Loading Events
This event has passed.

Syracuse favorite Jon Nakamatsu returns to the stage to perform the colossal Piano Concerto No. 2 by Brahms, who described the 4-movement work as a “very small piano concerto.” The Syracuse Orchestra will be joined in the first half of the concert by the Youth Orchestra for Kenji Bunch’s Groovebox Fantasy, a tribute to producer/musician Quincy Jones. Mendelssohn’s “Scottish Symphony” was inspired by his first trip to Britain and rounds out the first half of the concert.


PROGRAM

BUNCH: Groovebox Fantasy (SxS)
MENDELSSOHN: Symphony No. 3
BRAHMS: Piano Concerto No. 2

 


Thanks to our generous sponsors!

 

 

 

 

 

 

David & Cheryl Abrams

Susan R. Klenk

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


LARRY’S LISTENING RECOMMENDATIONS

PROGRAM NOTES

In the nineteenth century’s great battles over musical style, Felix Mendelssohn (1809-47) and Johannes Brahms (1833–1897) were both considered conservative composers who resisted the “music of the future” championed, in particular, by Wagner and Liszt. Tonight’s two primary works suggest that this binary distinction is, at the very least, lacking in nuance. Our soloist, Jon Nakamatsu, points out that the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 is not a “normal concerto.” And one can argue that Mendelssohn’s Symphony No. 3 (“Scottish”) (1842) is not really a normal symphony, either, ...

In the nineteenth century’s great battles over musical style, Felix Mendelssohn (1809-47) and Johannes Brahms (1833–1897) were both considered conservative composers who resisted the “music of the future” championed, in particular, by Wagner and Liszt. Tonight’s two primary works suggest that this binary distinction is, at the very least, lacking in nuance. Our soloist, Jon Nakamatsu, points out that the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 is not a “normal concerto.” And one can argue that Mendelssohn’s Symphony No. 3 (“Scottish”) (1842) is not really a normal symphony, either, at least in terms of its form. Both veer away from the conventions of their times.

On the surface, the Mendelssohn, inspired by a trip to Scotland in 1829, might seem to be a standard four-movement work. But contrary to custom, the slow movement comes after, rather than before, the Scherzo. And the first movement begins with an introduction of such unprecedented length that it could easily seem a movement in itself (it’s only a minute or so shorter than the entire second movement)—especially since it draws attention to itself by being, as conductor Larry Loh puts it, “one of the most beautiful introductions in the repertoire.” Then, too, just as the fourth movement seems to be winding down to a gentle, resigned conclusion (already an oddity), Mendelssohn surprises us with a long, stirring coda labelled “Finale Maestoso,” wrenching us from minor to major and from 4/4 to 6/8, and introducing new thematic material. Like the introduction to the first movement, this is a lengthy section with enough individual character to appear to be almost an independent movement.

So does it really have four movements, or does it have five? Or six? Or perhaps only one? For as he was to do in his Violin Concerto, Mendelssohn asks that the Third Symphony be played without pause, producing what Larry calls a single “journey from the beginning to end”—and the major problem he sees facing the conductor is handling the transitions so that it “feels like it’s a through-composed piece.” To make the organization even tighter, there are subtle thematic links among the movements, too. In a way, it seems to presage the single-movement symphonic poems that Liszt was to start publishing a few years later.

Whatever the ambiguity concerning its shape, there’s no ambiguity about the Third’s quality. The numbering of Mendelssohn’s symphonies doesn’t match their order of composition—and the Third was the last he composed. He was at the height of his powers, and the work has a confident melodic surge from beginning to end, as well as a wide expressive range, including—between the outer movements—a scorching Vivace and a powerful movement that sounds like a funeral march.

It’s also orchestrated with transparency and finesse, especially for the woodwinds. One of Larry’s favorite moments is the clarinet solo that launches the second movement. Principal clarinetist Allan Kolsky, unsurprisingly, agrees—although, as he points out, there are wonderful solos for the clarinet in all of the movements. But it’s not just solos: Mendelssohn created an exquisite sense of ensemble, and Allan always looks forward to the  “beautiful, lyrical wind writing” of the extended duet with the first bassoon (enriched with some contributions by the second clarinet) just before the “Finale Maestoso.”

