An Evening with Yo-Yo Ma

Nineteenth-century Vienna was dominated by two forms of popular music — the operetta and the waltz. Both were much discussed in the city’s famous coffee shops, and their best tunes were written up for performance everywhere — at home, in the streets and parks, as well as in theaters, ballrooms, and casinos. A great “Golden Age” of operetta (filled, of course, with waltzes) blossomed in the city beginning in the 1860s. Johann Strauss, Jr., then at the height of his popularity, turned his attention to the theater as Vienna’s economy boomed throughout the next decade. 

The waltz had swept across Europe in the closing decades of the 18th century. The word itself came from the German verb walzen, which was originally not much more specific than the English word “dance.” Eventually, the waltz overtook the minuet in popularity, and the verb became a noun, first in English and then in German. In 1819, Carl Maria von Weber’s Invitation to the Dance set the pattern for what quickly became the typical Viennese waltz — not one dance, but a string of dances written together as a group, often alternating slower and faster sections, with the various tunes repeated and developed, almost like a short symphony. 

The waltz experienced renewed popularity throughout the 19th century, propelled by the artistry and showmanship of the Strauss family of composers, beginning with Johann Strauss, Sr. (1804–1849). His touring orchestra, along with that of his even more famous son, Johann, Jr., spread the waltz craze throughout Europe and even to American shores.

Our evening begins with Strauss, Jr.’s Overture to Die Fledermaus (The Bat), premiered in 1874. The operetta’s storyline of disguises, romantic trysts, and mistaken identities, plus a full-fledged party onstage — with, of course, a series of great waltzes — has made it one of the composer’s most popular works. The overture features some of its best tunes, all mixed together as a perfectly exciting prelude to much fun and merriment. 

— Eric Sellen 

Eric Sellen is The Cleveland Orchestra’s editor emeritus. He previously was program book editor for 28 seasons. 

“Don Giovanni! You invited me to supper — and I have come.” These words introduce one of the most dramatic scenes in the history of opera: the entrance of the Stone Guest (the statue of the Commendatore, or Governor). Don Giovanni killed the Commendatore in the very first scene of the opera, and at the end, his statue appears at the Don’s house to carry him off to Hell. It is fitting that this protagonist should be punished by a supernatural being. No ordinary womanizer, Don Giovanni is an almost mythical figure, symbolizing the boundless ambition of modern man who challenges the traditional world order and conventional morality. 

The full title of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s opera contains the phrase II dissoluto punito (The Libertine Punished); Don Giovanni must pay for his transgressions with his life. Yet he is still a domineering presence compared to the other characters. The men — his servant Leporello and his rivals Don Ottavio and Masetto — are all powerless in their attempts to bring him down. The women — Donna Anna, Donna Elvira, and Zerlina — fall under his spell but ultimately resist his influence. In the end, it takes a transcendent power to defeat him. 

The overture to Don Giovanni opens with an evocation of the Don’s damnation. The slow introduction (in Mozart’s most dramatic key, D minor) anticipates the moment where the Stone Guest enters the dining room. The main section of the overture (now in D major) does not return in the opera, yet the unusually high energy seems to justify those who hear it as the Don’s musical portrait. The strong rhythmic profile of its themes, the frequent dynamic contrasts, and the close succession of imitative entries in the middle section all carry the same uncommon energy that animates this character, one we can’t help but admire, no matter how reprehensible he is. 

— Peter Laki 

Peter Laki is a musicologist and frequent lecturer on classical music. He is a visiting associate professor of music at Bard College.

Overtures were originally orchestral pieces introducing an opera or theater performance. In the 19th century, however, they gradually became independent from the stage. Beethoven was one of the first to write concert overtures (The Consecration of the House), followed by such composers as Mendelssohn (The Hebrides), Brahms (the Academic Festival and Tragic overtures), and Tchaikovsky (1812 Overture). 

Antonín Dvořák had published several of his early opera overtures as separate concert pieces, but it was not until his 50th year that he began work on concert overtures that were planned as such from the start. In 1891, he conceived a cycle of three overtures to be performed together as an orchestral trilogy. He entitled the cycle Nature, Life, and Love; the individual overtures were called In Nature’s Realm, Carnival, and Othello. Dvořák thought very highly of this cycle. In 1893, he wrote to his publisher, Fritz Simrock: “I think they are my best orchestral works,” even though he had already finished his “New World” Symphony by that time. He presented the cycle both at his April 1892 farewell concert in Prague before leaving for the United States and at his first concert in New York later that year. 

