CARL MARIA VON WEBER
Born in Eutin (near Lübeck), Germany, November 18, 1786
Died in London, June 5, 1826

Der Freischütz, the third of Weber’s five complete, extant operas, marked the first important instance of a national German opera. In form, it descended from the Singspiel tradition – stage works with passages of spoken German dialogue alternating with musical numbers – but in content it set itself apart from its illustrious predecessors like Mozart’s Zauberflöte and Beethoven’s Fidelio through the use of specifically German subject matter. In this respect, it set the example for later operatic expressions of national feeling: Smetana’s The Bartered Bride, Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov, Britten’s Peter Grimes, and Copland’s Tender Land. One writer observed that the Overture to Der Freischütz could easily be the overture to one of the Grimm’s fairy tales, for the heart and soul of German folklore is embodied in this opera, involving as it does a dark mysterious forest, huntsmen, a friendly hermit, ghosts, evil spirits, a devil and a pair of lovers.

Weber selected the story from a collection of supernatural tales, the Gespensterbuch (Ghost Stories) of Apel and Laun. Friedrich Kind fashioned the libretto, working closely with Weber. The complete opera had a highly successful premiere in Berlin on June 18, 1821, but the overture alone had first been heard nine months earlier in Copenhagen, and was published separately under its own opus number.

The overture is a synthesis of the opera that follows. The slow introduction features a horn quartet, softly and gently evoking the peaceful, romantic forest. A dark shadow crosses the sylvan setting – the evil Samiel lurks about, portrayed by a string tremolo and soft throbs from the timpani. The music of the allegro section is at first stormy and restless, representing the events of the wild, macabre Wolf’s Glen scene, replete with ghosts, goblins, eerie winds and a host of supernatural occurrences. This leads into a long solo for the clarinet, Weber’s favourite instrument. Then comes the heroine Agathe’s theme – a soaring, graceful melody in the clarinet and strings. Throughout the symphonic development, the forces of good and evil engage in a dramatic conflict. But, as in most fairy tales, good triumphs in the end. Following a long, pregnant pause, fortissimo chords for the full orchestra lead to a return of Agathe’s theme, and the overture ends joyously.

Program notes by Robert Markow

I. Prelude: Allegro moderato –
II. Adagio
III. Finale: Allegro energico

German composer Max Bruch (1838–1920) is best known today for really only one of the nearly 100 works he ever created: his G minor Violin Concerto. He began writing it in 1865, just before he became director of the Royal Institute for Music and of the Subscription Concerts in Coblenz. A first version of the concerto was completed and performed in the spring of 1866, but Bruch was dissatisfied with it. A few years later, in a letter to the music publisher Fritz Simrock, he admitted that composing it had been a struggle: “It is a damned difficult thing to do [to write a violin concerto]; between 1864 and 1868 I rewrote my concerto at least half a dozen times, and conferred with x violinists before it took the final form in which it is universally famous and played everywhere.”

Among the violinists he had consulted was his friend Ferdinand David, who premiered Felix Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in 1845, and the Hungarian virtuoso Joseph Joachim, for whom Johannes Brahms would later write his concerto in 1878. As extant letters exchanged between Bruch and Joachim reveal, some of the latter’s advice shaped aspects of the version of the G minor Concerto we know today. Joachim gave the first performances of it in early 1868 (in Bremen, Hanover, and Aachen) to great success; soon after, it was taken up by many violinists, including David, Leopold Auer, Henri Vieuxtemps, and Pablo de Sarasate. Together, they helped to establish it internationally as a key work in the concert repertoire, a position it has maintained through the 20th century to the present. Unfortunately for the composer, he never benefitted financially from his Concerto’s popularity. In his naivete, Bruch had sold the work for a single lump-sum payment and consequently received no further royalties, which he and his descendants could have earned until 1990. 

It’s not difficult to see why this violin concerto has such appeal, with its strong Romantic sensibility—from the first movement’s gripping drama to the tender passion of the Adagio, and the finale’s vigorous energy and sweeping grandeur. Throughout, Bruch demonstrates his gift for melody, no doubt inspired by the violin itself, which he said, “can sing a melody better than a piano, and melody is the soul of music.” There are, of course, plenty of virtuosic passages for the soloist—quicksilver runs, rapid arpeggios, fearsome double-stops. These, however, aren’t merely displays of technical brilliance against an accompanying backdrop but rather, serve to develop various thematic ideas in dialogue with the orchestra. The result is a concerto with a certain “symphonic seriousness” that demands much from both soloist and ensemble in terms of musicianship and artistic sensitivity.

Bruch’s G minor Concerto has several striking innovations to traditional concerto form. For one, the first movement is entitled “Vorspiel” or “Prelude”, suggesting it’s a preface to the second movement. It opens with the orchestra intoning a solemn motive, to which the solo violin twice responds with recitative-like passages. The movement gets going after that in more typical sonata-form fashion, featuring themes of contrasting character—one rugged, one smooth-lined—that are both introduced by the violin and are subsequently developed. But in an unusual twist, the usual recap of these themes gives way instead to a powerful orchestral episode that leads to the return of the opening recitatives in the solo violin. Now more like a cadenza (here, Bruch had accepted an alteration from Joachim that he said was “written as if from my soul”), the passage gains momentum. A final rapid ascent culminates in a passionate orchestral outburst, one of the Concerto’s most affecting moments, then winds down gradually, ultimately coming to rest on a single note in the first violins that leads directly into the next movement.

The Adagio is rich with beautiful melodies; solo violin first introduces a sustained tune of devotional character, after which it progresses to a more fluid idea. Later, as the violin climbs upward, horns and bassoons intone a ringing new theme of falling intervals that at its climax, the violin picks up and embellishes with cascading arpeggios. Listen out for its return, now with greater intensity at the peak of an inventive developmental episode in which the cellos carry the fluid theme as the violin muses reflectively in counterpoint.

In the finale of the G minor Concerto, Bruch incorporates Hungarian musical elements and the fluid virtuosity of Romani performing style, no doubt influenced by Joachim’s heritage. (Joachim himself had written a concerto “in the Hungarian manner” in 1857; Brahms later composed for the violinist a similarly inspired third movement for his concerto.) Over viola tremolos, the first violins introduce a crisp rhythmic motive, which turns into a fiery tune in double-stops for the soloist. Following a bold orchestral statement of the tune, the soloist sets off on florid passages, which arrive at the soaring second theme—grandly presented, first, by the orchestra, then by the soloist on the violin’s lowest string. Another virtuosic episode ensues, eventually leading to a recap of the main theme. A powerful reprise of the soaring melody leads to an exchange between orchestra and soloist on the fiery tune. Then, as the tempo accelerates, the violin plunges from high to low and back up with wide leaps, after which soloist and orchestra make an exhilarating dash to the finish. 

Program note by Hannah Chan-Hartley, PhD