Back in 2020–21, during the pandemic, our season slogan was “Expect the Unexpected.” That was because our planning was thrown into disarray by limitations on what orchestras were able to do—and we often found ourselves offering works by small ensembles that were rarely performed on orchestral concerts. Today’s concert is similarly small and similarly unexpected—although this return to “off-the-beaten-path” repertoire (as conductor Jacob Joyce puts it) is a consequence of choice rather than necessity. Specifically, as his first concert with the orchestra, Jacob wanted both “to feature members from the orchestra and to do some repertoire that’...

Back in 2020–21, during the pandemic, our season slogan was “Expect the Unexpected.” That was because our planning was thrown into disarray by limitations on what orchestras were able to do—and we often found ourselves offering works by small ensembles that were rarely performed on orchestral concerts. Today’s concert is similarly small and similarly unexpected—although this return to “off-the-beaten-path” repertoire (as conductor Jacob Joyce puts it) is a consequence of choice rather than necessity. Specifically, as his first concert with the orchestra, Jacob wanted both “to feature members from the orchestra and to do some repertoire that’s less commonly done in the symphonic concert hall.” At the same time, he’s planned the concert so that the two more ear-challenging works are preceded by works that are similar to them, but more familiar.

The program takes off from the Baroque. More specifically, all four of this week’s works are examples of the concerto grosso—a genre that flourished in the Baroque era and was then echoed in the twentieth century. What’s a concerto grosso? Before the development of the concerto in the modern sense—usually a solo instrument pitted against an orchestra—this form played off a group of soloists (the “concertino”) against a slightly larger ensemble (the “ripieno”). The form sets up two simultaneous, yet equally important, levels of interaction: the complex interplay within the solo group is layered over a conversation between them and the string ripieno.

The composer who got this form off the ground was Arcangelo Corelli (1653–1713), whose Op. 6 collection (probably composed in the 1680s, but only published in 1714) for three solo strings (two violins and cello), string orchestra, and continuo is a standard prototype. As is clear from our offering today—the fourth of the set, in D Major—the soloists don’t appear as protagonists as, say, the pianist does in the Rachmaninoff concertos. Rather, the four-movement concerto relies on the contrast between concertino and ripieno to create differences in color, texture, and especially weight.

Corelli is one of Jacob’s favorite composers: He left “only 72 published pieces, and each one of them, I think, is a real gem. He often goes underplayed, and so any chance I get to do a little Corelli, I jump at.” But how does he play it? Baroque music is extremely popular, especially on recordings. In live performance, however, it’s increasingly the domain of specialist performing groups well trained in what is known as HIP (Historically Informed Performance) practice, often using baroque instruments and bows and relying on techniques quite different from those used by symphony orchestras playing, say, Brahms. So what stylistic path will be followed today?

In a way, both. Jacob is well-versed in baroque practice (in fact, he’s finishing up a book that deals with these issues), but he’s not dogmatic. “My attitude is that you have all these tools that come from historically informed performance and you have stylistic norms that come from the way that we play today. If there’s a passage from Corelli that suggests some sort of espressivo, or lyricism” —and there are plenty in this work—“why wouldn’t we use vibrato and legato? But then at other times, when there are passages that really lend themselves to a much more historically informed sound or style. To me, that’s a really important arsenal to have in your toolkit as well.” To sum up: “For the modern performer, you know, the more stylistically adept and broad you can be, the better, because then you can give a more interesting and unique performance, and so I try to bring all of those things to bear when I do a piece by Corelli.”

Our second work, Moz-Art à la Haydn (1977) by Alfred Garrievich Schnittke (1934–1998), is a kind of fractured reconsideration of the concerto grosso through three centuries of musical history. Schnittke’s range as a composer was vast, incorporating the slapstick and the cerebral, the coarse and the religious, Socialist Realism and Western European serialism, opera and film music. He’s probably most famous for what he called “polystylism.” This is a musical approach that refuses to settle into a single idiom, instead combining—one might even say, at times, smushing together—different and sometimes incompatible traditions.

Today’s work is one of his most popular examples of polystylistic writing. Like the Corelli, it’s a concerto grosso, in this case “for two violins, two small string orchestras, double-bass and conductor”—the conductor listed separately for reasons that will eventually be clear during the performance. Moz-Art à la Haydn originated in the existing sketches for Mozart’s unfinished “Music to a Pantomime,” K. 416d. But unlike most attempts to complete earlier unfinished works (for instance, the completions of the Mozart Requiem), it is barely tethered to its source. Rather, it’s a kaleidoscope of competing ideas and idioms, with the players wandering around through a variety of musical terrains until its startling Haydnesque ending. (I won’t give the surprise away, but those of you who know Haydn’s Symphony No. 45, which we played on a Casual in April 2023, may have some idea what to expect.) More generally, the work displays a Haydnesque wit; and if, at any point, you feel the urge to laugh, I encourage you to give in to it—as would Schnittke and as does Jacob.

Back to the Baroque for our next work, the Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 by Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750), the shortest and arguably the most vigorous of the six Brandenburgs. Like its companions, it’s generally labelled a concerto grosso, but in this case, Bach creates an ambiguity as to which players are the concertino, which the ripieno. It’s scored for violins, violas, and cellos (each in three parts), as well as continuo; but there are no soloists. Or, more accurately, there are only soloists, since everyone gets a shot at a solo turn. Sometimes the groups chase each other as groups, sometimes they break up into individual lines. The result is, like the Schnittke, a musical kaleidoscope—in this case, a kaleidoscope of shifting textures.

The concert closes with the 1937–38 Concerto in E-flat by Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971)—often nicknamed “Dumbarton Oaks” after the estate of the commissioning couple, where it was first performed. Stravinsky, like Schnittke, wrote in a vast number of styles—from the most ear-shattering to the most austere, from the most intellectually elite to the most crowd-pleasing (he even wrote a polka for the elephants of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus). Dumbarton Oaks is one of his most popular “neo-classical” works. Or, more accurately, one of his most popular neo-baroque works, since it takes its basic inspiration from Bach, specifically the Brandenburg Concertos, which he had been studying when he began it. The Bachian counterpoint—especially the fugue in the first movement—is hardly coincidental.

More specifically, although it adds five winds to Bach’s all-string ensemble, Dumbarton Oaks can be seen as a descendant of the Third Brandenburg Concerto in particular, in two ways. First, if you listen carefully, you can hear that Stravinsky makes thematic bows to the Bach (Bach’s opening motif is echoed often). Second, like its model, Dumbarton Oaks doesn’t pit soloists against ripieno—all fifteen instruments serve as soloists or as members of constantly shifting smaller groups.

At the same time, though, the work is profoundly Stravinskian, especially in its rhythms. Stravinsky had an uncanny ability to write music that is rhythmically complicated (full of metrical changes and shifts in direction) and, at the same time, infectiously catchy. That’s certainly the case in this dancy score that reminds us that Stravinsky was the greatest composer of ballet music after Tchaikovsky. It’s no surprise that Jerome Robbins turned Dumbarton Oaks into a ballet for the New York City Ballet.

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