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Julian Schwarz is featured in Jennifer Higdon’s Cello Concerto, commissioned by Robert and Vicki Lieberman. We finish with the operatic music of Strauss’ Des Rosenklavier Suite. Gerard Schwarz conducts this season finale celebration concert.


PROGRAM

DIAMOND: Music for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet
JENNIFER HIGDON: Concerto for Cello
STRAUSS: Rosenkavalier Suite


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PROGRAM NOTES

“How come I don’t know this?”

Tonight’s conductor Gerard (Jerry) Schwarz is one of the world’s foremost advocates for American symphonic music; he’s been especially important for bringing attention to what we might call the lost generation of mid-20th-century composers. This is the group of broadly accessible, tonal composers who got shoved aside during the rise of the post-war, academically centered avant-garde—a group that includes Walter Piston, William Schuman, Paul Creston, Howard Hanson, Alan Hovhaness, and Roy Harris. Their erasure from our concert halls is close to incomprehensible—especially since, Jerry ...

“How come I don’t know this?”

Tonight’s conductor Gerard (Jerry) Schwarz is one of the world’s foremost advocates for American symphonic music; he’s been especially important for bringing attention to what we might call the lost generation of mid-20th-century composers. This is the group of broadly accessible, tonal composers who got shoved aside during the rise of the post-war, academically centered avant-garde—a group that includes Walter Piston, William Schuman, Paul Creston, Howard Hanson, Alan Hovhaness, and Roy Harris. Their erasure from our concert halls is close to incomprehensible—especially since, Jerry says, “The bizarre thing is that when you do the great music of these great composers, people just love it. And they ask, ‘How come I don’t know this?’”

David Diamond (1915–2005) is another member of that nearly forgotten group; and chances are, you’ll have that same astonished reaction when you hear Music for Romeo and Juliet—even though it may not present Romeo and Juliet exactly the way you’re expecting. Although it’s in five movements, it’s not designed to be used as incidental music (that is, it’s not intended to accompany a production of the play). Nor is it similar in spirit to any of the three most popular concert works based on the play: Tchaikovsky’s tone poem (which, fittingly, was performed at the first Casual this year), the various suites and excerpts drawn from Prokofiev’s ballet, and the Symphonic Dances from Bernstein’s West Side Story. Diamond’s work, bypassing the play’s sword fights and civic violence, is more low-key, centering on young kids falling in love rather than on large-scale social upheaval. And while it ends with a meditation on the deaths of the lovers, it doesn’t have the searing tragedy of the Prokofiev. Rather, it’s nearly as intimate as the ending of Fauré’s Pelléas and Mélisande, which you may remember from our performance last year.

There’s a good reason you don’t know tonight’s major offering, the Concerto for Cello and Orchestra by Jennifer Higdon (b. 1962): It was commissioned specifically for tonight’s soloist Julian Schwarz (Jerry’s son) by two of the Syracuse Orchestra’s most steadfast supporters, Robert and Vicki Lieberman, and it was premiered just a few weeks ago in Rochester. The composer wrote the following program note before the first performance:

It is one thing to write for instruments that don’t have a lot of concerto repertoire (as I did with my concerto for mandolin, or my bluegrass trio, or for orchestral low brass players); but when writing for an instrument like the cello, which has a vast amount of spectacular repertoire, it is good to recognize that a composer stands on the shoulders of an esteemed tradition of works. It is also important to highlight the talents of the featured soloist, Julian Schwarz. When getting to know Julian’s playing, I was struck by the lyrical gift that he brings to the cello; I knew immediately that melody would be at the heart of this work.

The first movement (“Poet”) is based on a poem that I once set to music that includes the line, “…if I told you how I read your dream with a cello”. From the moment I read that line, the image of a cellist creating a poem with their instrument has stayed with me; it was the perfect inspirational spark to begin this work.

