Series Concert III
Fullness
Thursday, September 12
Program notes by Timothy Summers unless otherwise noted
Thursday, September 12
Program notes by Timothy Summers unless otherwise noted
J.S. Bach — Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major, BWV 1048
Johann Sebastian Bach’s third Brandenburg Concerto plays a rich game of uniformity and multiplicity, expanding exponentially upon the tradition of the concerto grosso. There are three groups of three instruments in this third concerto, and each instrument must bounce periodically from being ripieno (a voice in the group) to concertato (a solo voice). It is in effect a concerto grosso for nine instruments, each of which spends some time as a tutti voice in the orchestra.
The work is based around a very simple three-note germ, which instantly takes on a Jack-and-the-Beanstalk life of its own, growing immediately from seed to something much larger (and full of seeds itself).
There is some argument about the second movement, which is all of two notes long. Since there is a fermata on the second note, it is necessary to assume that there might have been some ornamentation or improvisation (especially for the keyboard, which is the only instrument not to have had its concertato moment). Some play a movement from one of the violin sonatas, some just play the chords. At the time of this writing, we have not yet decided what to do in this concert… given the length of the concert, it will probably be on the modest side.
The Brandenburg concertos were dedicated in 1721 to the Margrave Christian Ludwig of Brandenburg. It seems, however, that they were written separately some time before, collected, and then presented to the Margrave for some Royal reason (a ‘command’ is mentioned). The third concerto was likely the first one of the set to be put to paper.
Christopher Trapani — Palermo Canons
From Christopher Trapani:
In February 2020, my wife and I put in a bid on an apartment in Palermo. A few months later, in the reshuffling of the early Covid era, I received an out-of-the-blue inquiry from Benjamin Hochman for a new piece. Zoom discussions about our shared musical interests clarified the mission: A set of canonic miniatures for solo piano, each of which (I later decided) would be somehow linked to my newly adopted (but also ancestral) home in Sicily.
The goal of Palermo Canons is to extend the definition of what a canon — a snippet of music repeated at a prescribed time interval — can be. Spingere (“Push”) presents a quick version of a converging canon, where two voices drive at different speeds towards a point of alignment. Tirare (“Pull”) teases counterpoint and chords out of a single rapid descent. In Convex Mirror, voices move inward and outward in reflected patterns but warped rhythms, like distortions in curved glass.
Broken Tiles started as an homage to Ligeti, with a wonky moto perpetuo ostinato and canonic interjections in registral extremes. Cilindro invokes the music of the marionette shows at the Opera dei Pupi: hand-churned barrel pianos with wild dips in tempo. Material cycles then disappears in a process of elimination as the dense starting texture is revealed to be a single canonic line wrapped around the slowing cylinder.
The cycle is bookended by transcriptions of the bells from the Palermo cathedral, in two versions: the ordinary chime of four bells — each tolling at its own speed — and the feast day version with six bells, here transcribed from a recording made on January 6, 2021 in the calm of quarantine, hours before the storming of the Capitol.
Palermo Canons was commissioned by and dedicated to Benjamin Hochman, with support from the Charlottesville Chamber Music Festival, where the work receives its full premiere on September 12, 2024.
Ludwig van Beethoven — Cello Sonata No. 3 in A Major, Op. 69
Commentary on Beethoven can seem exaggerated even before it begins. His association with the idea of ‘greatness’ is terribly fraught. So, as an entrance to the sounds and sequence of this sonata, we can take just a small part, and work outward. But it should be enough to suggest good things.
The cello begins alone, with the following theme:
Johann Sebastian Bach’s third Brandenburg Concerto plays a rich game of uniformity and multiplicity, expanding exponentially upon the tradition of the concerto grosso. There are three groups of three instruments in this third concerto, and each instrument must bounce periodically from being ripieno (a voice in the group) to concertato (a solo voice). It is in effect a concerto grosso for nine instruments, each of which spends some time as a tutti voice in the orchestra.
The work is based around a very simple three-note germ, which instantly takes on a Jack-and-the-Beanstalk life of its own, growing immediately from seed to something much larger (and full of seeds itself).