Nor, as Jon suggests, is the Brahms Second a “normal” piano concerto. Brahms described it as “a tiny, tiny little concerto [Konzerterl—what we might translate as a mini-concerto or concertoette] with a tiny, tiny little scherzo [Scherzerl—a similar diminutive].” Of course, the comment was ironic: it’s in fact one of the grandest of piano concertos, cast symphonically in four rather than the traditional three movements, and longer than any other concerto in the standard repertoire. The pianist hasn’t got a moment to relax.

And yet there’s more to Brahms’s quip than simple self-mockery. Certainly, there’s some grain of truth to it in the sense that, after two movements of increasing intensity (that wisp of a Scherzo is a virtuoso knockout), the concerto moves in the opposite direction. “Not that the third movement is any less emotionally involved; I think it’s really one of the greatest things that a human has ever done.” But whatever its depth, this movement—which, perhaps inspired by Clara Schumann’s Piano Concerto, features the solo cello—is much more introspective than the first two. And the finale concludes the Concerto surprisingly lightly, given that the size and character of the first two movements would lead you to expect it to tear us to pieces. “I’ve had musicians tell me that they don’t like the ending of the piece,” says Jon, “because it doesn’t feel as satisfying as the ending of the first movement. The ending of something that’s so big in scope, so important, so profound should have more closure. But that’s not the point. The point is not to make you feel as if you’ve completed something. It’s to make you just feel as if this is the beginning of a longer journey.” Quite different from the overall trajectory of the Mendelssohn.

In fact, the last two movements of the Brahms not only contrast with the first two in terms of intensity—they’re also much more modest in terms of orchestration. In his symphonies, Brahms, following a model set up by Beethoven, often increased the size of the orchestra for his finales: the trombones only show up for the last movement in the First and Fourth. Here, in contrast, the orchestra is larger in the first two movements than in the last two. As Jon puts it, “You could send the trumpets and the timpani home.”

Why this unconventional balance? “I’ve always wondered about that,” says Jon. “It doesn’t seem as if he was as concerned about the ends of pieces in the same way that many other composers were.” With composers like Liszt and Rachmaninoff, he points out, “the end was to please your audience. I think that in this case, the end was rather to be a musical foil to the first two movements. There’s so much drama there, they’re so demanding of the listener.” You can’t just give  more: “What could you do, except maybe the exact opposite?”

There’s another way in which Brahms’s quips about the size of this concerto make sense, at least in an oblique way. “One of the things that I notice when I hear the concerto more and more is that despite the demands on the pianist in terms of both physicality and focus, it’s really a huge chamber piece. There’s so much riding on the dialogue between the orchestra and the piano.” Of course, this is true, to some extent, of nearly every concerto—but this one is special. “There’s something masterful about how the piano is woven into the work of the orchestra. Really, most of it is inseparable from the orchestra; the piano isn’t playing by itself very much. Often I don’t have the most important or the main line. I’m providing texture, restating something that was already said or embellishing some idea that was developed by another instrument. So the interplay, even structurally, is pretty astounding. And yet the solo element still seems to remain; it still feels like it’s a concerto.”

With an unconventional symphony and an unconventional concerto taking up the bulk of our concert, it seemed appropriate to begin with an unusual opener: one wide-ranging musician’s tribute to another, a work that combines classical minimalism, pop, and jazz elements into a single, toe-tapping surge of sound. Kenji Bunch (b.1973) is, among other things, a bluegrass fiddler, a jazz performer, a classical violist, and a composer. And in Groovebox Fantasy, written (and premiered by the Seattle Symphony) in  2016, is a tribute to the late Quincy Jones (1933-2024), a jazz performer, an arranger for singers including Frank Sinatra and Sarah Vaughan, and a composer (including the scores to such films as In the Heat of the Night).

A groovebox is an electronic or digital instrument that can be used, among other things, to create and superimpose rhythmic and melodic sequences; and although this work does not employ any actual electronic instruments, it is inspired by the kinds of things grooveboxes can do. Starting with the instruction to be played “with a relentless groove,” the work might well strike you as a twenty-first century Bolero. It consists of 42 four-beat measures, each repeated four times; and while, in contrast to Bolero, the rhythmic patterns (often multiple patterns superimposed) shift from measure to measure, varying in complexity as the music progresses, there is the same sense of persistence and the same overall accumulation of tension until the pattern explodes for the final five bars.

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


FEATURED ARTISTS