György Ligeti's Concert Românesc

Many cinema lovers will be familiar with György Ligeti's music without even realising it: Stanley Kubrick used it in his famous epic film 2001: A Space Odyssey. Without the composer's knowledge or consent, excerpts from the orchestral piece Atmosphères (1961), the Requiem (1963/65) and the choral work Lux aeterna (1966) found their way into the soundtrack. The works used no longer revealed any melodic or rhythmic contours, consisting only of clouds of sound that interpenetrated, mingled and changed. From then on, their style was considered typical of Ligeti, but in reality they represented only one phase in his oeuvre.

György Ligeti began as a ‘truly Hungarian composer’, as he himself said. After the Second World War, he studied in Budapest, but also at the Romanian Folklore Institute in Bucharest. His folklore-inspired pieces from this period were entirely in line with the cultural policy of the new communist regime. However, after the suppression of the Hungarian uprising in 1956, Ligeti fled to the West, to Germany. His Concert Românesc was written in 1951, while he was still in Hungary.

The piece incorporates numerous Romanian melodies, some of which the composer recorded himself on research trips, while others he transcribed from wax cylinders and records. Contrary to Ligeti's expectations, the concerto aroused the wrath of cultural officials – "due to a few forbidden dissonances (e.g. F sharp within F major). For today's listener, it is hard to understand how such mild tonal jokes could be declared a threat to the state. [...] The piece was immediately banned and was not performed until many decades later," Ligeti said in 2000.

Musical powerhouse

The orchestral concerto, which lasts around twelve minutes, consists of four movements that flow into one another without a break. They are arranged in two pairs, whose sequence – slow, fast – is reminiscent of the structure of a verbunkos (a Hungarian dance and music style) or a csárdás with its lassú and friss sections. The opening Andantino is based on a single melancholic melody that wanders through various orchestral groups and, in places, takes on a medieval feel through harmonisations with open fifths and fourths. Energetic dance rhythms and short motifs overlapping in the manner of a canon characterise the following Allegro vivace. The beginning of the third movement is reminiscent of alphorn sounds: the horns (one of them responding from afar) play natural overtones here, which sound out of tune to our ears, accustomed to equal temperament. This is followed by a plaintive English horn melody. With its extravagant violin solos, the finale evokes associations with the Roma bands of Hungary and Romania, before a reminiscence of the alphorn sounds of the third movement concludes the concerto.

Violin Concerto by Antonín Dvořák

‘Would you like to write a violin concerto for me? Something quite original, rich in cantilenas and suitable for good violinists?’ Fritz Simrock asked Antonín Dvořák in January 1879, whom he regarded as the new driving force behind his music publishing company following the success of the Slavonic Dances the previous year. The enterprising German publisher was interested in commercial success, while his customers wanted fresh, preferably ‘exotic’ sounds. But for Czech composers, folk-inspired music could also mean something else: some used it specifically to appeal to the burgeoning national consciousness of their compatriots. Bohemia was still part of the Habsburg multi-ethnic empire, and many of the country's inhabitants hoped either for independence or at least for their own Slavic part of the Austro-Hungarian state. The intensifying nationality conflict was to lead to reservations on the part of many German music lovers towards everything Slavic in the 1880s, but this had not yet come to pass at the time the violin concerto was written.

Exercise in patience and forbearance

Antonín Dvořák provisionally completed this work in the summer of 1879. However, it was not premiered or printed until the end of 1883. The delay was mainly due to the star violinist Joseph Joachim. Dvořák wanted to dedicate his concerto to the German violin virtuoso and sent it to him for review. After taking six months to review it, Joachim expressed numerous requests for changes. Dvořák thoroughly reworked the concerto in April and May 1880 and then wrote to Simrock: “I have taken the greatest pains to give the entire concerto a different form. I have retained the themes and also composed some new ones. But the whole concept of the work is different. The harmonisation, instrumentation, rhythm, the entire execution is new.” Joachim kept the composer waiting two whole years for a response to the second version. Then he requested further changes, which Dvořák once again patiently carried out. In the meantime, however, the dedicatee had lost interest. So the concerto was first performed by the young Czech violinist František Ondřiček, who launched a brilliant career with it.

