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| I've known and loved Mozart's twenty-three (depending on how you count) piano concertos for about fifteen years, so I suppose it wouldn't be too presumptuous to say that I know them fairly well. Though I can only play a very tiny handful of them, along with bits and pieces from others, let it suffice to say that you don't have to know them inside-out and play them like Robert Levin or Malcolm Bilson to appreciate them. I'm sure there are plenty of people who don't even play piano (or any instrument at all, for that matter) that love these works more than I do. The universal appeal of music to all people, regardless of innate talent, skill, or intellect, is a force to be reckoned with, and is not something I take for granted.
One of the most exciting moments in all of opera is the ballroom scene in the finale to Act I of Don Giovanni. A minuet, contredanse, and teitsch (essentially a German forerunner of the waltz) – distinct dances with their own individual rhythms, character, and social contexts – come together in a tour-de-force of dance music. Provided that listeners discern each of the three dances, the delightful conglomeration of rhythms and occasional dissonances will not be lost on them. A noble minuet, a slightly more bourgeois contredanse, and a cruder peasant dance, all build on the preceding dances cumulatively, and in reverse order of their social hierarchy, too.
Long before this scene was ever conceived, these dance forms appeared in instrumental music of all kinds. The ballroom scene in Don Giovanni does represent a somewhat extreme example of overlaying other styles, though it is not an isolated one. Opera buffa’s traces in instrumental music are more than mere allusions; they form a powerful vocabulary of rhythms and meters that derives its strength from being held in common with the audience.1 I'm talking about something that goes much further back, and am referring to the use of topics, in the Aristotelian sense. The topos forms the basis of this kind of rhetoric, whether you use it in philosophy, oration, or music. They are omnipresent throughout all types of music, yet they have a unique influence on the piano concertos, as described by Wye Jamison Allanbrook:
“Buffa contributed to concerto writing not so much its materials as its procedures: powerful and repeated cadential thrusts and a clear articulation of topics or expressive stances, facilitating the quicksilver shift from one to the next – in short, the ability to embed references to many musical styles in the continuous context of a piece, to construct a cosmos in a sonata allegro movement.”2
Notwithstanding the last phrase, few would assume that this description is only applicable to "sonata allegro" movements. Form, whether sonata, rondo, or variation form, places very little restrictions on the types of stylistic references that a movement can employ. If anything could limit the topical vocabulary of a work, it would be its meter. But even this, as we shall see, is a minor deterrent, and Mozart’s piano concertos flourish in spite of it. Meters employed in the works from this period are predominantly "ordinary" ones: 2/4, 3/4, 4/4, 6/8, or occasionally, 3/8 or 9/8. It wasn't always this way, though - the reason for this will be explained later. Handel wrote an aria in 5/8 meter! Although, he did use for the mad scene from Orlando...
For a great example, take the finale Piano Concerto No. 11 in F major, K.413. Both of its subsequent statements of the refrain theme are preceded by an unmistakable horn call figure in the piano:
K.413 – III. Finale: Tempo di menuetto (measures 87-90, 164-167)
 
In addition to serving as an evocative cadential figure, it prepares us to hear the embellishments, new orchestration, and changing relations of the piano and orchestra that each of the following refrain statements brings. The formality with which the piano ushers in the refrain theme is not only pleasantly amusing, but ironic as well – it is the piano itself, unaccompanied, which begins the second and third statements of the refrain. Its dramatization of the returns is almost excessive, though delightful, and precludes analysis. Here is a case in Mozart’s concerto movements where missing the topical reference hinders our enjoyment and understanding of the movement.