There is some argument about the second movement, which is all of two notes long. Since there is a fermata on the second note, it is necessary to assume that there might have been some ornamentation or improvisation (especially for the keyboard, which is the only instrument not to have had its concertato moment). Some play a movement from one of the violin sonatas, some just play the chords. At the time of this writing, we have not yet decided what to do in this concert… given the length of the concert, it will probably be on the modest side.
The Brandenburg concertos were dedicated in 1721 to the Margrave Christian Ludwig of Brandenburg. It seems, however, that they were written separately some time before, collected, and then presented to the Margrave for some Royal reason (a ‘command’ is mentioned). The third concerto was likely the first one of the set to be put to paper.
Christopher Trapani — Palermo Canons
From Christopher Trapani:
In February 2020, my wife and I put in a bid on an apartment in Palermo. A few months later, in the reshuffling of the early Covid era, I received an out-of-the-blue inquiry from Benjamin Hochman for a new piece. Zoom discussions about our shared musical interests clarified the mission: A set of canonic miniatures for solo piano, each of which (I later decided) would be somehow linked to my newly adopted (but also ancestral) home in Sicily.
The goal of Palermo Canons is to extend the definition of what a canon — a snippet of music repeated at a prescribed time interval — can be. Spingere (“Push”) presents a quick version of a converging canon, where two voices drive at different speeds towards a point of alignment. Tirare (“Pull”) teases counterpoint and chords out of a single rapid descent. In Convex Mirror, voices move inward and outward in reflected patterns but warped rhythms, like distortions in curved glass.
Broken Tiles started as an homage to Ligeti, with a wonky moto perpetuo ostinato and canonic interjections in registral extremes. Cilindro invokes the music of the marionette shows at the Opera dei Pupi: hand-churned barrel pianos with wild dips in tempo. Material cycles then disappears in a process of elimination as the dense starting texture is revealed to be a single canonic line wrapped around the slowing cylinder.
The cycle is bookended by transcriptions of the bells from the Palermo cathedral, in two versions: the ordinary chime of four bells — each tolling at its own speed — and the feast day version with six bells, here transcribed from a recording made on January 6, 2021 in the calm of quarantine, hours before the storming of the Capitol.
Palermo Canons was commissioned by and dedicated to Benjamin Hochman, with support from the Charlottesville Chamber Music Festival, where the work receives its full premiere on September 12, 2024.
Ludwig van Beethoven — Cello Sonata No. 3 in A Major, Op. 69
Commentary on Beethoven can seem exaggerated even before it begins. His association with the idea of ‘greatness’ is terribly fraught. So, as an entrance to the sounds and sequence of this sonata, we can take just a small part, and work outward. But it should be enough to suggest good things.
The cello begins alone, with the following theme:
As with many Beethoven works, the seeds of what is to come are densely packed in the opening material. In particular, the material of bars 2 and 3 contain something extraordinarily heavy, which reappears, reconfigured, in the development:
And this reconfiguration seems to be a reference to the viola da gamba solo in J.S. Bach’s aria ‘Es ist vollbracht’ from the St. John Passion, which presents the last words of Christ on the cross, “It is finished” (consummatum est):
For reasons which are not absolutely clear, Beethoven wrote on the manuscript “Inter lacrymas et luctus” (among tears and sorrows). Perhaps he was reinforcing this idea with this dark reference. It certainly seems probable that the similarity between the baroque gamba and the cello was part of a conscious compositional decision.
This sonata comes from an extraordinary period in an extraordinary life: fifth and sixth symphonies, fourth piano concerto, choral fantasy, violin concerto, two great piano trios, ever-deepening deafness. Beethoven had some large things on his mind. This cello sonata offers some of them.
Felix Mendelssohn — String Octet in E-flat Major, Op. 20
There are many things to say about the Mendelssohn Octet, and in the 199 years since its premiere, a great many fine things have been said. But the discussion isn’t done: much of the commentary bears repeating, rephrasing, reaffirmation, and extension, because (as someone must have said by now) there is quite literally nothing else like the Mendelssohn Octet. Even that little phrase (“there’s…nothing else like [it]”) bears repeating, simply to affirm how this work can extend one’s sense of what is possible for people to make.
Its pure energy stands out immediately. From the first bars, there is a drive which might be called ‘motoric’ only for lack of a better word – but insofar as the Octet might be motor-driven, it seems to be powered by water, sun, melody, or some sort of palpable joy. And as the octet gains speed, sound, and players, it seems only to become lighter, stronger, and quicker. In its sounds, it seems to describe a growth toward life – a growth that moves upward, and seems unaware of anything merely mineral.
