, moreover, must have possessed qualities that prompted Beethoven to let him play it. As one commentator has remarked: "Tone, not display, is its secret." It dates from one of the most productive periods in Beethoven’s life, the two years in which he also composed Fidelio, the Fourth Symphony, the Fourth Piano Concerto, the three Rasumovsky string quartets, and the 32 piano variations in C minor. In mood it corresponds most closely with the Fourth Piano Concerto, but is even more lyrically spacious in design, treating its material with still greater patience. The soloist’s entry in the first movement is delayed until what seems like the last possible moment, and not until the coda is the wondrous (and sublimely simple) second theme heard in its entirety on the solo violin.
The first movement’s binding factor is the rhythm of the five soft drum taps heard at the outset. Tossed from section to section of the orchestra, this motif underpins, punctuates, and inspires the wealth of themes from which Beethoven builds the music, adding a high clarity of definition to a movement otherwise dependent principally on lyrical flow. The larghetto in G major, though only 92 bars long, has the idyllic stillness found in some of Beethoven’s other great slow movements - that of the Emperor concerto springs particularly to mind - although its dreamy beauty (based largely on a series of ethereal variations on the muted opening theme) is finally interrupted by bold orchestral chords, dramatically signalling the return of the home key. These lead without a break to the genial finale, a rondo with a rocking main theme in 6/8 time, with contrasted episodes (one of them employing a solo bassoon to droll yet curiously poignant effect) and a radiance that anticipates the equivalent movement of the Pastoral symphony, composed two years later.
© Conrad Wilson
Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)
Symphony No 1 in C minor, Op 68 (1876)
Un poco sostenuto – Allegro
Andante sostenuto
Un poco allegretto e grazioso
Adagio – Piu andante – Allegro ma non troppo, ma con brio
"Long and not exactly amiable" was Brahms’s typically gruff description of his First Symphony, completed at the age of 43, fourteen years after he had sent a sketch of its opening bars to his friend Clara Schumann. A neurotically unwilling symphonist, he had already transformed a previous such work into his first piano concerto. Then he had produced his Alto Rhapsody, his Variations on the St Anthony Chorale, and much fine chamber music in further avoidance of the issue. Yet his would-be symphony would not go away. By the time he completed it, the teenage Mahler and Richard Strauss were heading for fame, and Beethoven (with whom he feared comparison) had been dead for half a century. Brahms was running late, but he triumphed in the end. His Symphony in C minor – Beethoven’s favourite key of conflict – rose above the gibes that musicians of the period hurled at it.
The similarities, as Brahms himself asserted, were in any case superficial. The first movement’s portentous, not exactly amiable introduction is wholly Brahmsian in texture and tension. The succeeding
Allegro, signposted by a drum thwack, is similarly sinewy and restless, its pulse increasingly like that of a grimly grinding scherzo, which is eventually stopped in its tracks. A back reference to the introduction, with a brief glimpse of the work’s C major goal, brings the movement to its close.
But C major is still a long way off. The slow movement, which Eduard Hanslick – Vienna's pro-Brahmsian, anti-Wagnerian critic – described as a "sustained, noble song," turns instead to E major and the strings sing a tender melody, extended by oboe. Towards the end, the intertwining of horn and solo violin is a radiant masterstroke by a composer sometimes dismissed as a severely functional orchestrator.
Sustaining the mood, the third movement is a clarinet intermezzo of a very Brahmsian sort. It postpones the forthcoming struggle between C minor and C major by being cast in the key of A-flat, and is characterised by the very definitely amiable melody with which it opens.
The finale, by far the biggest of the four movements, brings the music back to its C minor roots before battling its way to C major. Muttering pizzicati and fierce swirls of string tone set the stage for drama. Then, with a powerful, almost Wagnerian drum-roll, the atmosphere clears and the horns sound a bell-like theme over shimmering strings. Trombones intone a solemn chorale and the allegro section is launched with the broad melody that was to be compared (to Brahms’ discomfort) with Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. From here the music moves inexorably into sunshine.
© Conrad Wilson
Elts directs two late-Romantic symphonies this season – Brahms here, and Sibelius in April. This is the SCO grown as big as it gets but without sacrificing that close-up energy and attention to the subtleties that make it so special. Beethoven’s Violin Concerto offers a wonderful contrast to the previous week’s piano concerto, as luminous and poised as the other is brilliant and fiery.
Sir Charles Mackerras conducts Brahms Symphony No 1 in C minor, Op 68

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