Opera and instrumental music often become synonymous in the hands of Mozart, and his use of otherwise common and universally known rhythms and meters to create such remarkable masterpieces is a mark of his genius. While differing views exist regarding the degree of influence that opera has on other genres, few deny that the piano concerto lends itself most easily to “dramatic” descriptions and dramaturgical considerations in Mozart’s musical language. Why this is so is an interesting study in itself, but two reasons should suffice. First is the concerto’s solo-versus-orchestra relation – one of the defining aspects of the concerto principle – which seems to invite comparisons with opera arias.3 Another aspect has more to do with the character and capabilities of the piano itself: its mercurial demeanor, sharp articulation, and multifaceted personality lend itself to a style of writing best captured in the medium of the piano concerto. As William Kinderman has noted, “The flexible tonal range and polyphonic capacity of the piano permitted a kind of musical mimicry, whereby the stylistic idioms from chamber, vocal, or orchestral music could be suggested by a player at the keyboard.”4
It is from these vantage points that an exploration of topicality in Mozart’s concertos becomes a revealing and worthwhile study. I have chosen to focus on the piano concerto finales, rather than the first or second movements, simply because they receive less attention than they deserve, certainly much less than concerto first movements. Why should the first movements get pages and pages of meticulous analysis, while the second and third movements get a paltry few sentences? A study of topicality in these finales provides us with a vocabulary for analyzing pieces that we otherwise would not have particularly much to say about, which makes the process that much more rewarding.
Virtually all writings that mention opera buffa allusions in Mozart’s concertos focus an inordinate amount of attention on the “Presto: Finale” coda in his concerto in G major, K.453,5 while in fact, comedy elements are suffused throughout all of his piano concerto finales. Lest we assume that dramatic elements comprise only isolated segments of individual movements, an informed listening of Mozart’s concertos invites closer study into the organizing forces behind these movements. Fitting them into an alphabetical sequence of unproblematic thematic presentation does little to understand the comedy of the finale to K.453, the D major coda of K.466, or the very capricious and energetic finale of K.467. Nor does identifying common musical material and shared melodies suffice in understanding the dramatic forces that carry a concerto movement through its course.6 Though we do not deal with a libretto in any of Mozart’s piano concertos, the lack of a text does not vindicate the informed listener from being familiar with the referential style of opera buffa. This style – together with its dramatization of closure, uses of dances and occasional music, and emphasis on cadential gestures – is simply too ubiquitous to ignore.
As stated earlier, there is little to be gained from searching for and identifying quotations and shared musical material in arias and concerto movements unless these similarities are corroborated by an understanding of how a compositional language containing these shared elements emerged in the first place. After all, similar motives exist between works of different compositional genres, and even works by different composers.7 Opera buffa is not always an easily recognizable entity. It eludes us on occasion, and often does so deliberately. While it does not always involve the audience deeply in its imbroglios, few are aloof to buffa’s stylistic diversity, even if they do not fully understand such things as, for example, the blending of buffa and seria in works like Don Giovanni. Achieving this stylistic diversity is surely the greatest demand exerted on Mozart’s concerto writing; he nevertheless welcomed the challenge head-on, being the innately theatrical person that he was. His personality was well-suited to this musical rhetoric. Beethoven and Schumann, on the other hand, would end up struggling for ages, spending a very inordinate time on their first and only operas (Fidelio and Genoveva, respectively).
Few concertos exemplify this operatic character better than the finale of Mozart’s piano concerto in A major, K.488. Girdlestone describes the episodes as “operatic finales transposed for piano and orchestra”; Daniel Heartz likewise points out the buffo-style interplay between piano and orchestra while also attributing this to changes in Mozart’s musical language during the years of Le Nozze di Figaro, which he was in the midst of preparing at this time. The kinship between Figaro and this concerto, while potentially interesting and revealing, is not particularly relevant. The prodigious stature of Figaro, especially of its finales, sets it apart from Mozart’s other operas (as well as all operas of this period, for that matter), and it is rather the general character of the Viennese opera buffa of the 1780s that K.488 more closely embodies.8
A fast tempo of the kind that we might expect in an opera finale’s stretta, though perhaps a shade slower, is an important prerequisite. Regarding tempo, K.488’s finale does not let us down. It is important not only that it is an extremely brisk movement – an alla breve Presto – but also that the listener perceives it that way as well. Performers, especially, know that no tempo indication gives the quarter note a shorter time duration, at least within the piano concertos. (A similar agitation pervades the finale of K.271, which has the same tempo indication.) More important and fascinating is how these themes, diverse and numerous as they are, are well-suited to this tempo and meter, especially interesting in light of the fact that the various sketches for this finale all have different meters (K.488b in 2/2 time, K.488c in 6/8, and K.488d in 2/4). All meters restrict the references to dance styles that a work can make, and these sketches for the finale hint at the importance of meter to Mozart. Although we will never know what kind of movements would have resulted had he completed these sketches, it can be said for sure that they would have employed a very different set of thematic and rhythmic motifs.
