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Do you need be uplifted, inspired, and excited? Then join Music Director Lawrence Loh and the 300 musicians who will take the stage to perform the epic Symphony No. 2 by Gustav Mahler. It’s a concert you don’t want to miss. Symphoria performs with Syracuse University choirs: Oratorio Society, Crouse Chorale, Hendricks Chapel Choir, Setnor Sonority, and the Syracuse University Singers.

 


 

 


Thanks to our sponsors for this performance!

In memory of Evelyn Brenzel & Ann Marie Cronin

PROGRAM NOTES

At the heart of the last movement of his Second Symphony, Gustav Mahler (1860–1911) offers us one of the most memorable passages in 19th-century orchestral music. After a series of apocalyptic outbursts, the music dies down. Against a backdrop of distant fanfares, coming from different directions off-stage, a solo flute and a piccolo play what sound like bird calls, marked “delicately and fragrantly” in the score. The dynamic level so soft that, says principal flute Xue Su, it requires “extraordinary control” from the players. Not only does the sound evaporate; time seems to melt as well, since—despite ...

At the heart of the last movement of his Second Symphony, Gustav Mahler (1860–1911) offers us one of the most memorable passages in 19th-century orchestral music. After a series of apocalyptic outbursts, the music dies down. Against a backdrop of distant fanfares, coming from different directions off-stage, a solo flute and a piccolo play what sound like bird calls, marked “delicately and fragrantly” in the score. The dynamic level so soft that, says principal flute Xue Su, it requires “extraordinary control” from the players. Not only does the sound evaporate; time seems to melt as well, since—despite the clear 4/4 meter—the parts are written in what Xue calls a “mini-cadenza style with extra beats in the measure,” requiring flexibility without losing momentum.

Mahler might well have ended the symphony there, on a descent into silence, as he did his Ninth Symphony and Das Lied von der Erde. But the Second is a work of hope, not despair or even resignation; and this moment of emptiness is in fact a turning point. Almost inaudibly, we hear an unaccompanied chorus intoning a chorale, its words drawn from the German poet Friedrich Klopstock and expanded by Mahler himself. From there, the symphony moves to the most breathtaking symphonic conclusion in the 19th-century canon.

Indeed, the Second serves as a conclusion to the 19th-century canon. Mahler composed the work, often called the “Resurrection Symphony,” over a fairly long period, between 1888 and 1894; and whether or not he intended to  produce a grand finale to the waning century, this work certainly serves that purpose, looking both backwards (the Beethoven Ninth is an obvious inspiration) and ahead. It’s massive in scale. At the time it was written, only a few symphonies could rival it for length; and it not only calls on a larger orchestra than any of its predecessors, but also requires an organ and chorus. More than any previous symphony, too, it takes advantage of the hall itself, employing a number of off-stage effects to create an unparalleled sense of space. No other symphony so fully envelops you in its own universe.

No other symphony is quite so eventful or so wide-ranging, either. The Second begins with a stinging tremolo and a series of slashing string gestures that leave you stunned, in the grip of a huge funeral rite. It’s a harrowing experience, building, at its center, to a wrenching series of increasingly loud and dissonant blows—a wall of sound that suddenly disappears, leaving in its wake a quiet tremolo on the violas before the symphony’s opening returns (technically, the recapitulation)—a moment of staggering surprise. Even if you don’t catch the references to the plainchant Dies Irae (Day of Wrath)—a melody already taken up by Berlioz and Liszt, and later by Rachmaninoff, among others—you’ll recognize this movement as evoking dread rather that grief. Only Mahler could have written something so harrowing. And only Mahler could have included, in the same movement, a second theme of such ethereal beauty—or could have followed it with a second movement in the form of a naïve folk dance (a Ländler). This Andante seems to inhabit a different world, a world that, in conductor Larry Loh’s words, is “innocent,” with the strong flavor of a lullaby.

