Festival Finale: Shostakovich Centennial
Saturday, August 19, 2006

Program 9

Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

Composed in 1806.
Premiered on December 23, 1806 in Vienna, with Franz Clement as soloist.

In 1794, two years after he moved to Vienna from Bonn, Beethoven attended a concert by an Austrian violin prodigy named Franz Clement. To Clement, then fourteen years old, the young composer wrote, “Dear Clement! Go forth on the way which you hitherto have traveled so beautifully, so magnificently. Nature and art vie with each other in making you a great artist. Follow both and, never fear, you will reach the great — the greatest — goal possible to an artist here on earth. All wishes for your happiness, dear youth; and return soon, that I may again hear your dear, magnificent playing. Entirely your friend, L. v. Beethoven.”

Beethoven’s wish was soon granted. Clement was appointed conductor and concertmaster of the Theater-an-der-Wien in Vienna in 1802, where he was closely associated with Beethoven in the production of Fidelio and as the conductor of the premiere of the Third Symphony. Clement, highly esteemed by his contemporaries as a violinist, musician and composer for his instrument, was also noted for his fabulous memory. One tale relates that Clement, after participating in a single performance of Haydn’s The Creation, wrote out a score for the entire work from memory. Of Clement’s style of violin performance, Boris Schwarz wrote, “His playing was graceful rather than vigorous, his tone small but expressive, and he possessed unfailing assurance and purity in high positions and exposed entrances.” It was for Clement that Beethoven produced his only Violin Concerto.

The five soft taps on the timpani that open the Concerto not only serve to establish the key and the rhythm of the movement, but also recur as a unifying phrase throughout. The main theme is introduced by the woodwinds in a chorale-like setting. A transition, with rising scales in the winds and quicker rhythmic figures in the strings, accumulates a certain intensity before it quiets to usher in the second theme, another legato strophe entrusted to the woodwinds. The development is largely given over to wide-ranging figurations for the soloist. The recapitulation begins with a recall of the five drum strokes of the opening, here spread across the full orchestra sounding in unison. Though the hymnal Larghetto is technically a theme and variations, it seems less like some earth-bound form than it does a floating constellation of ethereal tones, polished and hung against a velvet night sky with infinite care and flawless precision. Music of such limited dramatic contrast cannot be brought to a satisfactory conclusion in this situation, and so here it leads without pause into the vivacious rondo-finale. The solo violin trots out the principal theme before it is taken over by the full orchestra. This jaunty tune returns three times, the last appearance forming a large coda.

Symphony No. 10 in E minor, Op. 93
Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)

Composed in 1953.
Premiered on December 17, 1953 in Leningrad, conducted by Yevgeny Mravinsky.

The resilience of Dmitri Shostakovich was astounding. Twice during his life he was the subject of the most scathing denunciations that Soviet officialdom could muster. The first, in 1936, condemned him for writing “muddle instead of music,” and stemmed from his admittedly modernistic opera Lady Macbeth of Mzensk. The other attack came after the Second World War, in 1948, and was part of a general purge of “formalistic” music by Soviet authorities. Through Andrei Zhdanov, head of the Soviet Composers’ Union and the official mouthpiece for the government, it was made known that any experimental or modern or abstract or difficult music was no longer acceptable for consumption by the Russian peoples. Only simplistic music glorifying the state, the land and the people would be performed. In other words, symphonies, operas, chamber music — any forms involving too much mental or philosophical stimulation — were out; movie music, folk song settings and patriotic cantatas were in.

Shostakovich saw the iron figure of Joseph Stalin behind the condemnations of both 1936 and 1948. After the 1936 debacle, Shostakovich responded with the Fifth Symphony, and kept composing through the war years, even becoming a world figure representing the courage of the Russian people with the lightning success of his Seventh Symphony (“Leningrad”) in 1941. The 1948 censure was, however, almost more than Shostakovich could bear. He determined that he would go along with the Party prerogative for pap, and withhold all of his substantial works until the time when they would be given a fair hearing — when Stalin was dead. About the only music that Shostakovich made public between 1948 and 1953 was that for films, most of which had to do with episodes in Soviet history (The Fall of Berlin, The Memorable Year 1919) and some jingoistic vocal works (The Sun Shines Over Our Motherland). The only significant works he released during that half-decade were the 24 Preludes and Fugues for Piano. The other works of that time — the First Violin Concerto, the Songs on Jewish Folk Poetry, the Fourth and Fifth String Quartets — were all withheld until later years.

With the death of Stalin on March 5, 1953 (ironically, Prokofiev died on the same day), Shostakovich and all Russia felt an oppressive burden lift. The thaw came gradually, but there did return to Soviet life a more amenable attitude toward works of art, one that allowed significant compositions to again be produced and performed. Shostakovich, whose genius had been shackled by Stalin’s repressive artistic policies, set to work almost immediately on a large, bold symphony, a composition that was to prove the greatest he had written to that time in the form — the Symphony No. 10.

It is impossible to know how long Shostakovich had been preparing ideas for the Tenth Symphony. The actual composition of the score in summer 1953 took very little time. The composer wrote almost constantly from early morning until late in the day, taking only brief breaks for meals. The cohesion and integrity of the Symphony speak for a composition that Shostakovich had formulated carefully in his head before committing to paper, and it seems that the work may well contain musical images that were the result both of the painful years after the 1948 denunciations and the tempered joy at the release from Stalin’s ferocious grip.

