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Johann Strauss, Sr. Radetzky March, Op. 228 Johann Strauss, Sr. was born in Vienna in 1804 and died there in 1849. He composed this
march in 1848; it was first performed soon after by an Austrian Army Band. The score calls for 3 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, percussion, and strings.
Johann Strauss Sr. wanted to be a café musician since childhood, and had managed to
learn violin and harmony on his own. At age fifteen, he was playing in Viennese cafés with Joseph Lanner, another fine waltz composer. In a few years, Strauss formed his own orchestra, and by the time he had reached his mid-twenties was the toast of Vienna. Before long he was touring the capitals of Europe, and his orchestra performed at Queen Victoria’s coronation ball. He composed hundreds of dance numbers, including 150 waltzes.
Strauss composed this march in honor of Austrian field marshal Joseph Radetzky von Radetz, a war hero. Festive and jubilant rather than sternly martial, the Radetzky March was first performed before an audience of Austrian officers, who began clapping rhythmically at once, and began stomping their feet along with their clapping shortly thereafter—a tradition that continues in Vienna today.
Paul Hindemith Symphony, Mathis der Maler Paul Hindemith was born in Hanau, Germany in 1895 and died in Frankfurt in 1963. He
completed his opera Mathis der Maler (Mathias the Painter) in 1935, but had composed the three movements that make up this symphony previously, at the request of conductor Wilhelm Furtwängler, who premiered the work with the Berlin Philharmonic in 1934. The work is scored for 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, and strings.
Hindemith’s opera Mathis der Maler (Mathias the Painter) has long been taken as an
anti-Nazi manifesto. It may be that. But Hindemith—despite having a Jewish wife, having his works banned, and earning the personal animosity of Hitler and Göring—tried to ignore Nazism, wishing nothing more than to be left alone to pursue his art. He came quite late to the realization that his and the world’s situation was serious, and potentially deadly.
That is precisely the predicament faced by the protagonist of his opera. Mathias Grünewald (ca.1475-1528) was a painter who lived in other turbulent times. As the bloody peasant uprising of 1524 boiled around him he was tormented: could he serve God and mankind simply by his art, or must he join the rebellion? Or, as Hindemith later asked himself: what are “the ethical imperatives of music and the moral obligations of the musician?”
In the opera, Grünewald sympathizes with the peasants and finally joins them. When the rebellion fails, Grünewald realizes that he knows nothing of the world outside his studio; what’s more, he has lost the patronage of his church. Desolate, he begins the tumultuous journey that leads him back to faith.
A key to the opera, and hence this symphony, is the breathtaking multi-panel altarpiece the historical Grünewald created for a monastery at Isenheim. The “Isenheim Altar,” as it is
known, is a complex series of paintings made on hinged panels that open to reveal still more paintings within. There are portraits of saints and depictions of the Annunciation, the crucifixion of Christ, the resurrection, and at its innermost point a sculpture of the Last Supper. Each panel is stunningly beautiful in its own right, and the effect of the whole is overwhelming. Three of the panels lent their names and inspiration to this symphony: Angelic Concert, Entombment, and The Temptation of Saint Anthony.
The first of these depicts Mary holding the infant Jesus while being serenaded by an angel with a viol-like instrument and an orchestra of angel-musicians behind her. The music begins in serene mystery, while the trombones intone the German folk song Es sungen drei Engel (Three angels were singing). The music becomes fugal and gradually more intense, building inexorably to a huge, organ-like climax.
Grünewald’s Entombment shows the interment of Christ. The music begins haltingly, as if the mourners cannot face the reality before them; it expands more and more until their bleak duty is forced upon them by a stern chorale led by the brasses. In the end, their reluctant comprehension turns to radiant consolation.
In the opera, The Temptation of Saint Anthony is a metaphor for the trials of Mathias. This music begins with an orchestral recitative, then suddenly becomes an ominous, relentless pursuit. When each temptation has been overcome the work concludes with a thrilling brass Alleluia.
There is another subtext to Mathis der Maler that is worth thinking about. Grünewald resisted the innovations of the Renaissance in his art. In Hindemith’s words, he “chose to develop to their fullest potential the materials of the past, rather like J.S. Bach, who appears as a conservator in the stream of musical progress.” Hindemith had been one of the bad boys of music in the early twentieth century, writing works that were as radical (and to some, as unpleasant) as anybody’s. Middle age had brought with it not just political awareness, but an increasing musical conservatism, too. His music became more accessible and, arguably, even more effective. Hindemith emerged from his studio and rejoined the world.
Howard Brubeck Dialogues for Jazz Combo & Orchestra Howard Brubeck was born in Concord, California in 1916 and died in La Mesa, California
in 1993. He composed this work in 1959, and it was premiered the same year in New York by the Dave Brubeck Quartet with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra under the direction of Leonard Bernstein. The score calls for a jazz quartet comprising piano, bass, drums, and alto saxophone, and an orchestra consisting of 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, and strings.
Born to the same musical family as his younger brother, the legendary Dave Brubeck,
Howard Brubeck struck out in a different musical direction. Howard was interested in classical music exclusively and wanted to be a composer. After earning his Bachelor of Music from San Francisco State College he went on to study composition with Darius Milhaud and Domenico Brescia at Mills College, where he earned his Master’s Degree in 1941. He soon became Milhaud’s assistant at Mills College, later joining the faculty at San Diego State College as a composition instructor. In 1953 he was appointed Chairman of the music department of
Palomar Junior College in San Marcos, California, later becoming Dean of Humanities. He retired in 1978.
It is an irony, of course, that Howard Brubeck would become best known for his Dialogues for Jazz Combo & Orchestra rather than one of his all-classical works, but being the brother of a world-famous jazz artist has both an upside and a downside. The Dialogues are another chapter in the long-running desire, shared by both classical and jazz musicians, for each type of music to influence and inform the other.
The work was popularized by the recording made shortly after the premiere by the Dave Brubeck Quartet and the New York Philharmonic under Leonard Bernstein (“Bernstein Plays Brubeck Plays Bernstein,” long out-of-print). In the liner notes, the composer wrote, “In this work an attempt is made to construct a score giving the orchestra an important part to play that adheres strictly to written notes, while the particular combination of jazz instruments is free to improvise on the material of the movement.”
And so it is. Every performance will necessarily be different, which is part of the fun: in the hands of fine soloists you’ll have a hard time telling where the written notes leave off and the improvisations begin. The first movement is an Allegro that is big and boisterous, and seamless in its integration between the orchestra and the jazz combo. The second movement is marked Andante-Ballad, and is the one part of the music that gained a life of its own. Dave Brubeck often played this lovely song with the quartet alone, calling it “Theme for June.” The Adagio-Ballad that follows is, if anything, even more beautiful. An Allegro-Blues caps the work off with great excitement, drive, and fascinating interplay between the combo and orchestra, joyously fulfilling the promise of the premise.
—Mark Rohr Questions or comments?