To provide contrast, the second movement is a dance between the soloist and the orchestra. Instead of just accompanying the cellist, orchestra members play primary musical themes in a back-and-forth dialog between themselves and the soloist (thus the movement title: “Dances”).

The third movement, “Fervent”, is the heart of this work, unfolding through slow music that allows Julian and his cello to “sing”.The final movement, “Lines”, is a combination of footrace and joyous celebration, honoring the virtuosic skill that our soloist brings to his playing.

In the early stages of composing, the first movement’s title of “Poet” inspired the idea that all the movement titles should be related in a way that if those titles were lined up sequentially, I’d have a little poem: Poet Dances Fervent Lines. It’s an apt description of this piece, and of the magnificent history of this noble instrument, as well as a tribute to the gifted cellist, Julian Schwarz.

The “Cello Concerto” was graciously commissioned by Robert and Vicki Lieberman.

Since then, in a conversation for these notes, Jennifer has generously expanded on the origins and character of this piece—both of which are grounded in Julian’s playing. “When I’m writing a concerto for someone,” she says, “I’m always looking at the things they do well. I think the first thing of Julian’s that I heard was a performance of the Haydn Cello Concerto, and I was struck by the elegance of his playing, his phrasing, and his tone. It was obvious he could play fast notes and all, but the tone was really… it was gorgeous, with a beautiful singing quality, which you don’t always get.”

That aspect of his playing led her to the poetry she mentions in her program note—perhaps unexpectedly, since, as she says, “I’m very bad at remembering poems. I’ve never had one line stay in my head, even from all the poems I had to memorize as a kid going through school. But that line—‘…if I told you how I read your dream with a cello’—stuck with me.” The words come from a poem by a colleague at the Curtis Institute of Music, Jeanne Minahan. Jennifer had used the poem in The Singing Rooms, an earlier work for solo violin, chorus, and orchestra—but it had never seemed quite right in that context. “Then, listening to Julian’s playing, it just struck me like a thunderbolt. That line popped in there, and I thought, ‘Maybe this is the moment, maybe this is the proper setting for it. Maybe I should go back and do a version of this for the cello, because it has haunted me so long, and it’s unusual for any line or piece of poem to stay with me to such a point.” The Concerto is not a recasting of the original choral work, but, says Jennifer, “It shares a lot of the same properties. Its chord progressions, its DNA, really overlap.”

There’s another of Julian’s qualities that influenced the character of the Concerto. Whenever Jennifer would mention that she was writing a concerto for Julian, people would mention his affinity for chamber music. “Those comments made an idea spring up in my head, and I incorporated a chamber element. He gets to play chamber music with all the principal string desks, but there are also a lot of solos with him and the oboe, the flute, the clarinet, the bassoon.”

After these two discoveries of music you may not have known, we jump back to more familiar music: Even if you think you don’t know the Suite from Der Rosenkavalier (1910) by Richard Strauss (1864–1949), there’s a good chance you’ll recognize at least some of it, especially the waltzes. Unlike the majority of operas (and, for that matter, unlike the other two works on the program), Der Rosenkavalier was not inspired by a previous novel, play, or poem. The libretto was written specifically for this work by Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Strauss’s favorite collaborator.

It’s got an ingenious double plot. On one level, it’s the story of the dashing 17-year-old noble Octavian (a “trouser role”: that is, a male character played by a female singer), who is chosen as the emissary to deliver a marriage proposal to the wealthy Sophie on behalf of the oafish and self-centered debaucher Baron Ochs. You can guess what happens, since the basic frame has been a staple of classic comedy for centuries: Octavian and Sophie fall in love; there are elaborate ruses—involving a fair amount of slapstick and disguises (in this case, supported by double cross-dressing, where a female singer playing a young man dresses up as a younger woman)—intended to push the Baron aside; there’s teary misunderstanding and reconciliation as the young lovers triumph.

