Pastiche
John Biggs
(b. Los Angeles, 1932)
Composed in 1992.
Premiered on November 7, 1992 in Oxnard, California, conducted by the composer.
Instrumentation: woodwinds in pairs plus piccolo, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion and strings.
Duration: approximately 6 minutes.
John Biggs was born in Los Angeles in 1932 into a large musical family — his father, Richard Keys Biggs, was an organist and composer; his mother was singer-conductor Lucienne Gourdon. During his youth, Biggs received training in acting, piano, bassoon and violin, and sang in his father’s church choir. He went on to study composition at the University of California at Los Angeles, the University of Southern California, and, on a Fulbright Grant, the Royal Flemish Academy in Antwerp, Belgium; his teachers included Roy Harris, Lukas Foss, Ingolf Dahl, Flor Peeters, Halsey Stevens and Leonard Stein. As an educator, Biggs has taught at Los Angeles City College, UCLA and UC/Berkeley, and served as Composer-in-Residence at six colleges in Kansas under a grant from the Department of Health, Education and Welfare. As a performer, he founded the John Biggs Consort, specializing in Medieval, Renaissance and twentieth-century music, which toured internationally. As a composer of opera and music for chamber ensembles, chorus, solo voice, orchestra and keyboard, John Biggs has won numerous awards and honors, including a Rockefeller Grant, Atwater-Kent Award, ASCAP “Serious Music Award” every year since 1974, and a number of “Meet the Composer” grants from diverse parts of the United States.
Of his Pastiche of 1992, Biggs wrote, “Over the years in my compositional career, I’ve been influenced by Medieval and Renaissance composers, who frequently borrowed material from other composers, actually, as a kind of homage to them. Whenever I’ve borrowed, I’ve done it in this same spirit. In my orchestral overture called Pastiche, I ran 27 quotes from 19 composers together in a line, and the very difficult task was to get them all to sound like they flowed naturally from one to the other.” The quotes run from Beethoven to Bernstein, from Wagner to Sousa, and will tease the recall of the most devoted concert habitué. (They’re listed at: http://consortpress.com/PasticheQuots.jpeg.)
Concerto No. 1 for Piano and Orchestra in B-flat minor, Opus 23
Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky
(b. Votkinsk, Russia, 1840; d. St. Petersburg, 1893)
Composed in 1874-1875; revised in 1889.
Premiered on October 25, 1875 in Boston, with Hans von Bülow as soloist.
Instrumentation: woodwinds and trumpets in pairs, four horns, three trombones, timpani and strings.
Duration: approximately 35 minutes.
These days, when the music of Tchaikovsky is among the most popular in the repertory, it is difficult to imagine the composer as a young man, known only to a limited public and trying valiantly to solve that most pressing of all problems for the budding artist — making a living. In 1874, he was teaching at the Moscow Conservatory and writing music criticism for a local journal. These duties provided a modest income, but Tchaikovsky’s real interest lay in composition, and he was frustrated with the time they took from his creative work. He had already stolen enough hours to produce a sizeable body of music, but only Romeo and Juliet and the Symphony No. 2 had raised much enthusiasm. At the end of the year, he began a piano concerto with the hope of having a success great enough to allow him to leave his irksome post at the Conservatory. By late December, he had largely sketched out the work, and, having only a limited technique as a pianist, he sought the advice of Nikolai Rubinstein, Director of the Moscow Conservatory and an excellent player. Tchaikovsky reported on the interview in a letter:
“On Christmas Eve 1874 ... Nikolai asked me ... to play the Concerto in a classroom of the Conservatory. We agreed to it.... I played through the first movement. Not a criticism, not a word. Rubinstein said nothing.... I did not need any judgment on the artistic form of my work; there was question only about its mechanical details. This silence of Rubinstein said much. It said to me at once: ‘Dear friend, how can I talk about details when I dislike your composition as a whole?’ But I kept my temper and played the Concerto through. Again, silence.