Within the sixty-two bars that comprise the opening statement of the theme in the piano and the corresponding opening tutti is a thematic abundance presented in a moto perpetuo fashion. It is wonderfully capricious and careless, even, in its presentation of themes. These sixty-two bars last just under a minute, yet they are not disconcerting. Although they do give the impression of being haphazardly put together, their sequential presentation analogously resembles the overall lack of thematic relationships within the Viennese opera buffa finales of Mozart’s contemporaries, a point staunchly defended by John Platoff. This important link with the buffa finale is further alluded to by David Grayson in his study of K.467’s finale; he cites its “apparent capriciousness in thematic order” as one of the main sources of delight in this movement.9 Bearing this in mind, the seamless texture of K.488’s finale can, in fact, be seen as an asset, if the abruptness of a new theme’s entry draws our attention to it.
Two such themes appear mid-measure, allowing not even a quarter-beat of rest to pass. A contredanse-like theme in the strings is treated antiphonally with a chorale-like theme:
Strings (m. 16-20):
Clarinet/bassoon (m. 20-24):
Additionally, while the phrases extend across the bar lines in measures 20-24, the slur markings seem to emphasize their ecclesiastical type of duple meter (i.e., Mozart would have probably used whole notes had he not begun the theme in the middle of the measure). While not polyphonic, per se, a distinct four-voice texture is perceivable in both themes, one that embodies Allanbrook’s association of duple meter with “exalted [ecclesiastical] passions.”10 The contredanse-like theme, on the other hand, takes on more modest and worldly associations. Both of these are, in fact, ordinary materials that build on the excitement already generated by this point. The juxtaposition of two themes of very contrasting character is a humorous effect lost on those unaware of their topical associations. Together with the variation that follows (including its difficult bassoon passage in measures 28-32), the two themes give way to a homophonic tutti that continues unabated, for the most part, until the piano’s next entry. The cumulative effect of this opening tutti is that of a gradual rise in excitement, escalating with new themes of diverse metrical associations.
If any listener is to meaningfully hear the rapid contrasts and distinguish the capriciousness changes in mood and texture in K.488’s opening tutti, he or she must have a preconceived understanding of various rhythmic motifs and their associated affects. Adapting the meter of a well-known social dance is an extremely effective model for ending a piano concerto. The contredanse of No. 16 in D major, the minuets of Nos. 8 (K.246) and 11 (K.413), and the gigues of Nos. 13 (K.415) and 18 (K.456) all, in their own unique way, derive the rhetorical impact just as much from their use of common dance gestures as they do from melodic, harmonic, and formal invention. K.488 represents not so much an exception to this model, but more of a surveying tour de force, affirming the associations that cut-time has for the listener while reminding them of the wonderful sense of contrasts possible within that meter.
The theme that concludes the first episode has an implied dominant pedal (which becomes a tonic pedal the third time around, beginning in m. 480) and a distinct bent towards a comic idiom. The playful character comes through partially because of the theme’s elementary, scalar motion. Additionally, the eighth notes, which would be sixteenth notes in a 4/4 meter, are elevated above the status of mere passage work, as the finale’s meter precludes their perception as passage work. As an example of how metrical notation shapes the affect of certain themes, Allanbrook cites the closing theme of the finale to the G major quartet, K.387 (measures 92 onward).11 Although many other pertinent examples exist, it is worth pointing out that in the case of the G major quartet, the theme shares a similar purpose with the theme from K.488, just mentioned. They each close off a major section (or at least, begin the process of closing) of their respective movements, with a plethora of themes leading up to their closing themes. This is arguably a more substantial task in the case of the string quartet, the exposition of which begins with the utmost formality in contrapuntal writing.
