Tchaikovsky Symphony No. 5

Program Notes by Daniel Maki

Overture to Le nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro) K.492

by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-91)

The Marriage of Figaro was first performed in 1786 in Vienna and thus is one of the oldest works to hold a place in the standard operatic repertory. We should all age so gracefully. Figaro remains a beguiling mixture of farce, trenchant social commentary, and, of course, exquisite music, which should serve to remind us that, as the French say, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Lest we think that human nature has changed much in the last two hundred years, we need only notice that the class conflicts and the battle between the sexes which Figaro so skillfully dramatizes are still very much with us.

The history of Figaro also reminds us again of the ancient phenomenon of artistic censorship. Both in its original form as a play by the French playwright Beaumarchais and in Mozart’s operatic version, Figaro had considerable trouble in getting by the censors. This was, after all, just a few years before the French Revolution, and although neither Beaumarchais nor Mozart were flaming radicals, the very idea that a common working man like Figaro could get the better of the lecherous, self-absorbed, and generally obnoxious Count Almaviva was enough to make the guardians of the ancien régime nervous. Such conflict between art and the defenders of the status quo has carried over into the modern age (see the case of Shostakvich below), and although it may exist sometimes in forms more subtle than that of  official censorship,  it remains a factor nevertheless. Plus ça change …

The familiar overture needs little comment. It is delightfully uncomplicated music, set in sonata form but without the usual development section in the middle. (Mozart had originally planned a slow middle section but had scrapped it.) The main purpose of the music is to establish the breathless pace of the madcap intrigues to come (all the action occurs within a single day), and, although the overture contains no music from the opera itself, it perfectly sets the tone for this, perhaps the greatest of all comic operas.

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Cello Concerto No. 1 in E-flat major, op.107

by Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-75)

For those interested in the circumstances surrounding any particular work of Shostakovich, the first question that almost invariably comes to mind is his standing at that moment with the Soviet regime that caused him so much anguish throughout his life. From 1936 on, when Stalin himself walked out of a performance of Shostakovich’s opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk and then instigated an article in Pravda calling the composer’s work “muddle instead of music”, Shostakovich felt himself to be a marked man, at times literally fearing for his life. The Fifth symphony, premiering in 1937, proved to be a success both with the public and the party apparatchiks, and restored him temporarily to favor. The composer would remain leery and bitter for the rest of his life, however, and quite justifiably so. In 1948, for example, he and a number of other composers were lambasted in an official manifesto for their “formalist perversions” and “anti-democratic tendencies”. Soon afterwards, he was let go from his teaching jobs.

The 1950’s provided the composer some much needed calm, for after Stalin’s death in 1953, Khrushchev’s de-Stalinization program resulted in a relative thaw for creative artists. Unfortunately, Shostakovich’s creative pace slowed down considerably in this period due primarily to personal problems such as the death of his first wife and then a brief, unhappy second marriage that ended in divorce. After such a lull in his productivity the sudden anouncement in June of 1959 of a major new work caused a stir. The new score would be a cello concerto, dedicated to Mstislav Rostropovich, already then lauded as one of the greatest performers that Russia had produced.

The new concerto was finished on July 20 of 1959 and about two weeks later was given to Rostropovich. Much to the composer’s astonishment, Rostropovich memorized the work in four days and was ready immediately for a run-through with piano. As Rostropovich has amusingly told the story, he traveled to the composer’s dacha, where the two partners played the work through three times. After the first run-through Shostakovich was very excited, and as Russians have been known to do, all present quaffed some celebratory vodka. Rostropovich’s account continues: “The second time I played not so perfect and afterwards we drank even more vodka. The third time I think I played the Saint-Saens Concerto, but he still accompanied his concerto. We were enormously happy.”

The concerto received its premiere in Leningrad in October of 1959 and became an instant success. The first performance abroad took place in Philadelphia in November of that year. It was a festive occasion, with a number of America’s leading composers and performers in attendance to hear Rostropovich with Eugene Ormandy conducting the Philadelphia orchestra. Shostakovich himself had traveled to Philadelphia not only for the premiere but also to attend recording sessions a few days later by the same performers. Shostakovich thus became the first Soviet composer to supervise an American recording of his own work. That classic recording, incidentally, is still available and remains the benchmark by which later recordings are judged.

The opening movement begins immediately with the solo cello and quickly assumes the character of a rather sinister march. The unusually constructed second theme contains a number of repeated notes and demands to be played with barely constrained ferocity. As is sometimes the case with concertos, here the soloist has a particular member of the orchestra that acts as a kind of alter ego. In this case it is the horn, which several times echoes thematic material already played by the solo cello. The movement ends abruptly.