It would all be straightforward, except that this standard plot runs in counterpoint to another. When the work begins, Octavian is already involved in an affair with a more mature woman, Ochs’s cousin the Marschallin (Field Marshal’s wife)—what Bayard Sartoris, in Faulkner’s The Unvanquished calls “the eternal and symbolical thirty to a young man.” The Marschallin is actually the opera’s main character, even though she disappears at the end of Act One to reappear only toward the end of Act Three, where she relinquishes her lover. And her coming to terms with passing time and aging (even as a thirty-something!) gives the opera a depth that’s missing from the Octavian-Sophie story.

Hofmannsthal’s libretto encourages a vast range of music, and Rosenkavalier is one of the richest operas in the repertoire. At its center swirl competing types of love music (Octavian’s wild exuberance as we overhear him in bed with the Marschallin at the beginning; the somewhat purer, shyer music of Octavian and the naïve Sophie near the end), coarse comedy (much of it centered on Ochs’s attempt to seduce Octavian, who is disguised as a chambermaid), and, at the climax, an exquisite expression of personal transcendence. Rosenkavalier is Strauss’s (and Hofmannsthal’s) homage to the Mozart/Da Ponte opera Marriage of Figaro (which includes the same double cross-dressing)—and its high point is an early 20th-century take on the moment when the Countess’s forgives her unfaithful husband at the end of that earlier opera. But Rosenkavalier multiplies that gesture by giving a soaring trio for women’s voices in Act Three—a trio that rises to perhaps the most beautiful operatic music ever written, a glorious emotional outpouring as the Marschallin, Octavian, and Sophie all come to terms with their radically altered situation. We’ll be hearing it tonight without voices. Even so, there’s a good chance it will leave you, too, radically altered.

But there are other elements in the libretto that encourage the further expansion of Rosenkavalier’s wide-ranging musical character. The story is set in a faux mid-18th-century Vienna, and this gave Strauss the chance to lace the score with waltzes. They are both parodic and comically anachronistic (the waltz only took Vienna by storm later on), but they ingeniously evoke a “Viennese” spirit.

Then, too, Hofmannsthal invented a “tradition” that is so outrageous that it almost seems as if it has to be true—one that gave Strauss a remarkable musical opportunity. In the world of the opera, an upper-crust marriage proposal is delivered by a third party carrying a silver rose (hence the title, the Cavalier of the Rose). Strauss was perhaps the world’s expert at writing descriptive music—and there are stories that he claimed he could, through music, distinguish a spoon from a fork. Apocryphal? Perhaps. But if he couldn’t distinguish silverware, he could certainly evoke a silver rose, as you’ll first hear about four and a half minutes into the Suite tonight: a series of chords—played by celesta, harps, flutes, and high violins—that send sparkles of sound around the room in the way that fine silver might reflect light. Once heard, it will never be forgotten.

Strauss himself never drew an orchestral suite from the music of the opera, although he did patch together a couple of waltz sequences for concert use. But toward the end of his life, perhaps for financial reasons, he sanctioned an anonymous arrangement, perhaps by conductor Artur Rodzinski, perhaps by conductor Clemens Krauss, perhaps by someone else. But, says Jerry, Strauss “wasn’t a fan” of that effort—and neither is Jerry. “I’m not fulfilled by the original version. It doesn’t seem to me to have enough variety, and I don’t think it’s pieced together very well. I also think it’s too short, and it doesn’t have enough depth.” It’s therefore no surprise that Jerry created his own alternative.

If you know the earlier Suite, don’t fear—the highlights you love are still there. “You can wallow in the waltz, you can wallow in the great trio.” But there’s more besides, including a lot of hyperactive music from Act Three where the Baron is trapped and driven from the scene in humiliation. And Jerry has provided his own punchy ending which will leave you smiling—and perhaps even laughing.

Peter J. Rabinowitz
Have any comments or questions? Please write to me at prabinowitz@SyracuseOrchestra.org


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