One that bears a particular resemblance to the theme in question from K.488 can be found in Masetto’s Act I aria in Don Giovanni. In Masetto’s aria, the theme’s staccato notation exaggerates its individuality, which give the passage a very amusing, almost condescending simplicity. Here, we have an aria very far removed from the typical 18th century da capo aria – the cornerstone of opera seria – with its humor, episodic form, and complete lack of virtuosic ornamentation. The concerto theme likewise has a similar shape – one definitive of an unpretentious, syllabic declamation. Although the effects on the listener are not quite the same in the aria and piano concerto, in their simplicity, they are both uplifting and effective as transitional devices. Masetto’s aria takes the theme’s purpose a step further than the concerto, even. Not only does his melody serve a transitional function to allow him to address Zerlina alone, but it is also used as the concluding theme to lead the entire aria to a close.
K.488, concluding theme of first episode, m. 175-183
Don Giovanni: Act I, “Ho Capito, Signor, Sì” (Masetto), m. 48-54
David Grayson’s comment regarding capriciousness in the finale of K.467, cited earlier, hinted at a deeper influence of opera buffa on the concerto form. The abundance of themes in K.488’s finale, the conversational and antiphonal treatment of these themes, and the use of distinct themes in closing off a section all embody definitive characteristics of opera buffa dramatic structure.12 The rondo form is very well-suited to dramatic expression because it allows plenty of opportunities to embed topical references in its transitions to episodes and refrain statements. Its episodic nature is imposed on the form itself, whereas sonata forms (i.e., first movement forms) require quick transitions and rapid shifts in action much less frequently. Rondos require contrasting episodes to set it apart from the refrain, yet this refrain also requires some degree of tunefulness or other trait that makes it memorable, if a listener is to easily recognize it on its subsequent returns. The refrain theme itself does not necessarily have to be episodic, though by making it so (as in K.488), Mozart capitalizes on what is already the rondo form’s greatest advantage.
We again encountered a more direct influence of opera buffa in the transitional theme in K.488, quoted earlier. Themes of this cadential nature, in fact, are very common, especially in Mozart’s Viennese piano concertos. They are worth considering together with a study in topical language because these moments of closure are often the moments where Mozart brings in some of his most memorable, and most instantly recognizable tunes. Although some overtly mimic social dances or certain orchestral textures, such as the theme from K.413 (mentioned earlier), not all of these tunes can be easily categorized or named. In their firm and occasionally excessive dramatization of closure, they represent a distinct contribution of an opera buffa procedure to instrumental music.
The closing theme of the episode to K.466’s (No. 20 in D minor) finale has a very similar function to that of K.488’s. It has in its melody a kind of “natural” simplicity that clings to the ear, recalling melodies such as the theme of the finale to his piano concerto in G major, K.453. Also, in both cases, the theme follows immediately after the episode’s closing trill. Grayson’s description of the closing theme to K.466’s finale is rather relevant: “A buoyant theme whose buffo character makes it a true avenue of ‘escape’ out of the prevailing tragedy.”13 In the case of K.488, the atmosphere is hardly one of tragedy, but the shared transitional intent of their respective themes is very distinct and unmistakable. The dominant pedal is so well established in the left hand that the pizzicato strings seem superfluous in comparison. The effect is that of a forced, overbearing control over the transition to the main theme. This is even more so the case in K.466’s finale: the thematic fragment used to lead the piano back to the opening refrain is actually a fragment of the refrain itself. Here, the piano, and the piano alone, is the primary agent of transition.