“‘Well?’ I said, and stood up. There burst forth from Rubinstein’s mouth a mighty torrent of words. He spoke quietly at first; then he waxed hot, and at last he resembled Zeus hurling thunderbolts. It appeared that my Concerto was utterly worthless, absolutely unplayable; passages were so commonplace and awkward that they could not be improved; the piece as a whole was bad, trivial, vulgar. I had stolen this from that one and that from this one; so only two or three pages were good for anything, while the others should be wiped out or radically rewritten. I cannot produce for you the main thing: the tone in which he said all this. An impartial bystander would necessarily have believed that I was a stupid, ignorant, conceited note-scratcher, who was so impudent as to show his scribble to a celebrated man.”
Tchaikovsky was furious, and he stormed out of the classroom. He made only one change in the score: he obliterated the name of the original dedicatee — Nikolai Rubinstein — and substituted that of the virtuoso pianist Hans von Bülow, who was performing Tchaikovsky’s piano pieces across Europe. Bülow gladly accepted the dedication and wrote a letter of praise to Tchaikovsky as soon as he received the score: “The ideas are so original, so powerful; the details are so interesting, and though there are many of them they do not impair the clarity and unity of the work. The form is so mature, so ripe and distinguished in style; intention and labor are everywhere concealed. I would weary you if I were to enumerate all the characteristics of your work, characteristics which compel me to congratulate equally the composer and those who are destined to enjoy it.”
After the scathing criticism from Rubinstein, Tchaikovsky was delighted to receive such a response, and he was further gratified when Bülow asked to program the premiere on his upcoming American tour. The Concerto created such a sensation when it was first heard, in Boston on October 25, 1875, that Bülow played it on 139 of his 172 concerts that season. (Remarkably, Tchaikovsky’s Second Piano Concerto was also premiered in this country, by Madeleine Schiller and the New York Philharmonic Society conducted by Theodore Thomas on November 12, 1881.) Such a success must at first have puzzled Rubinstein, but eventually he and Tchaikovsky reconciled their differences over the work. Tchaikovsky incorporated some of his suggestions in the 1889 revision, and Rubinstein not only accepted the Concerto, but eventually made it one of the staples of his performing repertory. During the next four years, when Tchaikovsky wrote Swan Lake, the Rococo Variations, the Third and Fourth Symphonies, the Violin Concerto, and, in 1877, met his benefactress Nadezhda von Meck, he was not only successful enough to leave his teaching job to devote himself entirely to composition, but he also became recognized as one of the greatest composers of his day.
Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto opens with the familiar theme of the introduction, a sweeping melody nobly sung by violins and cellos above thunderous chords from the piano. After a brief cadenza for the soloist, the theme — which is not heard again anywhere in the Concerto — is presented a second time in an even grander setting. Following a decrescendo and a pause, the piano presents the snapping main theme. (Tchaikovsky said that this curious first theme was inspired by a tune he heard sung by a blind beggar at a street fair.) Following a skillful discussion of the opening theme by piano and woodwinds, the clarinet announces the lyrical, bittersweet second theme. A smooth, complementary phrase is played by the violins. This complementary phrase and the snapping motive from the main theme are combined in the movement’s impassioned development section. The recapitulation returns the themes of the exposition in altered settings. (The oboe is awarded the second theme here.) An energetic cadenza and a coda derived from the second theme bring this splendid movement to a rousing close.
The simplicity of the second movement’s three-part structure (A–B–A) is augured by the purity of its opening — a languid melody wrapped in the silvery tones of the solo flute, accompanied by quiet, plucked chords from the strings. The piano takes over the theme, provides it with rippling decorations, and passes it on to the cellos. The center of the movement is of very different character, with a quick tempo and a swift, balletic melody. The languid theme and moonlit mood of the first section return to round out the movement.
The crisp rhythmic motive presented immediately at the beginning of the finale and then spun into a complete theme by the soloist dominates much of the last movement. In the theme’s vigorous full-orchestra guise, it has much of the spirit of a robust Cossack dance. To balance the impetuous vigor of this music, Tchaikovsky introduced a contrasting theme, a romantic melody first entrusted to the violins. The dancing Cossacks repeatedly advance upon this bit of tenderness, which shows a hardy determination to dominate the movement. The two themes contend, but it is the flying Cossacks who have the last word to bring this Concerto to an exhilarating finish.