Although marked moderato (moderately fast), the second movement functions as the expected slow movement. The tone of somber lyricism is set at the beginning by strings and the solo horn, which play a melody based on a Jewish folk song. (Shostakovich’s interest in Jewish folk music did little to endear him to the Soviet authorities.) The solo cello then enters with its own plaintive melody. The music eventually reaches a climax of searing intensity only to peter out to the eerie sounds of cello harmonics and the celesta. It is not the cheerfully picturesque celesta of Tchaikovsky, however, but as elsewhere in Shostakovich, a kind of ghostly, impersonal voice adding its own sinister comments on the proceedings. Following without pause is the third movement, which is actually an extended cadenza for cello. In addition to expanding on ideas already stated in the second movement it serves as a bridge that leads directly to the finale.

The finale is filled with the furious motor energy that became a famous part of the composer’s style. As the music drives to its frenetic conclusion, we hear again material from the first movement stated by various instruments including the solo cello as well as the now familiar horn. Also heard is a furiously repeated motive derived from a sentimental song called Suliko, supposedly Stalin’s favorite tune. As musicologist Michael Steinberg has put it, “ Shostakovich transforms it from sweet to crazed, and, repeating it maddeningly, sends it up without mercy.” It should be added, however, that the composer’s jab at the dead dictator is so cleverly disguised that even Rostropovich didn’t recognize it at first. As Steinberg again puts it, “even six years after Stalin’s death, one could not be too careful.”

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Symphony No. 5 in E minor, op.64

by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-93)

Tchaikovsky was never the stablest of personalities and frequently his insecurity extended to his work. The Fifth symphony, for example, caused him considerable trepidation, which he described in a letter to his patroness Mme. von Meck:

“ I am dreadfully anxious to prove not only to others, but also to myself that I am not yet played out as a composer… Have I told you that I intend to write a symphony? The beginning was difficult but now inspiration seems to have come… I have to squeeze it from my dulled brain.” Early performances pleased audiences but not critics, and Tchaikovsky continued to agonize over the work, at one point calling it “repulsive” and comparing it unfavorably with the Fourth Symphony. All such fretting was in vain, however, for it was not long before the Fifth Symphony entered the standard repertoire, eventually taking its place as one of the most popular of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies and indeed among the most popular of symphonic blockbusters in all of orchestral music.

For his Fourth Symphony Tchaikovsky had left a rather detailed program (described in a letter to Mme. von Meck) which connected the music to some of the most intimate details of the composer’s personal life. For the Fifth Symphony, on the other hand, we have only a few cryptic remarks describing the work. These remarks have tantalized commentators ever since, causing speculation that the symphony concerns the composer’s homosexuality or even his gambling problem. Perhaps at this point it is best to draw a discreet curtain in front of the composer’s private life and discuss the symphony in purely musical terms.

What does seem clear is that Tchaikovsky thought of the work as a so-called “Fate symphony”. The term comes from the legend that Beethoven conceived the famous four note motive at the beginning of his Fifth Symphony as Fate knocking on the door. That dark colored motive haunts the symphony until the final movement, where the music changes from minor key to a triumphant major key, supposedly signifying man’s victory over Fate. Whether or not Beethoven literally conceived his symphony in those terms, there is no doubt that the concept caught the imagination of Romantic composers. As he did also in the Fourth symphony, Tchaikovsky begins with a somber “Fate” motive in minor key which serves as a motto, recurring in the other movements and then, in the finale, turning into a triumphant major key.

The symphony opens with the Fate theme, stated as a melancholy march theme in the wonderfully dark low register of the clarinet. This opening music serves only as the introduction to the main body of the movement, however, which is an Allegro con anima in 6/8 time. This meter had been relatively unusual in symphonies but here Tchaikovsky exploits its characteristic swinging rhythm which at times has almost a waltz-like feeling. Several lyrical themes are heard before the development section and then heard again in the recapitulation.

The second movement features one of the most famous horn solos in the orchestral literature, a melody, incidentally, which was shamelessly stolen by Tin Pan Alley and turned into a popular song called “ Moon Love”. Two other lush melodies make their appearance before the Fate theme brutally crashes the party, not once but twice.

Tchaikovsky is justly famous for his mastery of the waltz, and the third movement provides yet another beautiful example. This version is exquisitely graceful if tinged with melancholy. Once again, the Fate theme makes its grim presence felt, although this time its manners have improved- it is stated quietly and in clever disguise at the very end of the movement.

Opening the finale is once again the Fate theme, but this time stated not as a somber funeral march as heard at the beginning of the symphony, but now as a triumphal march in a major key. This music only serves as introduction to the main body of the movement, however, and lest we think that Fate has been conquered, a thundering timpani roll propels the orchestra into a stormy minor key section. 

Finally, after an enormous climax and a dramatic moment of silence, the apotheosis of the Fate theme occurs in E major in the grandest, most triumphant of statements. Fate has finally been vanquished and a coda marked presto brings the work to a frenetic conclusion.