Mendelssohn, Estacio & Donnelly

with the NAC Orchestra

2024-11-28 20:00 2024-11-28 22:00 60 Canada/Eastern 🎟 NAC: Mendelssohn, Estacio & Donnelly

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Three things to know about the show: Mystery, shadows, and suspense abound in a pair of romantic works from Franz Schubert and Felix Mendelssohn. NACO's Principal Trumpet Karen Donnelly shines as the soloist in a work by JUNO-nominated composer John Estacio. And Wojciech Kilar's Orawa transforms the NACO...

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Thu, November 28, 2024
Thu, November 28, 2024
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FELIX MENDELSSOHN

"The Hebrides" Overture, Op. 26, “Fingal’s Cave”

Born in Hamburg, February 3, 1809
Died in Leipzig, November 4, 1847

In 1829, the 20-year-old Felix Mendelssohn embarked on a long Grand Tour of Europe. Some of the composer’s best-known works were inspired by these travels, including the Italian Symphony (No. 4) and two works from Scotland, the Scottish Symphony (No. 3) and the overture The Hebrides (also known as Fingal’s Cave).

Scotland especially appealed to Mendelssohn’s romantic sensibility and penchant for picturesque landscapes as musical stimuli. In early August, Mendelssohn and his traveling companion Karl Klingemann (a young German diplomat and poet) reached the western coast and took a boat to the Hebrides, a group of well over one hundred rugged, picturesque islands where Gaelic is widely spoken and the people still live much as they have for hundreds of years, tending cattle and sheep, weaving Harris tweed, and raising crops such as barley, oats and potatoes. Best known of the islands is Skye, but it was Staffa that left the deepest impression on young Mendelssohn, for here was located the spectacular cavern named after the folk hero Fingal.

The vast cave, open to the sea, measures 227 feet by 42 (69 metres by 13), and rises to a height of 66 feet (20 metres). The sea forms the floor; along the walls stand towering pillars of basalt lava, inspiring Klingemann to describe the scene as resembling “the interior of an immense organ. It lies there alone, black, echoing, and entirely purposeless – the grey waste of the sea in and around it.” Mendelssohn put his own impression into tone instead, noting down a 21-measure passage that became the opening of his overture and perfectly captures the air of hushed mystery, dark mists and the restless sea. Thomas Attwood conducted the first performance in London on May 14, 1832.

Two main musical ideas are developed within the context of a sonata-form movement: the “lapping wave” motif that opens the work, and a long-breathed, rising melody for the lower strings and woodwinds. The development section concentrates on the first subject, a remarkably malleable little motif that Beethoven too might well have enjoyed developing. The recapitulation begins as did the overture, but the second theme is given over to the solo clarinet. A coda brings the music to its emotional climax, followed by a quiet, haunting close.

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Mario Bernardi led the NAC Orchestra’s first perform­ance of Mendelssohn’s overture The Hebrides in 1971. The most recent interpretation by the Orchestra took place in 2015 on Canada Day, with Alain Trudel on the podium.

Program notes by Robert Markow

John Estacio

Trumpet Concerto

I. Triton’s Trumpet
II. Ballad
III. Rondo

John Estacio (b. 1966) composed his Trumpet Concerto in celebration of Canada’s Sesquicentennial in 2017. Commissioned by an unprecedented consortium of 19 Canadian orchestras, the piece was given its world premiere by Larry Larson, then principal trumpet of the Kitchener-Waterloo Symphony, on March 26 that year. The concerto has since been recorded by trumpeter Marc Geujon and the Orchestre symphonique de Mulhouse with conductor Jacques Lacombe, and appears on the album Proclamation, which was released in 2022. Tonight’s performance is the NAC Orchestra’s premiere of the piece, featuring Principal Trumpet Karen Donnelly as the soloist.

Entitled “Triton’s Trumpet”, the substantial first movement (approximately half the entire concerto’s length) “takes its inspiration from the Greek myth about Poseidon’s son, Triton, who used his conch shell as a trumpet to calm or raise the ocean waters,” says Estacio in his program note. As he describes:

The movement begins in a tranquil state and features a lyrical and florid cadenza for the solo trumpet over sustained tremulous strings. An undercurrent of disturbance by the lower brass warns that this tranquility could be disrupted but is calmed by the mellifluous tones of the trumpet.

After this introduction, the movement shifts into a lively episode—Triton playing with the ocean’s waves, perhaps, as evoked by the virtuosic passages for the soloist. The waters, though, threaten to overwhelm, and “gradually”, explains Estacio, “the discordance in the depths of the orchestra eventually takes over and builds to a giant wave of sound and energy, almost overpowering the soloist.” However, about halfway through the movement,

the soloist, as with Triton, eventually calms the waters and the tranquil music from the opening reappears, albeit in a slightly disquieting setting. The opening themes are developed with solos for the clarinets before the trumpet takes over with a revision of the opening cadenza.