The Tenth Symphony is among the greatest works of its type written during the 20th century. It can be favorably compared not only with the music of Sibelius, Prokofiev and Vaughan Williams, but, even more impressively, with that of Brahms and Beethoven. Besides the technical mastery the Symphony displays, it, like all of Shostakovich’s works in this form, also seems to bear some profound underlying message, some implicit struggle between philosophical forces. When the Symphony was new, Shostakovich would give no hint as to the “meaning” of the work. At a conference of Soviet composers in 1954, he stated, “Authors like to say of themselves, ‘I tried, I wanted to, etc.’ But I think I’ll refrain from any such remarks. It would be much more interesting for me to know what the listener thinks and to hear his remarks. One thing I will say: in this composition I wanted to portray human emotions and passions.” Asked sometime later if he would provide a written program for the Tenth Symphony, he laughed and said, “No. Let them listen and guess for themselves.”

In his purported memoirs, Testimony, published after his death, Shostakovich was more specific. “I couldn’t write an apotheosis to Stalin, I simply couldn’t,” he admitted. “I knew what I was in for when I wrote the Ninth [i.e., the 1948 denunciation]. But I did depict Stalin in music in my next symphony, the Tenth. I wrote it right after Stalin’s death, and no one has yet guessed what the Symphony is about. It’s about Stalin and the Stalin years. The second part, the scherzo, is a musical portrait of Stalin, roughly speaking. Of course, there are many things in it, but that is the basis.” He vouchsafed no more than that. Knowing what we do about Shostakovich’s years of struggle under Stalin and the composer’s feeling of release at the dictator’s death, it is not hard to fill in what he left unspoken because this Symphony is ample testimony to his philosophy of music as a communicative art: “I find it incredible that an artist should wish to shut himself away from the people.... I always try to make myself as widely understood as possible; and if I don’t succeed, I consider it my own fault.” The Tenth Symphony succeeds magnificently.

The Symphony’s first movement grows through a grand arch form whose central portions carry its greatest emotional intensity. The music is built from three themes, each of which undergoes a certain amount of development upon its initial presentation. The first is a darkly brooding melody that rises from the depths of the low strings immediately at the beginning. As this sinuous theme unwinds in the cellos and basses, the other string instruments enter to provide a surrounding halo of sound. The second theme appears in the clarinet, the first entry by the winds in the movement. (The use of tone colors in this Symphony to provide both the sonorous material of the work and to aurally define its structure is masterly.) The ensuing treatment of this theme generates the movement’s first climax before this section is rounded out by the re-appearance of the solo clarinet. The third theme emerges in the breathy low register of the solo flute as a sort of diabolical waltz. These three elements — low string, clarinet and flute melodies — provide the material for the rest of the movement. Their integration and manipulation give the impression, even on first hearing, of a work of grand sweep and unimpeachable integrity, an impression that deepens with familiarity. It is probably the greatest symphonic movement that Shostakovich ever wrote.

The menacing second movement, the musical portrait of Stalin, is, in the words of Ray Blokker, “a whirling fireball of a movement, filled with malevolent fury.” Its thunderous tread leaves little doubt of Shostakovich’s feeling about the murderous Stalin. Formally, it is cast in ternary form (A–B–A), though the propulsive turbulence of the music leaves little room for subtle structural demarcations.

The opening gesture of the third movement, three rising notes, is related in shape to the themes of the first two movements and provides a strong link in the overall unity of the Tenth Symphony. As a tag to this first theme, Shostakovich included his musical “signature” — DSCH, the notes D–E-flat–C–B. (The note D represents his initial. In German transliteration, the composer’s name begins “Sch”: S [ess] in German notation equals E-flat, C is C, and H equals B natural.) This “signature” and its variants are given prominence, and there is no doubt that Shostakovich saw himself as a direct participant in the mysterious program of the Symphony. The movement’s center section is dominated by an unchanging horn call that resembles the awesome riddle of existence posed by the solo trumpet in Ives’ The Unanswered Question. The opening section returns in a heightened presentation. The movement closes with Shostakovich’s musical signature, played haltingly by flute and piccolo, hanging in the air.

The last movement begins with an extended introduction in slow tempo, a perfect psychological buffer between the unsettled nature of the third movement and the exuberance of the finale proper. The finale is both festive and thoughtful. During its course, it recalls thematic material from earlier movements to serve as a summary of the entire work. Concerning the ending of the work, Hugh Ottaway wrote, “The impact is affirmative but provisional: anti-pessimistic rather than optimistic.”

Shostakovich left the final interpretation of the Tenth Symphony up to each listener. It is no doubt heroic, filled with struggle and a deep awareness of life’s pains. But it is also uplifting in its devotion to the human spirit and the continuity of life against the greatest obstacles. In the words of Ray Blokker, “Here is the heart of Shostakovich. In this work, he opens his soul to the world, revealing its tragedy and profundity, but also its resilience and strength.”

©2006 Dr. Richard E. Rodda