K.466, finale, m. 147-154
 
If it seems that an inordinate amount of attention has been devoted to closing themes and transitional themes, it is because of the powerful comedic potential contained in them. However, it is worth noting that cheery, lighthearted melodies that bring to mind the classic buffo personalities of Leporello or Figaro are not the only way to bring closure. The happiness of an ending that the commedia requires does not undermine the deep meaning of its story, nor does it preclude sad moments along the way. The tune as a topos (“tune” being used loosely to refer to memorable and easily recognizable melodic fragments) is a humble and celebratory one – perfect as a cadential device – but this is not always appropriate at intermediate moments in a movement. Studies of cadences and closing gestures generally agree on the sense of balance and symmetry required of them. That is to say, cadences symbolize closure hierarchically, having a relative strength that depends on time span for which the cadence must provide closure. 14
Returning to the finale of K.467, the first return of the refrain is prefaced with a theme that is decidedly questioning in character, with a stark austerity that seems at odds with the abundant passagework contained in this movement:
K.467, finale, m. 154-161
 
The leaping melody gives the theme an air of animation, but the chromatically descending bass strips it of its confidence, giving it a longing and questioning character. It seems to resist identification as any specific dance; it has a stately minuet-like melodic profile superimposed over a gavotte-like rhythmic profile. It is a seemingly nameless topos that feels rather out of place in this movement. We are not sure what the melody is searching for, but we immediately recognize its insufficiency as a cadential device (note the weak 6/4 cadences and root position tonic chord withheld until the last measure) and wonder where a sufficient close to the episode will come from, if anywhere at all. Later in the movement, prior to the final statement of the refrain, this theme (measures 405-417) is cut short abruptly five bars into its second statement, the latter half being replaced by a loud tutti. The duty of providing closure to the movement as a whole is delegated to the refrain theme itself. It does so more than adequately, with force and concision (a mere twenty-two measures), together with the piano, which plays nonstop from the measure following the cadenza to the end.
The role of each of the themes in any given finale – whether they serve a transitional, ornamental, or cadential role – is worth dwelling on when examining any work by Mozart. In the finales just discussed, it is a crucial point-of-entry into the world of comedy contained in each of them. All of them are much shorter than each of their respective first movements, yet the diversity of their musical character and the range of their emotional and dramatic expression are not wanting in any way. Allanbrook’s concluding remark regarding cadential tunes in Mozart’s instrumental music seems worthy to quote in its entirety:
“Mozart’s instrumental music maintains the same confidence in the social equilibrium; in almost every work, it mirrors in the chiaroscuro of its surface the diverse modes of human existence, adopting as its dynamic model that motion out of adversity toward the happy ending that graces the universal comic narrative. These cadential tunes may seem marginal, but when they occur they are so unmistakably joyous in their comic spontaneity that they cannot fail to persuade us – if only momentarily – of the validity of the comic close.” 15
Mozart’s piano concertos, as a whole, always invite us to celebrate. Like Mozart himself, they are personal and people-oriented. They are self-conscious victors, with the utmost sincerity in their attempts to provide us with cadences and a sense of closure that is both meaningful and memorable. In their order, drama, and completeness, they win their audience’s joyful hearts and unanimous approval.
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| It’s everyone’s dream to see Paris at some point in his or her life. Quite possibly the most romantic city in the world, it has a powerful hold over many people, and is home to enough art, history, and culture to make connoisseurs nearly convulse in joy. With miles and miles of museums and historical sites, Paris provides great exercise as well. Just watch out for the dog droppings at every other corner. The very early beginnings of polyphony finds their first significant phase of development in France, in the 11th century and earlier - centralizing around St. Gall, St. Martial, with Notre Dame stealing the thunder later on with the amazing organum compositions of Leonin and Perotin.