Soon, “ominous tones once again overtake the tranquil mood”, and in another fast-paced section, the orchestral wave builds again. The solo trumpet manages to calm the waters once more, but only for a moment, as it’s “suddenly thrust into a more fervent tempo that eventually builds to a swirl of chaos and incivility that threatens to overtake it” at the movement’s close.

“Ballad”, the middle movement, “features extended lyrical phrases for the solo trumpet.” Strings open with “a primary melody that feels somewhat unsettled and ungrounded,” which then becomes an undulating backdrop to the trumpet’s song. “A solemn chorale played by the winds follows”; this, Estacio points out, “will eventually transform and become the driving force behind a regal-sounding climax.” It subsides to contemplative musings by the trumpet, which draw the movement to an atmospheric conclusion.

“A spirited foil to the first movement,” the third movement begins with the trumpet playing a “quixotic melody that will be reprised throughout this mercurial kaleidoscope of energy, colour, and fanfare,” notes Estacio. As per rondo form, this recurring melody alternates with extended episodes: the first features a vigorous turning melody, introduced by orchestra then taken up by the soloist; the second, tolling bells and wide leaps in the brass, with solo trumpet triggering the orchestral trumpets in an echoing fanfare. The turning melody is then further developed, eventually building—through powerful leaps on solo trumpet and brass over scurrying strings—to an exuberant reprise of the main melody. Suddenly, the orchestra halts on shuddering strings, over which the trumpet sings a rhapsodic recitative, then brings the concerto to a raucous finish.

Program note compiled, edited, and written by Hannah Chan-Hartley, PhD

FRANZ SCHUBERT

Symphony No. 8 in B minor, D. 759 “Unfinished”

I. Allegro moderato
II. Andante con moto

An aura of mystery has long surrounded the origins and history of the “unfinished” B minor symphony of Viennese composer Franz Schubert (1797–1828). In 1822, he had completed and fully orchestrated the first two movements. He had also written, in full score, the first two pages of a scherzo, possibly the third movement; their existence suggests that he had planned a four-movement symphony, but ultimately, he did not continue the project. In 1823, in gratitude to the Graz Music Society for awarding him an honorary diploma, Schubert sent his friend and leading member of the Society Anselm Hüttenbrenner these finished parts of his latest orchestral score. For reasons that remain a mystery, Hüttenbrenner kept them concealed until 1860, when he revealed them to the conductor Johann von Herbeck. Dumbfounded at the discovery, Herbeck eventually conducted the premiere of the work’s two completed movements in Vienna on December 17, 1865—37 years after the composer’s death. His efforts helped to establish Schubert internationally, with subsequent performances of the “unfinished” symphony taking place soon after in Germany, England, France, and North America.

Although there have been arguments made in support of various attempts to complete the work, the B minor symphony has endured in its two-movement form, as one of Schubert’s orchestral masterpieces. In it, he brought to fruition his own individual, subjective conception of Classical symphonic form (as developed by Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven), thereby pushing the genre to new heights of creative expression. For one, the first movement is in B minor—a key that had, until then, been generally avoided in the symphonic literature. Schubert exploits its harmonic potential to evoke a hitherto unprecedented sense of pathos, the first of two emotional realms he juxtaposes in the movement. The Allegro moderato begins with sombre phrases, rising and falling on cellos and basses, after which violins establish and maintain a backdrop of nervous energy, as oboe and clarinet introduce a mournful tune. Sudden accented chords inject anxiety and urgency, as the music reaches an initial climax. Afterwards, bassoons and horns initiate an astonishing shift to the realm of sunny G major, featuring an assuring melody first sung by cellos over syncopated accompaniment. It’s taken up by violins, but soon peters out to a pause; then, as if suddenly afflicted, the earlier anxieties return. Later, the soothing second theme reappears, but as soon as it resolves, a loud chord brings us back immediately to the B minor realm, and the exposition is repeated.

On the third appearance of the sombre opening, we enter the central development section, where this theme is worked up into agonizing cries; listen for the extreme contrasts between those and the quiet statements of the cello melody’s syncopated accompaniment. A forceful statement of the theme on full orchestra triggers a stormy passage, with furious strings and ferocious rhythms. Gradually, the fury subsides, leading back to the recapitulation, which avoids the sombre opening and goes directly to the plaintive tune on the clarinet and oboe. The music proceeds as before, with some variation. As it comes out of the realm of the consoling melody, the sombre theme that was bypassed in the reprise now returns, and swells to a final climax. Its opening phrase is mournfully reiterated, and four chords bring this most anguished of symphonic movements to an end.

