György Ligeti (1923-2006)
Concerto Românesc (1951)
What is so fascinating about this rip-roaring early work is that it reveals Ligeti composing in a vein that contrasts starkly with the avant garde processes he was to evolve during the late 1950s and 1960s, and which were to play such an important role in the evolution of new music in the second half of the Twentieth Century. One might compare Lutoslawski’s early Lacrymosa, which is indebted to his Polish predecessor Szymanowski in much the same way that Ligeti here honours the memory of Bela Bartók. Likewise Ligeti’s piano music of the early 1950s pays homage to Bartók's collection Mikrokosmos.
The world Ligeti so vividly evokes here is that of Romanian folk music. The western part of modern Romania (Ligeti was born in Dicsöszentmárton – Romanian Târnäveni - and educated at the Conservatoire in Cluj, or in Hungarian, Kolozsvár), was for centuries a part of the Hungarian empire, while the East (Wallachia, Moldavia and Bessarabia) enjoyed some measure of independence. Indeed, it may be slightly misleading to speak of any single type of ‘folk music’ in this region, for each different aria – Romanian Transylvania, The Hungarian Palic country, Hungary’s northern borderlands abutting Slovakia and the Ukraine, and the Hungarian Puszta (the horse-rearing plains to the south, lying between the rivers Danube and Tisza) all had their own distinctive folk melodies.
Amongst his childhood experiences in his native Transylvania (now north west Romania) Ligeti remembered a wild band of musicians wearing animal masks bursting its way into the family courtyard and playing lively, dissonant folk tunes on violin and bagpipes; and even earlier, as a small boy of three, being fascinated when he encountered, in the Carpathian Mountains, a player of the alpine horn (called a bucium, after the Latin).
Ligeti’s Concert Românesc opens with a reflective Andantino or Larghetto, launched shyly by upper then lower strings, followed by woodwind, whose sad modal harmonies and open fifths suggest a medieval underlay (although there are also surprising affinities with Copland’s treatment of Appalachian folk music!). The bustling Allegro Vivace is very much in the spirit of Bartók’s thrusting Romanian Dances: piccolo and clarinet both have their say, and there’s a cheerful echo of that folk violin Ligeti encountered as a boy. The Adagio, embracing sad horn calls and a plaintive, oriental-hued cor anglais melody, just briefly blossoms, conjuring up memories of Kodály’s full-blooded Hungarian dance suites, before dying away in eerie spirals of intertwining woodwind.
The final movement, Molto vivace, is the longest, and here we find Ligeti at last spreading his composer’s wings and scampering into the more sophisticated world of Bartók’s The Wooden Prince or The Miraculous Mandarin: the dance element is heavily syncopated, with string and woodwind soloists alternately assuming the lead, rather like expressive jazz musicians. But there’s a surprise. Near the close, the dance just won’t let go: there is an exciting and utterly unexpected coda, in which the orchestra fails to muffle the high-riding solo violin, and we hear the music (amid mysterious horn calls) wander off into the distance, almost as if it were evanescing or being reabsorbed into the atmosphere, as electricity - before it is silenced by an abrupt farewell.
© Roderic Dunnett
Erkki-Sven Tüür (b.1959)
Symphony No 8 world premiere
SCO commission with funding from the Scottish Government.
I composed the Eighth Symphony at the suggestion of my good friend Olari Elts; it was commissioned by the Scottish Chamber Orchestra. Considering the instrumentation of the orchestra (double woodwinds, 2 trumpets, two French horns, one percussionist and strings) it almost seems like a chamber symphony. Indeed, there are several chamber-like passages, but the intense tectonic shifts between sound masses are equally important. Thus, I simply added it to the list of my symphonies without granting it a separate “chamber symphony” status.
One of the ideas guiding the internal psychological development logic of this symphony might be the creation of structure and then bringing it to life. In other words, the initial dominating objective and detached observation gradually grows more subjective and, hopefully, more involved and passionate.
As for musical form, the Eighth Symphony is divided into three movements, all of them performed attacca.
The key motif (1-1-1) X, which forms the foundation for musical development throughout the composition, consists of three ascending minor second intervals with a ‘knocking’ rhythm. This is followed by a micro-polyphonic ‘sound cloud’, Y based on the same intervals, which is interrupted by the next ‘knocking’. These two elements are similar in terms of intervals, but opposites in terms of character and rhythm, evolving into contrasting realms of sound. Everything that ensues is an alternation of focus between X and Y. The first movement, in turn, consists of three parts. The first part is fast, intense, and plays with shifts in various types of texture. The interval range gradually expands, introducing the major second, then the minor third, major third, etc. (1—2—3—4 etc).
This so-called ‘expansion’ also becomes a key principle for the development of linear processes throughout the whole symphony. The second part of the first movement is chamber-like music enriched with several intertwining solo passages. This zooms in on the world represented by Y. The third part returns to the motifs originating from X, but much more fiercely.
