Lang Lang in Recital

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Rondo in D major was written in January 1786 and, like several of his shorter piano works, may have been written for a student; in this case, Fräulein von Würm. It was a particularly busy time for the composer, who was hard at work on The Marriage of Figaro and regularly performing at the homes of wealthy patrons, an important source of income in those years.

A rondo is a musical form based on the frequent reappearance of an opening theme, which alternates with sections that offer contrasts in melodic content, key, mood, or texture. Though this Rondo superficially meets the criteria for such a work, its structure more closely resembles that of a sonata-form movement, with an exposition, development, and recapitulation, but one that is based on a single theme instead of two contrasting themes. Such monothematic sonata movements are fairly common in the works of Haydn, but rare in Mozart’s music.

The bouncy initial theme is taken directly from a quintet by J.C. Bach, whom Mozart had met in London as a child. The exposition opens with two statements of the theme followed by an extended modulatory passage, leading eventually to a reappearance of the theme in the dominant key of A major. The development embarks on a delightful journey during which we hear the theme in various keys and modes. After an extended running passage, it appears again in its original key of D major, announcing the recapitulation. But even then, Mozart has not exhausted all of his tricks, fragmenting the theme, setting us up for a statement in one key before abruptly moving to another (undoubtedly with a smile on his face), and alternating between major and minor modes. The work finally concludes with the theme returning once more to D major and a perfect little bow of an ending.

— Michael Strasser 

Michael Strasser is professor emeritus of musicology at Baldwin Wallace University. He has published numerous articles and reviews and presented papers at international conferences on fin-de-siècle France, Arnold Schoenberg, and colonial music in British North America and Mexico. 

Ludwig van Beethoven composed 32 piano sonatas over the course of his life. His early works show the startling inventiveness and fiery temperament that so captivated the musical world at the turn of the century.

The Piano Sonata No. 8 was assigned the title “Pathétique” by the publisher, a term that in the 18th century suggested intense drama and deeply felt emotion. Composed in 1797–98, it marked a new stage in Beethoven’s artistic development, signaling that his originality, aesthetic power, and sense of proportion had by now far exceeded that of his contemporaries.

The dramatic opening movement begins, unusually for a sonata, with an ominous, fantasia-like introduction before the fiery exposition. The determined, almost frantic energy of the exposition is maintained throughout the movement but is unexpectedly interrupted two more times by reappearances of that tragic opening.

The Adagio second movement is in rondo form and offers a complete change of mood. The initial theme is very simple, almost hymnlike. It appears three times over the course of the movement, interspersed with two increasingly dramatic interludes, each of which colors our perception of the opening theme when it returns.

Closing-movement rondos traditionally provide a light-hearted ending to multi-movement works. Here, however, Beethoven recreates the fervent mood of the opening movement, unifying the work and reinforcing its dramatic character.

— Michael Strasser 

Beethoven’s last three piano sonatas were written over a period of three years, from 1820–22.  He was by this time 50 years old, almost completely deaf, and suffering from a myriad of other illnesses, but his interior musical world enabled him to imagine a wealth of new sounds, figuration patterns, and formal possibilities to construct an ethereal new aesthetic sensibility. The Piano Sonata No. 31 was the second of the trio and was completed in 1821.

The first movement is marked con amabilità, followed by the German term sanft. Taken together, they imply a mood of gentle, friendly calm, and that certainly describes the character of this rhapsodic movement. The simple opening theme, around which the movement is built, later reappears as a fugue subject in the finale.

A very short scherzo movement incorporates melodic ideas from two whimsical popular songs. The mood is jovial and carefree, and the movement provides a brief, light-hearted interlude before the profundity of the finale.

The finale opens with a long, speechlike recitative passage that leads directly into an extended, lamenting arioso section marked dolente (grieving). The fugue that follows brightens the mood considerably but then breaks off with a loud trill and a slip from E-flat major to G minor. The mood becomes ever more affirming, and towards the end, the fugue subject returns, hammered out in affirmative chords over rapid left-hand figuration. The French composer Vincent d’Indy described the ending as “an exertion of will to banish suffering.” Coming as it did at a time when its composer was suffering both physically and emotionally, this sonata serves as a powerful musical testament to both Beethoven’s travails and his unquenchable spirit.