The klezmer-inflected third movement brings us to yet another world. One of Mahler’s favorite sources of texts was Des Knaben Wunderhorn, a collection of German Folk Poetry published (and strongly edited, as was the custom) at beginning of 19th century. One poem he set recounts the story of  St. Anthony of Padua, who, on finding that no one comes to church, goes to the river to preach to the appreciative fish. In the traditional version of this legend, the townspeople are so struck by this miracle that they change their ways. The disruptive folk-retelling, however, centers on the fish—who listen attentively, but remain unchanged. Mahler recycles the music of the song as his Scherzo—and even though he leaves out the text, you can sense its sardonic spirit in the music’s constant motion, its mockery, and its extreme sound effects, including glissandos on the strings, squawky woodwinds, and the use of the rute (twigs or dowels tied together and used to hit a drum). Larry describes the movement as a “sinuous and spine-tingling devil’s dance”; and it’s easy to understand why, 80 years later, Luciano Berio used it as the foundation for the third movement of his Sinfonia, a work that tries to come to terms with the madness and social disruption of the 1960s.

There’s another radical shift in direction as we move to the restrained fourth movement, what Larry calls a “quiet outcry.” Titled “Urlicht” (“Primal Light”), this movement also has its source in Des Knaben Wunderhorn. This time, however, the text, expressing simple faith in the face of humanity’s “greatest need,” is actually sung. Slow, sparsely orchestrated with magically shifting colors, and hovering at the quietest levels of sound (down to ppppp), it is surely one of the most poignant and beautiful movements in Mahler’s output. Even though it ends peacefully, however, its faith is not enough—at least not yet. Following a sustained chord on the strings that, according to Mahler’s directions, “vanishes completely,” the finale bursts through with without a break, uttering a towering cry of pain clearly modelled on the opening of the finale of the Beethoven Ninth. It’s only after a series of overwhelming struggles (including two gigantic percussion crescendos that, once heard, you’ll never forget) that we arrive at the flute/piccolo duet with which I began—and finally move toward the choral ending with its decisive resolution.

What does it all mean? At times, Mahler offered programs that charted out fairly detailed narratives for the score. More often, though, he rejected explanation, insisting that the work be presented entirely without the “false ideas” propagated by program notes: “Let the public have its own thoughts [without] preconceived ideas … instilled into it.” Larry has a similar perspective: “You can’t help but know the meaning of it—whatever that meaning is to you—while listening to it.” In any case, even on a blank-slate, first-time hearing, the trajectory is clear: Despite its circuitous route, this is a “darkness to light” symphony representing some kind of spiritual journey ending in illumination. As principal Second Violin Amy Christian puts it, “it’s music that cleanses your soul.” Larry finds himself transported, in a state of ecstasy—and you will, too.

I chose the word “spiritual” rather than “religious” intentionally. Obviously, the work is full of elements, both musical and textual, that have traditional religious resonance. But Mahler’s own beliefs are a subject of continued debate, and he doesn’t seem to have been an adherent of any particular religious doctrine. He was born Jewish, but was apparently not especially observant. And although he converted to Catholicism in 1897, he did so under pressure: In the anti-Semitic Vienna in which he lived, it was a pre-requisite before he could take on the leadership of the Court Opera. Throughout it all, he seems to have maintained a questioning stance shot through with ambiguities, ambiguities neatly encapsulated by his friend conductor Otto Klemperer: Mahler, he said, was “typically irreligious”—but “devout in the highest sense.”

In this context, it’s worth remembering that the “Resurrection” referred to in the finale is not the resurrection of Jesus. It’s the rebirth common to all Abrahamic—and many other—religions; moreover, it’s presented in a way that speaks to believers and non-believers alike. In other words, the Second is a humanist, rather than a specifically religious, work, and it joins a long list of choral masterpieces—like the Berlioz and Verdi Requiems, Vaughan Williams’s Dona Nobis Pacem, and especially the Beethoven Ninth—that unify their listeners in a way that transcends religious differences.

Is it any wonder that we chose this symphony to celebrate our tenth anniversary??

Peter J. Rabinowitz

Have any comments or questions? Please write to me at prabinowitz@ExperienceSymphoria.org


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