The second overture, Carnival, is like a miniature symphony in four “movements,” played without a break. But the last “movement” is nothing but a recapitulation of the first. Therefore, the overture can also be seen as an irregular single movement, with slow and fast sections inserted in the middle. Whichever way we look at it, the work is framed by a happy and exuberant carnival march with cymbals, tambourine, and triangle. Then the brass and the percussion drop out, and the violins play an expressive melody in a distinctly operatic style. 

The third theme is introduced by the violins as the percussion reenters in a hushed pianissimo. This theme grows to a full orchestral fortissimo, only to be suddenly interrupted by the winds, violins, and harp (the only instrument that has been silent so far). This passage serves as a transition to the lyrical slow section featuring solos for the woodwinds and violin. The melody of this section is also identical to the main theme of the overture In Nature’s Realm, providing a strong link between the two works of the cycle. 

Another sudden interruption brings us to the next section, which has the playfulness and vibrancy of a scherzo (the third movement in a typical symphony). Thematically, however, this is not an independent section since it is based on the transformations of some of the material heard at the beginning. Finally, the march returns, and the piece ends in a festive mood with exquisite, joyful abandon. 

— Peter Laki 

Written at the end of Antonín Dvořák’s three-year tenure as director of the National Conservatory in New York City, the Cello Concerto reflects some of the composer’s American experiences, but is at the same time filled with the spirit of his beloved Bohemia, where he longed to return. 

The idea of writing a cello concerto certainly had something to do with Dvořák’s experiences in America. He was inspired by his colleague at the National Conservatory, cellist-composer Victor Herbert, who performed his own Second Cello Concerto with conductor Anton Seidl and the New York Philharmonic in March 1894. But the idea also stemmed from his earlier days. As a young composer, Dvořák had written a cello concerto, but never finished orchestrating it, and it remained unperformed. 

It is remarkable that this concerto boasts both a chamber-music quality — making it easier for the lower pitch of the instrument to stand out against the full orchestra — and a symphonic grandeur one doesn’t find in most other 19th-century Romantic cello concertos (such as those by Robert Schumann or Saint-Saëns). Dvořák continues the Beethoven-Brahms tradition in which solo passages (including several prominent ones for the flute) are balanced by full-fledged orchestral statements. The orchestra’s role is also not restricted to mere accompaniment — it always shares the limelight with the soloist and often even takes center stage. 

The concerto memorializes Dvořák’s sister-in-law, Josefina Kaunitzová, who became seriously ill shortly after the composer had begun work on the piece. It is no secret that, as a young man, Dvořák was deeply in love with Josefina, but their union was not to be; instead, the composer married Josefina’s sister, Anna. 

In the second movement of the concerto, Dvořák quotes one of his own songs — Lasst mich allein (Let me be alone), Op. 82, No. 1 — which was a favorite of Josefina’s and appears in the concerto as a personal tribute. Dvořák also made the almost unheard-of decision to insert a wistful and elegiac slow section in the middle of the finale which is, up to that point, dominated by a spirited dance melody. What is more, the solo cello is joined by a second solo voice coming from the concertmaster, with the combination of violin and cello (high and low) creating unmistakable associations with an operatic love duet. The dramatic first theme of the opening movement is recalled, as is a variant of Josefina’s song. Eventually, and only with some effort, does Dvořák gather enough momentum in the music for a few fast measures to end the concerto. 

After completing the work, Dvořák asked his friend, the renowned cellist Hanuš Wihan, to add fingerings and bowing instructions to the solo part. In addition, Wihan proposed some changes and wrote solo cadenzas (for the first and last movements) that the composer found impossible to accept. While some scholars believe these differences of opinion led Wihan not to play the concerto’s premiere, further research has revealed that Wihan was simply not available on the performance day suggested by the London Philharmonic Society. The organization soon engaged another solo cellist, Leo Stern, much to Dvořák’s dismay, as he had already committed to the idea of having Wihan debut the work. “I hope he [Stern] will be all right,” he wrote to the Society a few days before leaving for the premiere. 

The concert featuring the premiere was extremely long by today’s standards. In addition to Dvořák’s Eighth Symphony and five of his Biblical Songs, it also contained a performance of Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto (No. 5) with pianist Emil Sauer, and additional works. Yet the Cello Concerto was received with enthusiasm. Stern subsequently introduced it to several cities in Europe and the United States, and other cellists took it on as well. Wihan finally performed the work in January 1899 in The Hague, with the Concertgebouw Orchestra conducted by Willem Mengelberg. 

— adapted from a note by Peter Laki