— Michael Strasser 

Isaac Albéniz began composing his Suite española in 1886, intending to write a collection of eight pieces, each focused on the distinct cultural and musical characteristics of a particular region of Spain. The first four were initially issued as individual pieces, and it wasn’t until 1912, three years after the composer’s death, that the complete eight-movement suite was finally published.

Six selections from the suite are included on tonight’s program. The suite opens with Granada, evoking a warm, sultry evening with strumming chords evoking the sound of a guitar. Cataluña is a wistful dance tune in 6/8 time. With an opening that suggests a festive folk dance, Sevilla offers a lively contrast to the first two movements. Cádiz is a delicate song featuring the distinctive triplet–sixteenth note figures so typical of Spanish music. Quite popular in a transcription for classical guitar, Asturias features driving flamenco-inspired rhythms in the outer sections surrounding a seductive melodic interlude. The suite ends with the lilting habanera titled Cuba, evoking that tropical island’s colonial ties to Spain.

— Michael Strasser 

Spain has always held a special place in the imagination of other Europeans; so close, yet seemingly so exotic, colorful, and enticing. Around the turn of the 20th century, French and Russian composers wrote some of the world’s most famous “Spanish” music. At the same time, several Spanish composers, each drawing much from the stylistic and aesthetic innovations of their French contemporaries Debussy and Ravel, worked to establish a distinctive Spanish style.

The works of the Spanish painter Francisco Goya inspired Goyescas, one of the most well-known compositions by Isaac Granados. Only two of its six movements have been tied to specific Goya paintings, but all evoke the atmosphere of early 19th-century Spain and, especially, the romanticized world of the majos and majas, men and women of the Spanish lower classes. The melancholic fourth movement of the work, Quejas, o la Maja y el Ruiseñor (Complaint, or the Maiden and the Nightingale), vividly portrays a young woman’s grief, answered finally, and indifferently, by the trills and arpeggios of the nightingale’s song. The English critic Ernest Newman once wrote that this hauntingly beautiful piece gives one “the voluptuous sense of passing the fingers through masses of richly colored jewels.”     

Over the first half of the 19th century, virtuoso performers were immensely popular in both Europe and the Americas. With their dazzling technical abilities and often norm-bending lifestyles, they were perceived as Romantic gods, the rock stars of their day. Franz Liszt, one of the most famous of this elite group, played a large role in shaping the musical life that we know today. Virtuosos usually performed concertos, showpieces, and elaborate variations on tunes from popular operas, and their concerts often included vocalists and other soloists as well as an orchestra. Liszt was the first to do away with these extraneous elements in his performances, introducing the term “recital,” borrowed from the literary world, to describe his solo concerts. He also expanded the solo piano repertoire in startling new ways, playing transcriptions of orchestral works like Beethoven symphonies, piano arrangements of Schubert songs, and even “ancient” music by composers like J.S. Bach and Handel.

During these years, Liszt continued to write and perform original piano music, and tonight’s program concludes with two contrasting examples of his solo output. Consolation No. 2 is from a collection of six that he first composed between 1844 and 1848, before revising them for final publication two years later. The title might have been inspired by a collection of poems, Les Consolations by Charles Sainte-Beuve, and each of the six pieces is in either the key of E major or D-flat major.

Consolation No. 2 is a short, lyrical piece that is deceptively simple. The poignant, legato melody requires an exquisitely delicate touch by the performer to ensure that there is no separation between the notes. The resulting effect is one of calm, gentle reflection.

— Michael Strasser

Venezia e Napoli is a set of three short pieces written as a supplement to Franz Liszt’s second book of his famous Années de pèlerinage (Years of Pilgrimage). All three are concert paraphrases of popular tunes from Venice or Naples. The Tarantella is the dazzling final movement, a fine example of the kind of virtuosic showpiece that drew enthusiastic crowds to his recitals and caused audience members to literally swoon in the face of such unfathomable talent.

Based on “Fenesta vascia,” a popular Neapolitan song by Guillaume Louis Cottrau, the piece begins with a dizzyingly fast and energetic tarantella, a southern Italian couples’ dance in 6/8 time that derives its name from the ancient belief that frantic dancing could help one sweat out a tarantula’s venom. (Dancing to Liszt’s interpretation of the tarantella would most certainly do the trick!) After an initial, relatively unadorned statement of the melody, Liszt takes us through a series of increasingly virtuosic variations, each seemingly more breathtaking than the last before one final, breathtaking flourish provides a rousing conclusion to the work.

— Michael Strasser