The finished work does not betray its difficult genesis – it seems to flow seamlessly and is immediately captivating with its “Bohemian” tone. At the beginning of the first movement, Dvořák dispenses with the usual orchestral exposition and brings in the solo violin after just four bars in unison. The end of the movement is also original: without a solo cadenza, the Adagio follows seamlessly after a Moderato transition. This song-like, pastoral piece with its two faster interludes contrasts sharply with the spirited finale. It was inspired by two different types of folk music: Dvořák composed the outer sections in the style of a furiant. The name of this dance is derived from the Latin “furians” (= inspiring, frenzied), and its character is marked by rhythmic confusion through shifts in accent. Dvořák, on the other hand, modelled the minor-key middle section of the finale on a dumka. This term goes back to the Old Slavic verb ‘dumati’ (to think, to ponder) and refers to a ballad of melancholic character in Polish and Ukrainian folk music.

Jürgen Ostmann

Jürgen Ostmann studied musicology and orchestral music (cello). He lives in Cologne as a freelance music journalist and dramaturge and works for concert halls, radio stations, orchestras, music festivals and CD labels.

Ludwig van Beethoven's 2nd Symphony

Bizarre, wild, colossal

Ludwig van Beethoven's first two symphonies are often classified as mere precursors, still indebted to their models Mozart and Haydn. But his contemporaries listened more closely – and distinguished between them with great sensitivity. One report reads: ‘Beethoven's earlier and friendlier symphony [meaning the First], which was beautifully performed, is a favourite piece of the local concert audience: but they also listened to the sombre one [i.e. the Second] with rapt attention, unmistakable sympathy and much applause.’ “Colossal,” “bizarre” and “wild” are recurring keywords, and the work was also described as inappropriately expansive. From the perspective of his Third Symphony, the Eroica, with which Beethoven soon broke further boundaries, the Second may still seem modest in scale, but viewed in its own right and in its context, it is a quantum leap.

Beethoven not only delivers a literal bang, shaking every listener out of their bourgeois slumber from the very first second. He also keeps turning up the heat, lengthening the movements and shortening the motifs, accelerating breakneck speed and braking without warning. In short, he pushes boundaries wherever he can.

More than an introduction

The double strike of the full orchestra is followed by a slow first section that is much more than an introduction. Isolated melodic figures form on trembling ground, people dodge each other, speak in fragments, interrupt each other, become loud when the power of argument alone is not enough. Delicate sequences of notes contrast with sharp punctuations, then the sombre, jagged beginning of the Ninth Symphony flashes like lightning in a single bar. Afterwards, in the second section of this opening, the tension rises above a pedal point on the note A to the impending allegro. All these ingredients remain present and important throughout the entire movement.

In the fast main section, Beethoven, as is typical for him, derives explosive power from seemingly “common” phrases such as ascending triads, scales or a rolling figure (the circular embellishment of a note). Trills are also not used ornamentally, but as a constitutive element. A continuous pulse drives the action forward, almost without pause throughout the entire exposition, and leads into ever-changing harmonic areas. Here, too, sharp interjections and syncopated accents on the “wrong” beat repeatedly counteract this: the development is a prime example of the joy of deconstruction and recombination. After the return of the main themes, there is another surprise: the coda is almost as long as the development, explores hitherto completely unknown thematic territory and startles with crashing blows from the orchestra.

Conflicting Forces

Where does this divergence come from? Is it a taste for provocation? Rather, it is a play of opposing forces: Beethoven himself was filled with conflicting emotions. By the end of 1801 at the latest, he had become fully aware of his own inner turmoil, as he confided to his childhood friend Franz Gerhard Wegeler on November 16: “I flee – from people, I must appear a misanthrope, and yet I am so little; this change has brought forth a dear, enchanting girl who loves me, and whom I love; for the past two years there have been a few blissful moments again.”