Three Dances from The Bartered Bride
Bedrich Smetana
(b. Leitomischl, Bohemia, 1824; d. Prague, 1884)
Composed 1863-1866.
Premiered May 30, 1866 in Prague.
Woodwinds in pairs plus piccolo, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, timpani and strings.
Duration: approximately 10 minutes.
It was Johann Herbeck, the noted Viennese conductor who introduced Schubert’s long-forgotten “Unfinished” Symphony to the world in 1865, who sowed the seeds of Smetana’s splendid comic opera, The Bartered Bride. When conductor and composer met in Weimar in 1857, Herbeck allowed that the Czechs were generally fine performers, but seemed incapable of creating their own musical works. Incensed, Smetana returned home to Prague vowing to prove Herbeck wrong. He took an active role in Czech musical life, supporting the new National Theater founded in 1862 and completing his first opera, The Brandenburgers in Bohemia, a year later. He found some truth in the criticism that that opera was too Wagnerian in style, and, still not satisfied that he had disproved Herbeck’s comments, he determined to create as its successor a new work more specifically Czech in style. In July 1863 he received a libretto from the writer Karl Sabina that met his requirements, and he began composing The Bartered Bride immediately. (Curiously, Smetana worked from a German translation of the libretto, since his Czech was not as good at the time as was his German, the language of his childhood home, his education and his early professional life.) The Overture was composed first, and the rest of the opera written during the next two years.
The Bartered Bride garnered little success at its first performance, in Prague on May 30, 1866. The day was an official holiday that also proved to be one of the hottest of the year, and most of the opera-going audience had retreated to the country. In addition, political tension between Prussia and Austria was running high (Bohemia — today Czechoslovakia — like Hungary and Poland, was frequently part of the contention between those aggressive neighbors), and there was little interest in a new comic opera. War broke out only two weeks after the premiere. Smetana and his family fled from Prague before the invading Prussians (his Brandenburgers in Bohemia had harshly criticized them), and remained away until the army withdrew at the end of the summer. Upon his return, he was made conductor of the National Theater, and resumed his vigorous work to promote Czech music. The Bartered Bride soon came to be recognized as the first great Czech opera, and quickly thereafter gained the popularity it had been denied at its premiere, especially after Smetana reworked the score and dramatic structure of the piece. (The original version was in two acts, had spoken dialogue, no scene changes and no dances. The work went through four extensive revisions before reaching its definitive three-act form with sung recitatives and its wonderful dances.) On May 5, 1882 it was given in Prague for the 100th time. By 1953 it had been performed in that city 2,000 times, and it remains an almost weekly adornment of the repertory of Prague’s National Theater. More than simply a delightful opera, The Bartered Bride — and its composer — became symbols of Czech pride at home and abroad. “Smetana is more than a mere musician,” according to his biographer Vladimir Helfert. “He is one of the chief builders of modern Czech civilization, one of the chief creators of Czech culture.”
The story of The Bartered Bride derives from the personalities, customs and lore of the Czech countryside. The lovers Hans and Marie are prevented from marrying by her father, who has secured a more lucrative nuptial arrangement from the village matchmaker, Kezal. Kezal has engaged Marie to the half-wit Wenzel, son of the second marriage of Micha, a wealthy landowner. Hans makes sure that the marriage contract specifies Marie must wed the son of Micha, and then pockets the money that Kezal promised him for breaking his betrothal to Marie. With a plot twist worthy of Gilbert and Sullivan, Hans reveals that he is also the son of Micha — by Micha’s first marriage — and claims Marie as his wife. Wenzel, his mind unhinged at the thought of marriage, appears in a bear costume, and has to be dragged away while the couple and the villagers celebrate the upcoming wedding.
The delightful and familiar Three Dances from The Bartered Bride capture perfectly the bursting spirits and country manner of the opera. The Polka, which closes Act I, accompanies the impromptu dancing of a group of villagers. Act II is set in a tavern, which sees first a lusty song in praise of beer (“Beer’s no doubt a gift from heaven/It chases away worries and troubles”) and then the performance of a whirling Furiant. The Dance of the Comedians takes place in Act III when a circus troupe arrives in the village and performs a pantomime.