Now, Mozart and Paris is not such a bright story. It deserves to be said right off the bat that Mozart hated Paris. And he was not a composer who thrived creatively under unhappiness -- in addition to the “Paris” symphony, Mozart’s only other works from his stay there are the concerto for flute and harp, some choruses and arias, and a currently lost sinfonia concertante for flute, oboe, horn, and bassoon. The reasons for his unhappiness are not too difficult to glean. Of his mother’s death, he said, “This has been the saddest day of my life.”
His letters to his father show a steadfast faith, Mozart’s hope placed in God’s power in working things out for each of our own good. To him, God was ever before his eyes; his perpetual contentment and unabated enthusiasm is inspiring to anybody feeling the life getting sucked out of them. That important event excluded, we get the overall impression that Mozart just didn’t “click.” He disliked the nobility, the bourgeois, and even French music. Leopold’s distaste for French music was hardly less sympathetic.
His “Paris” symphony, Symphony No. 31, is still fabulous, though, despite less-than-ideal circumstances. The first to use full orchestra – with clarinets for the first time – and it’s worth noting that Paris’ orchestra was known for being really spectacular, rivaling the orchestra of Mannheim, even. People who play violin would find much to love about this symphony, especially in the finale. With the Mannheim violin section as remarkable as it was, it makes sense that they would love a symphony that exposes the violin line periodically throughout the movements. When playing in a smaller chamber orchestra, you’re not going to hide any mistakes playing the finale of this symphony, or certain passages from the first two movements as well. Much of the flow of the transitional passages and the clarity of formal structure rests on the expressive capabilities of the violin section.
Even though he hadn’t written any symphonies in the four preceding years (don’t forget that four Mozart years is a very long time; we're talking the equivalent of dog years here), he hardly seems out of practice – those opera overtures and finales kept him up to speed during those years. Taken as a whole, this is a fiery yet somber symphony in some points. Appropriately enough, it’s louder than anything he ever wrote; regarding this, Leopold makes a humorous remark about the sheer, unabashed noisiness of the Parisian music. As such, it is well suited to D major, and appeals to Paris’ musical taste without directly copying much of their style. To quote Stanley Sadie:
“Listening to this work, one is conscious, as in no other of Mozart’s, of his keen awareness of his audience, his eagerness to manipulate them and win them, his readiness to feed their collective foibles of taste and the irony, even cynicism, with which he did so. That does not make it an inferior work, but certainly one that occupies a special place in his output.” (p. 476, Mozart, The Early Years)
Regarding the two separate Andantes for this symphony, Einstein makes an interesting remark:
“Although Mozart himself did not wish to express a preference between the two versions, the earlier one – longer, more serious, less pastoral – is without question superior; it alone conforms to the new dimensions of this first ‘great’ symphony of Mozart’s.” I would definitely disagree that this is Mozart’s first ‘great’ symphony; Nos. 25 and 29 alone rival this symphony very closely. Le Gros’ opinion, on the other hand, is almost laughable:
“… [Le Gros] declares that it has too many modulations and that it is too long.”
Although the movement juxtaposes major and minor very adroitly, there is hardly any modulation in the original Andante, and if anything, the sense of a G major tonality is almost overemphasized, I would say. There’s a fairly nondescript section in minor that is very easily noticed, but not notably prominent. The well-placed “loud” silences and violin passages – exposed and ornamented – are much more worthy of comment than the length or modulations.
Going back to this idea of exploiting the Paris orchestra’s fabulous string sections, a brief rundown of the structure. The first eight bars are given a full repeat, after which we now begin to see that French overture dotted rhythm (m. 23). After this section, the whole (8 x 2) bars are given out again (m. 43–58). This is actually the recapitulation, revealing this to be sonata form without development (perhaps a binary form of some kind; of what type exactly, I don’t have a clue). The dotted-rhythm second subject comes back in minor rather than the expected G major, commencing on m. 59 with a startling diminished 7th chord! This “devil in music” prefaces an otherwise normal recapitulation, with phrases cast at first in A minor, then in G minor. All is well from m. 77 on, though, and the movement closes with a last statement of the theme, again (m. 83), to serve as a safe and secure coda and block out the memory of the unconventional recapitulation.
