The murmurs of two flutes that open Vltava (The Moldau), composed in 1874 by Bedřich Smetana (1824–1884), represent the two springs, one cold and one warm, that join and eventually become the Vltava River. The Vltava is the largest river in the Czech Republic—and Smetana’s tone poem describes its journey from these modest beginnings to its imposing passage through Prague, representing, along the way, Bohemian forests, peasant celebrations, moonlit dances of water nymphs, and memories of Czech history evoked by its ruined castles. Vltava is the second of the six tone poems that eventually made up the monumental anthem ...

The murmurs of two flutes that open Vltava (The Moldau), composed in 1874 by Bedřich Smetana (1824–1884), represent the two springs, one cold and one warm, that join and eventually become the Vltava River. The Vltava is the largest river in the Czech Republic—and Smetana’s tone poem describes its journey from these modest beginnings to its imposing passage through Prague, representing, along the way, Bohemian forests, peasant celebrations, moonlit dances of water nymphs, and memories of Czech history evoked by its ruined castles. Vltava is the second of the six tone poems that eventually made up the monumental anthem of Czech nationalism Má Vlast/My Fatherland—and it has been the most popular. Smetana was deaf by the time he wrote this piece, but its vivid colors belie his condition.

It’s no surprise that Vltava incorporates a fair amount of folk-like music, as well as one quoted tune, which seems to embody the river itself. What is surprising, though, is that the provenance of that tune is not Czech. It was certainly popular in Central Europe, but also it showed up in Sweden (where Smetana briefly lived), and probably originated in Italy. As “Hatikvah,” it eventually became the national anthem of Israel. Music, it seems, is not confined by national borders.

Nor is music confined by historical period. The flutes that open the piece not only represent the source of the Vltava—they also, more figuratively, turn out to be the source of tonight’s entire program, which reveals how the kind of musical nationalism invoked by Smetana winds its way through the centuries. Closest to Smetana is his compatriot Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904), whose Symphony No. 8 (1889) ends the concert. Smetana was not literally Dvořák’s teacher—and indeed, over the years, there were moments of rivalry. But Smetana was a major influence on Dvořák’s development. As a conductor, Smetana premiered several of Dvořák’s works; and Dvořák, who was for a time an orchestral violist, learned a great deal of Czech music under Smetana’s baton.

The Eighth was composed in 1889, when Dvořák was at the height of his powers. The process seems to have been untroubled. He wrote the work in less than three months, and the spirit is confident and upbeat. It’s Dvořák’s sunniest symphony, enriched by his prodigious melodic invention. You’d hardly guess that within less than two months he’d be hard at work on his darkly poignant Requiem. Unlike Vltava, the Eighth doesn’t appear to quote any actual folk songs, but it too has a folksy quality; and its geniality certainly doesn’t mute its exuberance. The finale, a theme and variations, is one of the most uplifting in the Dvořák canon—and the closing pages are as thrilling as anything Dvořák wrote.

Smetana’s influence on Dvořák eventually flowed to the New World. How? When Dvořák wrote the Eighth, he was not only at the height of his powers—he was also at the height of his fame, and within a few years, he was in the United States. He had been invited by Jeannette Thurber, president of the National Conservatory of Music in New York, who asked him to serve as the school’s artistic director. Thurber felt that American composers were too beholden to European models. True, Dvořák was a European. But he was outside the Austro-German tradition; and since he wrote music inspired by his own nation’s folk music, she hoped that he would encourage US composers to do the same. Her expectations were fulfilled. During his years here (1892–1895), he had a profound effect, pushing the country’s classical music in new directions—in particular, by encouraging the incorporation of African American and Native American traditions. His ideas had an especially strong impact on Florence Price (1887–1953), although she was born far too late to work directly with him.

Price had a heartbreaking career. Born in Little Rock and trained in Boston, she spent most of her life in Chicago. She made headlines when the Chicago Symphony performed her First Symphony. But while she was the first Black woman to have a work performed by a major American orchestra, she was increasingly pushed aside, to a large extent because of race and gender. By the time she died, she was virtually forgotten—and were it not for the fortuitous discovery of a huge stash of manuscripts in 2009, she might well remain unknown even today. In the last decade, however, her work has been performed with increasing frequency, to tremendous acclaim.

Her Piano Concerto is one of her most endearing large-scale compositions—although the term “large-scale” may be misleading. As tonight’s pianist Michelle Cann points out, so many of the standard concertos last a half hour or forty minutes. Price’s, which compresses three movements into one, is a compact eighteen. And yet, “there’s so much variety. She is able to pack so much adventure, mystery, and love—an entire novel—into this little amount of time.” The Concerto takes us on quite a journey. The first part reveals her “connection to her classical training, especially the romantic literature”; the final section, like movements in many of her works, takes the form of a juba, a rhythmically vital dance accompanied by clapping and body slapping that originated with enslaved Americans. “The roots of ragtime are certainly here,” Michelle points out—as will be delightfully clear when you hear it.

In between is a gorgeous, lyrical outpouring. On one level, says Michelle, “you wouldn’t think these things would mix, but that’s the signature of Florence Price: she’s able to weave them all together in a way that’s very cohesive. It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard.” And yet, it sounds familiar, too—since Price has tapped into the heart of American traditions. And like the Dvořák, it’s a work that, in Michelle’s words, is “full of positivity.” It’s a kind of musical quilt—and it offers the kind of comfort a quilt provides, too.

Like much of Price’s music, the Piano Concerto has a complex history. It was composed in 1934, and premiered with the composer at the piano, quickly followed by a performance with fellow composer Margaret Bonds taking the keyboard part. But during the years of Price’s neglect, it was lost; and when it was rediscovered in that treasure trove, it was in the form of a two piano reduction. Using that version, and some other materials, Trevor Weston created an orchestral accompaniment. Recently, however, Price’s orchestration was found, and it’s the original version we’ll be hearing tonight. The most important difference for Michelle is the scoring of the second section, where a long duet between piano and oboe has been restored. This is Michelle’s favorite part. It’s really chamber music, she says; as a result, since she’s always meeting a new oboist, “it’s never the same.”

Smetana, Dvořák, and Price all found ways to merge personal identity with cultural background. So does Berkeley-born Gabriela Lena Frank (b. 1972), although her cultural background, like that of an increasing number of people, is more complex. She describes herself as “a Peruvian-Chinese-Jewish-Lithuanian girl born with significant hearing loss in a hippie town.” She grew up nourished by (and thriving in) a richly multi-cultural environment and considers herself fortunate to live in a country where someone like her could “successfully create a life writing string quartets and symphonies.”

Elegia Andina (2000) is, she says, “one of my first written-down compositions to explore what it means to be of several ethnic persuasions, of several minds”—and she incorporates “stylistic elements of Peruvian arca/ira zampoña panpipes (double-row panpipes, each row with its own tuning) to paint an elegiac picture of [her] questions.” More than anything else on the program, this gorgeous evocation of the Andes brings us to a distant place. Distant, yet oddly familiar, too, since the flute parts—especially magical the two-flute cadenza toward the end of the piece—may bring you back to the opening of Vltava.

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