The second movement takes us far away from the angst of the first to a place of otherworldly serenity. Three shifting chords on horns and bassoons overtop a descending plucked bass line arrive at an exquisitely tender theme, sung by the violins in ethereal E major. Its peaceful progress suddenly breaks out into a forceful passage, but then, just as abruptly, returns to tranquility. The ensuing section features a poignant melody, beginning on clarinet then continuing on oboe, accompanied by gently pulsating violins and violas; the subtly shifting harmonies are a Schubertian hallmark. Soon, however, the delicate atmosphere is torn by a full-orchestra outburst, with the haunting clarinet tune now forming a mighty bass line. The theme is then quietly contemplated by the violins and cellos in counterpoint, eventually dissolving into a single repeated phrase, which returns us to the opening mood.

The themes are once again worked through but with variations; for example, the second theme now begins on oboe, and is answered by the clarinet, and at the orchestral outburst, the melody appears in the violins. Eventually, woodwinds and horns wind down the music. Out of the quiet, the violins emerge, twice, with a sustained note to which the woodwinds respond with the opening phrase of the tender melody, first making a surprising harmonic shift (to the far-removed key of A-flat major), then back to E major, on which the movement comes to a gentle conclusion. In ending in this rarified sound world, it’s not difficult to consider that, perhaps, Schubert may have felt unable to add more to the symphony. To an extent, what he left us feels complete as is—the two movements a seemingly perfect balance of lyrical pathos and poignant serenity.

Program note by Hannah Chan-Hartley, PhD

Wojciech Kilar

Orawa

Wojciech Kilar (1932–2013) is one of Poland’s major modern composers. He was particularly well-known for his film scores, working with notable directors of Polish cinema such as Kazimierz Kutz and Krzysztof Zanussi, and on English-language movies, including Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), Death and the Maiden (1994), and The Portrait of a Lady (1996). He also created a distinctive corpus of concert works that encompasses symphonic and choral music, as well as solo instrumental and chamber pieces. Taken together, they reveal Kilar’s stylistic evolution: from using avant-garde and experimental techniques during the 1960s, to a strongly nationalistic aesthetic incorporating folk elements from the mid-1970s, to finally, a turn to religious subjects—inspired by his deep Catholic faith—for his late works.

Kilar was long fascinated with the Tatras, a group of mountains that form a natural border between Poland and Slovakia. According to Polish musicologist Bogumiła Mika, he loved them because they, “more than anything else, brought him closer to God. The mountains’ mystery, mysticism, loftiness, and power reminded him of both the physical and spiritual aspects of church.” At the same time, Kilar was captivated by the way they “arouse respect and fear”, because they are inherently dangerous places. In 1974, he completed the symphonic poem Krzesany, which, in his extensive integration of highland folk music from the area, marked a significant stylistic breakthrough for him. The piece became the first of a series of Tatras-inspired works, with the fourth and last of these being Orawa, completed in 1986.

Orawa is one of Kilar’s most popular works, frequently performed internationally in its original string orchestra instrumentation, as well as in arrangements for as diverse ensembles as eight cellos, 12 saxophones, and three accordions! The title refers to “the highlanders’ sheep-run, at which mountaineers dance at the end of sheep grazing,” explains Mika. In Orawa, various melodic motives drawn from mountain folk music are developed in minimalistic fashion through their repetition among the string sections, each of which (save the double basses) are divided into multiple parts. These motives also cycle through variations in dynamics, rhythm, and texture, which gives the music its exuberantly hypnotic quality.

Orawa begins with a solo violin introducing the main folk-like motive of the piece, shifting between two high-low rhythmic versions, overtop pulsating accompaniment. Gradually, the rest of the instruments enter in turn, building up the texture, after which the motive undergoes a few variations. Violas on running figures lead to the second main motive—a downward flowing melody first played by solo cello. Violins then take it up, soon bringing us to another rustic tune. Later, after an energetic passage of glissandos and a measured ascent, the opening motive in its original form returns on solo violin and is soon combined with the downward flowing melody high up on other violins. The music then abruptly plunges to the deeper registers of the lower strings playing the running figures. Eventually, the violins join in and all together, the strings play a vigorous dance that gets increasingly wild and ferocious. It peaks on an ecstatic return of the main theme, now alternating with rising chromatic scales on which the orchestra seems to get stuck in a loop and must stop. But the strings regroup, singing a fervent chorale, before releasing a boisterous final shout.

Program note by Hannah Chan-Hartley, PhD

Artists

  • Conductor Anna Sułkowska-Migoń
  • Trumpet Karen Donnelly
  • Composer John Estacio
  • Featuring NAC Orchestra
  • hunt-mccoy-tobi-fred-cattroll-535
    Stage Manager Tobi Hunt McCoy