What did Le Gros really mean? Certain things were too complex by 18th century standards, and we cannot presuppose that what he meant by a “modulation” was necessarily a complete shift in key. What does it mean to hear things in a particular time and place? What is it about this somewhat unusual recapitulation of the second subject that could have offended Le Gros so much? We have enough reason to believe that Mozart was intent on pleasing and winning over Paris; where did Mozart go wrong – or was Le Gros just not very cosmopolitan?
The alternate Andante doesn't really invite close scrutiny. In evaluating its form, harmonic scheme, and melodic shapes, we are inclined to think that a gesture of this sort (i.e., writing an entire new movement on the basis of a fairly mild complaint) was done solely for pleasing Le Gros, and Mozart, obviously at odds with Le Gros’ somewhat peculiar musical tastes, did not see it as degrading to compose at his level, so to speak, and offer him precisely what he wanted. Though both have segments in the minor, this newer Andante reserves them for the “development” section – precisely where it would be expected, and leaves the first and last sections free of any hints of unconventionality in key.
Given the importance of favorable public reception to Mozart, it's not surprising that we find much in these movements that might endear him either to the orchestra or the Paris audiences. Both Mozart the man and the musician are innately enthusiastic and people-oriented. Expansive, inclusive, and all-embracing, they embody Biblical ideas of love, Aristotelian ideas of friendship, and Masonic influences of duty and wisdom. It's this kind of genuine sincerity, not too down-to-earth but not too lofty, that really brings the best out of other people, bringing them closer to those around them and freeing them to do the same.
"God is ever before my eyes. I realize His omnipotence and I fear His anger, but I also recognize His love, His compasion and His tenderness toward His creatures. He will never forsake His own. It it is according to His will, so let it be according to mine. Thus all will be well, and I must be happy and contented."
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| Some thoughts:
(1) On length. "As if without end" and "heavenly" are two descriptions that I've heard of it. But realistically, it's only my so-called interpretations of these that seem to never end... I'm not Leon Fleischer. But even still, the longest individual movement that Beethoven ever wrote was the first movement of the Violin Concerto, at about 25 minutes, and the first movement of D.960 pushes a good 21 or so. This was ridiculous back then. Mahler's 85-minute symphonies, the six-hour production of Hamlet in Berlin, and ten-hour marathons of trashy television series did not exist. It's just a shame that almost all writing I've read regarding this piece spends a disproportionate time wondering about whether or not to repeat the exposition. Belaboring such minor points, I suppose, is the folly of music scholars.
(2) On appropriation. A fairly common (mis)conception is the thought that Schubert modeled his sonatas on Beethoven's and failed. Nevertheless, it may as well be said that motivic connections with the "Appasionata" (three-note trill) and Schubert's own C minor sonata, D.958 (the first couple lines), abound left and right. Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. Put another way, copying = SUCCESS, right? The communication of ideas freely taken to be common property wouldn't go down so well today. It takes hard work to reduce the barrier of imitation. Imitation means transformation, adaptation, and evolution.
(3) On the incessantly recurring trill on G-flat. Schubert is rarely ever all bright and happy throughout, least of all here in the development. Schubert always mixes a bit of darkness with the light, but it's precisely these dark segments that make the bright portions that much more powerful and more welcomed when they do finally arrive. It will probably spoil the mood for many. I see it as rocky terrain. I see it as an assurance that no matter how things may be going, we only live step by step. You can pray for the future all you want, but that does not abdicate anyone of the tasks and duties of each recurring day.
(4) On sincerity. It'd be a far cry, almost unjustifiable, to call Schubert pretentious or fake. Very few composers give listeners a sense (however genuine it may be) that they are really seeing and knowing the whole man. He was probably one of the poorest composers, ever, but had far more friends than composers who were more well off. This shouldn't be too big of a surprise. It's always the most genuine and open people that have the most friends.