Capriccio Espagnol, Opus 34
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov
(b. Tikhvin, Russia, 1844; d. St. Petersburg, 1908)
Composed in 1887.
Premiered on October 31, 1887 in St. Petersburg, conducted by the composer.
Instrumentation: woodwinds in pairs plus piccolo and English horn, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, harp and strings.
Duration: approximately 16 minutes.
Rimsky-Korsakov visited Spain only once: while on a training cruise around the world as a naval cadet, he spent three days in the Mediterranean port of Cádiz in December 1864. The sun and sweet scents of Iberia left a lasting impression on him, however, just as they had on the earlier Russian composer Mikhail Glinka, who was inspired to compose the Jota aragonesa and A Night in Madrid on Spanish themes. Both of those colorful works by his Russian predecessor were strong influences on Rimsky-Korsakov when he came to compose his own Spanish piece in 1887.
Rimsky-Korsakov’s principal project during the summer of 1887 was the orchestration of the opera Prince Igor by his compatriot Alexander Borodin, who had died the preceding winter. Rimsky-Korsakov installed himself at Nikolskoe on the shore of Lake Nelai in a rented villa, and made good progress with the opera, one of many completions and revisions he undertook of the music of his fellow Russian composers. Things went well enough that he felt able to interrupt this project for several weeks to work on a composition of his own, a piece on Spanish themes that was originally intended for solo violin and orchestra but which he re-cast for full orchestra as the brilliant Capriccio Espagnol.
He took the new score home with him to St. Petersburg that fall to prepare its premiere with the Russian Concert Society for October. In his autobiography, he recounted the events surrounding the first performance of the work: “At the rehearsal, the first movement had hardly been finished when the whole orchestra began to applaud. Similar applause followed all the other parts whenever the pauses permitted. I asked the orchestra for the privilege of dedicating the composition to them. General delight was the answer. The Capriccio went without difficulties and sounded brilliant. At the concert itself, it was played with a perfection and enthusiasm the like of which it never possessed subsequently, even when led by [the distinguished conductor Arthur] Nikisch himself [later music director of the Boston, Berlin, Leipzig and Budapest orchestras]. Despite its length, the audience insistently called for an encore.” The composer made good on his promise to dedicate the work to the Russian Musical Society Orchestra, inscribing the names of all 67 players on the score’s title page.
It was Rimsky-Korsakov’s dazzling orchestral technique which drew the greatest praise for the new Capriccio. Tchaikovsky, for instance, wrote to him that he had produced “a colossal masterpiece of instrumentation” and he should regard himself as “the greatest master of the present day.” The composer, however, insisted that the orchestration was integral to the structure of the music, and not just a finishing cosmetic touch. “The opinion formed by both critics and public that the Capriccio is a magnificently orchestrated piece is wrong,” he wrote. “It is a brilliant composition for orchestra. The change of timbres, the felicitous choice of melodic designs and figuration patterns, exactly suiting each kind of instrument, brief virtuoso cadenzas for solo instruments, the rhythm of the percussion instruments, etc., constitute here the very essence of the composition and not its garb.”
The Capriccio Espagnol comprises five brief, attached movements. It opens with a rousing Alborada or “morning-song,” marked vivo e strepitoso — “lively and noisy.” The solo violin figures prominently here and throughout the work, a virtuosic reminder of the origin of the Capriccio as concerted piece for that instrument. A tiny set of variations on a languid theme presented by the horns follows. The Alborada returns in new instrumental coloring which features a sparkling solo by the clarinet. The fourth movement, Scena e canto gitano (“Scene and Gypsy Song”), begins with a string of cadenzas: horns and trumpets, violin, flute, clarinet and harp. The swaying Gypsy Song gathers up the instruments of the orchestra to build to a dazzling climax leading without pause to the finale, Fandango asturiano. The trombones present the theme of this section, based on the rhythm of a traditional dance of Andalusia. The final pages of the Capriccio recall the Alborada theme to bring this brilliant orchestral showpiece to an exhilarating close.
©2011 Dr. Richard E. Rodda