Musicological viewpoints are equally surprising. Historically speaking, Mendelssohn’s choice to write an octet for strings was by no means self-evident. There are relatively few string octets in the repertoire even now, and Mendelssohn had few (if any) models to draw upon. That is to say: a huge number of the compositional choices, which seem inevitable now, had to be drawn up from scratch, for a group with eight distinct voices. How could he? How could anybody? But the fact remains, he did.
And then there are biographical matters, yet more astonishing: Mendelssohn wrote the Octet as a birthday present for his violin teacher when he was sixteen years old. (This bears repeating as well, so the facts may stand out, even for those who know them: a birthday present? sixteen years old?) And Mendelssohn was to become a pianist and conductor. Violin, like so many things, was just something more to learn, and to do.
This would have been enough for anybody. But there is a political and religious dimension as well. Mendelssohn came from one of the most famous Jewish families in Europe, brought to public importance by his grandfather Moses Mendelssohn; briefly speaking, Moses Mendelssohn brought the possibility of Jewish membership in everyday European life much closer to being a real possibility. Felix Mendelssohn’s father converted to Christianity; and the 16-year-old Felix, no doubt aware of the family history and its contradictions, stuck the Finale of Handel’s Messiah (‘and he shall reign for ever and ever’) into the last movement of his Octet with a sort of casual brilliance.
That is perhaps enough to say. But to see and hear some of the facts around and inside this piece is to know that there is something special about it, something, at the very least, quite out of the ordinary.
This sonata comes from an extraordinary period in an extraordinary life: fifth and sixth symphonies, fourth piano concerto, choral fantasy, violin concerto, two great piano trios, ever-deepening deafness. Beethoven had some large things on his mind. This cello sonata offers some of them.
Felix Mendelssohn — String Octet in E-flat Major, Op. 20
There are many things to say about the Mendelssohn Octet, and in the 199 years since its premiere, a great many fine things have been said. But the discussion isn’t done: much of the commentary bears repeating, rephrasing, reaffirmation, and extension, because (as someone must have said by now) there is quite literally nothing else like the Mendelssohn Octet. Even that little phrase (“there’s…nothing else like [it]”) bears repeating, simply to affirm how this work can extend one’s sense of what is possible for people to make.
Its pure energy stands out immediately. From the first bars, there is a drive which might be called ‘motoric’ only for lack of a better word – but insofar as the Octet might be motor-driven, it seems to be powered by water, sun, melody, or some sort of palpable joy. And as the octet gains speed, sound, and players, it seems only to become lighter, stronger, and quicker. In its sounds, it seems to describe a growth toward life – a growth that moves upward, and seems unaware of anything merely mineral.
Musicological viewpoints are equally surprising. Historically speaking, Mendelssohn’s choice to write an octet for strings was by no means self-evident. There are relatively few string octets in the repertoire even now, and Mendelssohn had few (if any) models to draw upon. That is to say: a huge number of the compositional choices, which seem inevitable now, had to be drawn up from scratch, for a group with eight distinct voices. How could he? How could anybody? But the fact remains, he did.
And then there are biographical matters, yet more astonishing: Mendelssohn wrote the Octet as a birthday present for his violin teacher when he was sixteen years old. (This bears repeating as well, so the facts may stand out, even for those who know them: a birthday present? sixteen years old?) And Mendelssohn was to become a pianist and conductor. Violin, like so many things, was just something more to learn, and to do.
This would have been enough for anybody. But there is a political and religious dimension as well. Mendelssohn came from one of the most famous Jewish families in Europe, brought to public importance by his grandfather Moses Mendelssohn; briefly speaking, Moses Mendelssohn brought the possibility of Jewish membership in everyday European life much closer to being a real possibility. Felix Mendelssohn’s father converted to Christianity; and the 16-year-old Felix, no doubt aware of the family history and its contradictions, stuck the Finale of Handel’s Messiah (‘and he shall reign for ever and ever’) into the last movement of his Octet with a sort of casual brilliance.
That is perhaps enough to say. But to see and hear some of the facts around and inside this piece is to know that there is something special about it, something, at the very least, quite out of the ordinary.