(5) On beauty."Art is expected to forget all constraint, mix up disparate elements, be unreasonable, want more than it can achieve and achieve more than anybody can want. Boundless is beautiful." - Alfred Brendel | | |
| Beethoven's 11th sonata in B-flat major is, the way I see it, one of Beethoven's best kept secrets. Why that is, I have no idea; I've yet to see it featured on any recital program. It's one of those works, that for one reason or another, have completed eluded the recognition and spotlight among performers and critics today. Too bad. Most who do talk about it usually do so only together with the other B-flat major piano sonata -- the horribly difficult "Hammerklavier" sonata. There certainly is one very important link: the extremely characteristic use of the interval of a third. Still though, this sonata just gets the short end of the stick.
Part of this is Beethoven's own fault, actually. After this sonata, Beethoven would go on to write pieces of incredible innovation and completely unprecedented form (i.e. structure), blending sonata and variation form, sonata form and the fantasia, and embark on his "Heroic" period. He wrote the "Moonlight Sonata" only a year or two later, which did very little in the way of sharing some of that big and -- dare I say it -- oversized spotlight with some of his earlier and allegedly lesser sonatas.
Novelty is overrated. I wonder sometimes if the "Moonlight" sonata, without its nickname, would be any more popular than the A-flat major sonata if the first (adagio) and last (presto) movements of the Moonlight were reversed. I'm not just trying to root for the underdog here.
The question, then, is what does this sonata do that the Hammerklavier sonata doesn't do better? I say plenty.
There's a passage in the first movement, the transition between the first and second groups, that I cannot hear enough. It recalls Bach to my mind, with its broken intervals as in the G major prelude from WTC Book II, yet there's still no passage quite like it.
In general, the whole work does more with less -- no small accomplishment. With a motif lasting one measure (the cadence theme), Beethoven uses that to write two-and-a-half pages of music using this motif! There's a saying that some people "talk a lot without really saying anything." But this first movement is one that says a lot without really talking at all. Some people see this as even more miraculous than that. I'm reminded of Jesus' feeding of the five thousand, where a couple fish are used to feed a huge mass of people. The motif sort of "swims" it's way through the lower part of the keyboard range, with a flowing, watery, broken-chord accompaniment figure above it. Before breaking the bread and distributing the fish, Jesus looked up to heaven and gave thanks (Luke 9:16). I'm thankful that a couple dollars can buy me endless hours of enjoyment and wonder. Maybe this isn't the most appropriate analogy, yet there's something to be said about the power of a single measure, four beats, of music in inspiring generations and generations of pianists.
Gulda's recording of the Allegro con brio is a bit too fast for my taste, however. Ideally, you want it just fast enough so that the awkward measure divisions in the first four measures are discernable, but not much faster than that, lest you create an impression of half time. Jandó wins for this sonata, at least by my judgment.
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| I created my FIRST Wikipedia article -- from scratch!
I performed this piece with the chamber music class that I took last spring. Apart from being the most fun two units that I've ever earned, it was also an overall useful class. It eased a lot of my apprehension towards 20th century music, showing that it's not all just noise. This piece, Ravel's Introduction et Allegro, and Debussy's La Mer are few of my personal favorites.
Not all recordings are created equal, and the quality of the recording will depend on the quality of the string quartet. That being said, here's mine, from my end-of-semester concert. Due to some recording issues, the first measure got cut off; the entrance of the clarinet is supposed to come in after eight mesaures. I'm a pretty crappy pianist, with an even worse pianissimo touch, so I copped out and used the soft pedal throughout every passage marked 'piano' or softer. Needless to say, this changes the tone a bit, but is practically required for balance between instruments -- especially when playing on a grand piano of the kind I used. Most modern pianos these days seem as if they're built for athletes or body builders, judging from the key action.
If the audio player doesn't work (it's a little weird on my Firefox browser), here's the link to it: http://audio.xanga.com/OutPha5e/c47c62515317/audio.html
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