Surprise!

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Haydn: Symphonies Nos. 94 “Surprise” & 101 “Clock”

Pierre Monteux / Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

RCA LSC-2394

Strange as it sounds today, Franz Joseph Haydn was a celebrity in late 18th century England, on par with someone like Bruce Springsteen or Bjork in Iceland. He was recognized in the streets, and huge crowds turned out for the premieres of his many, many symphonies. Being the most famous composer of his day, he could get away with a joke on the audience when he felt like it. Haydn had just finished his stint as the Esterhazy’s personal music director when he arrived in London and conducted his Symphony No. 94 in 1792, the second of the 12 London symphonies. As usual, a throng showed up to hear it.

The Andante second movement starts off placid enough, but as the pianissimo main theme comes to a close, hardly a minute in, an incredibly loud fortissimo chord taken up by the whole orchestra erupts from nowhere. According to anecdotal testimony, the chord was a spur-of-the-moment decision of Haydn’s (he was conducting) to rouse an audience member in the front row who’d gone to sleep. The sleeper was of course brought immediately to his senses, and stood bolt upright to tremendous embarrassment. The episode, as great as it sounds, probably isn’t quite true. One of Haydn’s biographers asked him if the chord was meant as a prank, and the composer responded that no, he’d just wanted to introduce a totally unexpected element into his symphony. Which he certainly did.

What’s more shocking than the “surprise”, perhaps, is the fact that it’s not repeated when the theme returns. This leads to a palpable sense of playful dread that’s a little like re-winding a jack-in-the-box and not have it spring out after it’s scared the bejesus out of you the first time. (Hence the sleeve art.) The rest of the symphony follows a strongly Haydnesque framework, with a Minuet and Trio leading to a fast-paced Allegro molto, which culminates with a timpani coda.

In this and the Symphony No. 104 Monteux brings his understated polish and drama. Haydn isn’t often lauded for his humor, but in this symphony it’s on full display.


	

Butterfly Effect

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Schubert: Symphonies Nos. 4 & 5

Karl Munchinger / Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

London CM 9378

Schubert got closer to the full metaphysical revelation than any other composer.

-John Harbison


Franz Schubert, according to his drinking and eating buddies, composed maniacally–on tablecloths, on menus, on anything that was handy in whatever tavern he happened to be in. At the piano, he’d sit, as one friend said, and would so totally subsume himself in the music that he’d become nearly unrecognizable.

Yet very little of his output, until relatively recently, was part of the standard repertoire. Sergei Rachmaninov, in the 1920s, wasn’t even aware that Schubert had even composed piano sonatas, which seems a tad apocryphal.

Of the 9 symphonies, or 8, since No. 9 is sometimes called the 7th–not mentioning the outlines of the 10th, which would be another unfinished symphony, and so would be considered the 9th (on that matter, Luciano Berio has an interesting piece called “Renderings” that mixes those sketches with reworkings of his own). Regardless, the “Unfinished” and the 9th (7th) are obviously the most played, and contain some of the greatest movements in the symphonic repertoire.

Compared to those, Schubert’s previous symphonies are very much in the Haydn/Mozart mold, so much so that they seem to be from different eras, as though Beethoven had gone from an early piano sonata to the op. 132 Quartet. Listen to the 6th and then the 8th and it’s like flipping from classical to full-fledged Romantic. Unbelievably, the 2 symphonies conducted by Munchinger here, the 4th and the 5th, were both finished in the same year, 1816, and though they share a classical pedigree, the 5th is certainly the lighter of the two.

A spirited symphony, it begins with an Allegro and proceeds in B-flat minor in a search for the introductory theme, then offers a surprise by previewing the melodies of the middle sections. Schubert dispenses with the usual instrumentation, doing away with clarinets, trumpets and timpani, either out of necessity for what was available to him, or to pay homage to Mozart, who left out those same sections in his 40th Symphony. Music historians have pointed out the similarities between that symphony, and also the 5th’s resemblance to Mozart’s Violin Sonata in F major.

These symphonies owe a lot to Schubert’s fore-bearers, and contain only a seed of the emotional intensity that would burst forth like the two butterflies on the front of this recording in his latter symphonies.

Across the Harmonic Universe

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Bruckner: Symphony No. 4

Karl Bohm / Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Decca 2xLP 6BB 171/2 (2015 pressing)

Maybe this isn’t place, but I’ll confide anyway. I lost my virginity in the backseat of a vintage Mercedes, parked in a dark cornfield, to Anton Bruckner. Or, to specify, whilst listening to a CD of Bruckner’s 4th Symphony, the “Romantic” (I know, right?)

Of all Bruckner’s symphonies, there’s probably not a better soundtrack to a first sexual experience. The fourth is a smorgasbord of styles, from Wagnerian excess to Vivaldi-like concerto grossi to classical chorale. Begun and completed in 1847 (it went through numerous revisions), the symphony starts with a soft E-flat major in the horn section, the intent being that you don’t realize the work has started until you find that it has. It creeps up on you like a sunrise.

Bruckner said that the beginning introduces a “medieval city – dawn” with knights, forest murmurs and bird song commingling. Then C-flat takes over, with the strings in E-flat for coloration, much of which is done in 2 plus 3 rhythms, with the various keys conflating and resolving in shades of black and light.

The 2nd movement is a ponderous Andante quasi Allegro, bringing about a dour march of sorts that leads to a jaunty Scherzo played at walking speed. The final movement, snatching anxiously at beautiful new themes as though plucking them from the ether, goes on brilliantly to reiterate gestures from the first movements, but with a far more grayscale mood and an elusive strangeness that backgrounds the entire symphony.

Michael Steinberg calls the conclusion “one of his greatest codas…grandly confident strides across huge territories of the harmonic universe.” As with all of Bruckner’s symphonies, it’s big, imposing and mysterious, and perhaps no other recordings brings out these qualities quite like Bohm and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra.

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Felix Mendelssohn’s Scotland

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Four overtures from Mendelssohn in a London recording from the 1950s. Fingal’s Cave, the most recognizable of them, is an actual island called Staffa in the Inner Hebrides of Scotland, known for its unearthly acoustical effects and black basalt columns. The composer visited the cave, or at least sailed by it, in 1829 and finished his standalone concert overture one year later, along with his Symphony No. 3 (“Scottish”) around the same time. An Anglo-Saxon warrior stands on the sleeve, wearing a pelt and a leonine face. He’s the kind of figure who might have resided in the cave, or maybe he’s the namesake of the Giant’s Causeway on the Irish coast, which geologists believe to have reached all the way to the Hebrides at some point.