The second movement begins with a complete standstill, while taking the developments of Y under even greater scrutiny. Unlike the beginning of the first movement, this section is dominated by descending elements. The initially frozen world begins to ‘warm up’ slowly; at some point, the melodic line that evolves from yet another intervallic expansion starts to resemble archaic Estonian folk songs.
The third movement presents somewhat surreal (dance-like!) surprises that culminate into co-functionality between X and Y, whereas the three-note motifs performed by strings have undergone a tremendous expansion compared to their starting point.
The constant sense of ‘being on the road’, organic development and fluidity is crucial for this music. Taking note of the brief description above is optional, not obligatory. Trust your intuition, sharpen your attention and let the energy springing from the music speak to you. The best approach I can recommend is prejudice-free listening. Thus, everyone can create their very own unique story while listening to this music.
Erkki-Sven Tüür
(Translation from Estonian Pirjo Püvi)
Jean Sibelius (1865-1957)
Symphony No 3 in C, Op 52 (1907)
Allegro moderato
Andantino con moto, quasi allegretto
Moderato – allegro (ma non tanto) - allegro
With the Third, Sibelius’ symphonic thinking finally turned the corner towards which his music had been moving during the first years of the twentieth century. His Second Symphony, of 1901-2, was a big expansive work in the romantic-nationalist mould. But even here there were signs of a more classical approach to symphonic construction. In its tautness and concision the Third Symphony confirms the new emphasis and lays out the ground for later developments.
It started to take shape in Sibelius’ mind in 1904. He began serious work on it in September, but he then appears to have diverted his attention to other projects. By December 1906 he was fully immersed in the symphony again, writing to his publisher “my whole being is consumed by it.” Even so, he was unable to finish the score in time for the planned first performance, which he was to have conducted in March 1907 in London at the invitation of the Royal Philharmonic Society. Instead, the premiere was given in Helsinki in September. Perhaps by way of compensation, Sibelius recorded a link with this country by dedicating the symphony to the composer Granville Bantock. Bantock had been one of the first British musicians to champion Sibelius’s work, and was his generous host when he made his first visit to this country in 1905.
With its lack of any kind of introduction, the contrast between the Third and the first two symphonies is apparent immediately. It sets off with a crisp, energetic theme on the cellos and basses with no preliminary scene-setting or, to start with, supporting harmonies. Its sharp melodic and rhythmic outline launches the symphony with a confidence and sense of purpose that has no need of attention-grabbing rhetoric. The rather melancholy cello theme that emerges later seems to be constantly turning in on itself, but it eventually gets swept up into the music’s forward-driving energy. Suddenly, a mysterious string passage leads us into a half-lit region of soft horn chords and solo woodwind figures. But the initial energy is still there, mainly in the strings, quietly driving the music forward to the return of the opening theme, which is almost submerged in the movement’s big sonorous climax.
The second movement has the deceptive air of a light-weight intermezzo between the two outer movements. Its gently ruminative, rhythmically ambiguous theme (are there two beats in the bar or three?) is both melancholy and playful at the same time. An accelerating passage for pizzicato strings prompts a brief flurry of more focussed activity, before the opening music returns to close the movement.
It is the third movement, a scherzo that gradually takes on the function and character of a finale, that most clearly points the direction in which Sibelius’ concern for compact structures was to lead. It begins with what seem to be unconnected scraps of material - a brief wisp of a theme for solo oboe, an energised wavy line on the violas, a quiet but trenchant little figure on the cellos and basses. But it is out of these that Sibelius builds this extraordinarily original and impressive movement. Echoes of the second movement on flutes, then oboes, slow the music down briefly, before it picks up speed again, generating the powerful momentum that is to drive the music inexorably forward.
Eventually, hints of a new idea start appearing on the cellos, then violas. This continues to grow, becoming a broad, purposeful, striding theme that dominates the second half of the movement. The conclusion, succinct almost to the point of understatement, is all of a piece with the character of the symphony as a whole. In this connection it is worth remembering that it was in 1907, the year the Third Symphony was premiered, that Sibelius has his famous conversation with Mahler, in which he said that what he admired in symphonic form was “its style and severity...and the profound logic that created an inner connection between all the motifs.” With the Third Symphony Sibelius was firmly engaged in the task of paring his musical style down to its essentials.
© Mike Wheeler
“My pieces are abstract dramas in sound, with characters and an extremely dynamic chain of events; they unfold in a space that is constantly shifting, expanding and contracting…” A perfect characterisation of Sibelius’ symphonies? In fact, it is Erkki-Sven Tüür speaking of his own music. What affinities and contrasts may be revealed between symphonies written a century apart, from nations separated by only a thin strip of water – Finland and Estonia?

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