This girl was Countess Julie (“Giulietta”) Guicciardi. She was Beethoven’s piano student, and he dedicated the Moonlight Sonata to her. His feelings for her lifted him to an unknown level: “It is the first time I feel that – marriage could make one happy.” But “unfortunately she is not of my station” – the composer sensed that such an obstacle, despite the deepest affection, could not be overcome. The story did not end happily.

These early years after 1800 were also the period in which Beethoven’s hearing began to fail, and a disturbing ringing and roaring started to echo in his ears. Less than a year later, he put down on paper the so-called Heiligenstädter Testament, that harrowing document oscillating between despair and defiance. It was in this context that the Second Symphony was born. Given its key, the idyllic Larghetto, and the whirling finale, the bitter verbal reckoning and the joyous orchestral music have often been seen as a surprising contrast. Yet these contrasts are already evident both in the letter and in the composition itself.

The second movement – a song-like Larghetto in classical sonata form – hovers between development and contemplation. In the third movement, Beethoven introduces a novelty: where a minuet would conventionally be expected, he offers, for the first time under this designation, a scherzo. Minuets had once been the sign of aristocratic society, later becoming fashionable among the bourgeoisie, where they threatened to become overly quaint. In the symphonic context, Beethoven drew the consequence: the three-part form is retained, consisting of the minuet itself (already in two sections) and a part often smaller, previously scored for only three voices, and therefore called a “trio.” But Beethoven sharpens the content: he noticeably increases the tempo, heightens the contrasts, and makes the gentlemen of yesterday move their feet.

Outcry Between Tumult and Jubilation

Immediately afterward begins the finale: out of a clear sky, seemingly disconnected, it storms through the ranks with its eccentric leaps. At the time, the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung spoke of “its tumultuous, wildly adventurous character.” One might not have put it that way then, but this music is as crazy as it is unrestrained, even when it temporarily drifts into calmer waters. For example, the return of the opening theme is prepared over a long stretch and hinted at in pianissimo, yet in the wrong key. One expects a joke, and—bam!—it strikes back violently. Here too, an overlong coda extends the course, with highly dramatic climaxes and sudden halts of all forces—an outcry between tumult and jubilation. Should one be afraid or rejoice? After four final chords, the last note—like in the first movement—is a repeated D: neither major nor minor, the future remains open.

Composing as Action

Many personal entanglements have flowed into the wild world of the Second. In Beethoven’s conversation books, a visitor’s question is recorded: “Doesn’t action for you mean composing?” Beethoven would likely have answered with vigorous assent. Serious German musicology, in turn, derives a further clarification from analyzing his works: “In general, Beethoven’s compositional action is directed toward liberation.” So writes Adolf Nowak. A similar view is held by the philosopher and former East German dissident Rudolf Bahro, who dedicated a book to the “example of Beethoven” (…die nicht mit den Wölfen heulen, 1979). Citing the revolutionary Georg Forster, he writes: “By such a measure, Beethoven in his views was far removed from Jacobinism, indeed from Sansculottism. Things are different, however, with the musician …” For his composing—and thus his “action”—as already evidenced by the Second, is not far from a coup d’état.

Malte Krasting

Malte Krasting has been a dramaturge at the Bavarian State Opera since 2013. After studying musicology in Hamburg and Berlin, he held positions at the Meininger Theater, the Komische Oper Berlin, and the Oper Frankfurt. He has maintained a long-standing collaboration with conductor Kirill Petrenko and the Berlin Philharmonic. He also taught for ten years each at the Bavarian Theatre Academy August Everding and at the Mozarteum University Salzburg. In the book series Opernführer kompakt, he published an introduction to Mozart’s Così fan tutte.