Loading Events
This event has passed.

 


PROGRAM

VERDI: La forza del destino: Overture       
PAGANINI: Concerto, Violin, No.1, op.6, D major
NAZAYKINSKAYA: Fenix              
MENDELSSOHN: Symphony No.4, op.90, A major (Italian)

 



PROGRAM NOTES

Tonight’s program, which combines music from Italy with music inspired by Italy,
opens with Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901): the overture to La forza del destino (The
Power of Destiny), an opera composed in 1862 but revised in 1869. In many ways,
Verdi was (and still is) the Italian composer of the 19th century. That’s partly because
his operas were taken up by the nationalist cause fighting for Italian unity. (It didn’t hurt
his reputation that, by coincidence, his name is an acrostic for “Vittorio Emanuele Re
d’Italia,” the hero who became the first ...

Tonight’s program, which combines music from Italy with music inspired by Italy,
opens with Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901): the overture to La forza del destino (The
Power of Destiny), an opera composed in 1862 but revised in 1869. In many ways,
Verdi was (and still is) the Italian composer of the 19th century. That’s partly because
his operas were taken up by the nationalist cause fighting for Italian unity. (It didn’t hurt
his reputation that, by coincidence, his name is an acrostic for “Vittorio Emanuele Re
d’Italia,” the hero who became the first king of the newly unified country in 1861.) Even
more, though, it’s because he wrote a series of operas that still dominate the stage,
operas that added a new depth of character and political punch to the melodic genius
that characterized those of earlier Italians like Rossini, Donizetti, and Bellini. Nearly
everything of significance that Verdi wrote, except for his Requiem and Four Sacred
Pieces, was intended for the theater; as a result, he rarely shows up on symphony
programs. But this overture has long been a concert favorite. With its dark foreboding
and passionate lyricism, it perfectly sets us up for a melodrama involving lovers torn
apart by parental demands, bizarre coincidences, confused identities, and vengeance.
One 19th-century Italian composer who has been popular in the concert hall is
Niccoló Paganini (1782–1840), although in his day he was more admired as a violinist
than as a composer. Mendelssohn marveled that “his never-erring technique is beyond
conception”; Liszt used him as a standard against which to measure himself; and his
name became a shorthand for technical perfection in the way that Einstein’s later did for
braininess.

Paganini’s most popular orchestral work is his Violin Concerto No. 1 (1817-18).
As soloist William Hagen is quick to point out, it doesn’t “make some deep statement, as
the Brahms or Beethoven Violin Concertos do.” Yet it’s still wonderful to perform. Why?
“If I had to pick one word,” says Will, “it would be ‘fun.’ This is Italian opera
buffa—melodic, gorgeous, very upbeat.” It’s also “insanely difficult, such a bear!” Of
course, the Beethoven and Brahms Concertos have their difficulties, too—but when you
play those works, you have to make sure that it doesn’t sound hard. “Paganini’s
virtuosity is more in your face, you don’t have to be hiding it.”

Still, says Will, what he’ll be emphasizing is less the virtuosity than the music’s
comic spirit. “It’s such a light-hearted piece. I don’t want it to turn into a dignified, white-
wig affair.” He points out, in particular, that some of the “abrupt scene changes” in this
“super-theatrical work are really funny.” Concert etiquette question: are we in the
audience allowed to laugh? Will hopes that we’ll relax to the point where we can—as
long as we laugh at the right places.

After intermission we have two works with Italian roots composed by non-Italian
composers. First is the symphonic poem Fenix (2019) by Polina Nazaykinskaya (born
1987), whose Winter Bells was such a success three years ago. Its Italian connection
is, paradoxically, both striking and indirect. Larry Loh had commissioned Polina to write
a work for the Albany Symphony last year, and she chose to base it on the legend of the

Phoenix. While still in the early stages of composition, she visited Italy for first time. She
had been seeking inspiration for the piece when, she says, “I walked into a cathedral by
complete chance. I saw this old priest waving at me. So I went to him and I raised my
head—and saw this wonderful picture of a phoenix.” It was a “shocking” surprise—and
while this experience didn’t quite inspire the piece, it certainly nourished it, at least
subconsciously.

Fenix was originally written for smallish orchestra, although Polina has since
provided two fuller versions. In all three, it’s a neo-romantic work, with Brucknerian
overtones in the way it emphasizes imposing architecture rather than the splashy color
that is characteristic of much 21st century music. For Polina, that gives Fenix a special
quality: it “sounds more modern because of the absence of all the things you would
expect from a piece that is written in our day.” The result is a timeless quality that
matches the image of the phoenix.

Although she avoids making the program too explicit (she’d rather have us hear it
in our own ways), Polina does say that “the main idea was to portray an eternal flight
upwards, inevitable death and then rebirth, to represent a fight for something bigger. I
hope that [it] will inspire the audience to look inwards.” That overall idea determined the
work’s structure. Unlike Winter Bells, which is in several sections, Fenix is a single arc
that “builds slowly to something grand.” A structure like that brings compositional
challenges: how does she sustain our attention over 13 minutes? In part, she uses
“microphrasing to help build the tension”—that is, while the piece unfolds over a large
span, there are “mini-climaxes” along the way. Then, too, there’s a quiet moment toward
the end—“a big break before the final ascent”—where woodwinds and brass “blow into
their instruments without pitch. It really helps the form to have that quiet section after a
long period of sweeping music.” Most important, though, Polina keeps our attention by
frequent, sudden, and unconventional key changes that she likens to “turning on your
heel.”

The Italian inspiration for our last piece is more direct. Felix Mendelssohn
(1809–1847) visited Italy in 1830–31 and, bowled over by the experience, wrote his
Symphony No. 4. It’s one of his sunniest and most exuberant works—and one of his
most popular as well. The first movement begins with a burst of ebullient energy, a
virtuoso moment for the orchestra, as Larry points out, with its fast-tonguing winds and
exposed strings: it makes him feel as if he’s “igniting these little sparks.” Next comes a
quiet second movement march, perhaps inspired by a religious celebration. After a
minuet and trio, we have a driving finale, based on the saltarello (a fast triple-meter
dance with an evident leap to it), eventually combined with a tarantella (the relentless
dance reputed to cure for tarantula bites). Premiered in London in 1833, the Fourth is
close to perfect in its form, its orchestration, and its melodic allure—and it’s surprising to
learn that the composer was unsatisfied. He never had it performed in Germany and it
remained unpublished until after his death. He left manuscript versions of revisions of
the last three movements, but the early version remains the standard for performances
today.

Peter J. Rabinowitz
Have any comments or questions? Contact me at
prabinowitz@ExperienceSymphoria.org


FEATURED ARTISTS