September 29, 2024: Edward Arron, cello; Jeewon Park, piano. This piece was also performed on January 18, 2026 by cellist Jonathan Swenson and pianist Orion Weiss. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827) Seven Variations on Bei Männern from Mozart's Magic Flute for cello and piano September 29, 2024: Edward Arron, cello; Jeewon Park, piano. This piece was also performed on January 18, 2026 by cellist Jonathan Swenson and pianist Orion Weiss. Beethoven composed works in the popular vein just as industriously as he created his most soul-searching and original masterpieces of “art” music. Every famous and not-so-famous composer of his day, as in preceding generations, considered improvising or writing sets of variations practical tools of the composer’s art. Beethoven’s skill at improvising on a theme given to him on the spot was legendary, but he was also enough of a businessman to know that writing down and publishing variation sets was a lucrative business, especially if the varied theme were a popular tune from an opera that was making the rounds. Beethoven especially admired Mozart’s operas, though he was equally adept at varying less elegant themes, thereby rescuing them from ultimate obscurity. In the 1790s Beethoven had composed variations on tunes from three great Mozart operas: “La ci darem” from Don Giovanni for two oboes and English horn, “Se vuol ballare” from Le nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro) for violin and piano, and “Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen” from Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute) for cello and piano. In 1801 he was again drawn to The Magic Flute—and the same cello-piano combination—this time for a set of variations on “Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen” (A man who feels love), originally an exquisite duet between the comic birdcatcher Papageno and Princess Pamina. Beethoven’s immediate stimulus was probably a revival produced around that time by Emanuel Schikaneder, the opera’s librettist and original portrayer of Papageno. Beethoven’s manuscript for the “Bei Männern” Variations shows a crossed-out dedication, probably to Countess von Fries, whose husband had just received the dedication of the Violin Sonatas, opp. 23 and 24. Evidently changing his mind, the composer inscribed the work instead to Count Johann Georg von Browne-Camus, whom Beethoven had described as “the Maecenas of my Muse” in the dedication of his String Trios, op. 9. Beethoven dedicated a number of works to the count, whose generosity extended even to presenting him with a horse for dedicating to his wife the Variations on a Russian Dance from Wranitzky’s “Das Waldmädchen.” As in many of his variation sets, Beethoven follows tradition by including variations of contrasting tempos and characters, a minor-key variation, and an elaborate and extended final variation. He preserves Mozart’s tender quality in the presentation of the theme—even suggesting the two singing roles by switching the melody between the piano right hand and the cello. He does, however, leave the stamp of his personality by making some subtle, fascinating changes in Mozart’s rhythm and articulation. The quiet but sprightly first variation breaks the mood and immediately shows that piano and cello are to be equal partners as they begin in counterpoint. The virtuosity for both is stepped up in the next variation, whereas the third calls for sweetness and grace. Variation 4, the minor-mode variation, presents a haunting kind of melancholy, featuring the cello in its lower range. The capricious fifth variation provides a foil both to this and to the Adagio variation that follows. Here the tenderness returns with an added layer of poignance and elegant figuration. The extended final variation offers a procession of characters from dancelike to stormy, and injects a last moment of reflection just before the energetic concluding chords. —©Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

November 4, 2018: Alessio Bax, piano NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV (1844-1908) Flight of the Bumblebee, arr. Rachmaninoff November 4, 2018: Alessio Bax, piano Rimsky-Korsakov originally composed his ultra-famous Flight of the Bumblebee as part of The Tale of Tsar Sultan, the opera he wrote in 1899 to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the birth of the great Russian author Alexander Pushkin. The story of this fairy-tale opera involves “three sisters, three wishes, three wonders, and three bee stings.” The celebrated Flight of the Bumblebee is heard between scenes, after the swan (one of the wonders) shows the hero how he can turn himself into a bee, so he can fly home and meet his father. The composer creates the picturesque frenzy of a bee in flight with incredibly fast notes moving in a narrow range for the violins, clarinet, and flute in turn. Like many others who were so fascinated by this piece as to arrange it for almost every conceivable instrument, Rachmaninoff made a piano arrangement early in 1929. He eliminated its central episode, altered the beginning and end of the outer sections slightly, and tinkered a bit with a couple of harmonies, but he kept close to the Rimsky-Korsakov in other ways, especially in spirit, arriving at a dazzling encore piece that he even recorded on his last piano roll in April of 1929. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

February 20, 2022 – Paul Huang, violin; Danbi Um, violin; Juho Pohjonen, piano MORITZ MOSZKOWSKI (1854–1925) Suite for two violins and piano, Op. 71 February 20, 2022 – Paul Huang, violin; Danbi Um, violin; Juho Pohjonen, piano For a time Moszkowski led the life of a touring piano virtuoso, until a nervous disorder curtailed his performing. He was fortunate, however, to excel in many pursuits. He had been teaching since he was seventeen at the Neue Akademie der Tonkunst in Berlin and continued there for twenty-five years. At some point he became a respectable violinist and often played first violin in the Akademie orchestra. He also achieved success as a composer—his Spanish Dances for piano duet won the public’s favor and made him a fortune, but he also composed orchestral, stage, and chamber works in addition to his large body of piano music. As a conductor he began earning recognition in Germany and in England in the 1880s. When Moszkowski left the Neue Akademie in 1897 it was to settle permanently in Paris with his wife. There he taught such famous pupils as Wanda Landowska and Thomas Beecham. Beginning about 1910, however, he went into as a decline as the result of changing musical tastes, lost investments because of World War I, worsening health, and the deaths of his wife and daughter. He died a recluse, in poverty, though old loyal friends had tried to help with a benefit concert in America. The proceeds arrived the year he died, too late to help him. Moszkowski’s Suite, op. 71, dates from c. 1900, while he was still in his zenith. It might be called a sonata for violin duo and piano except that it does not contain a full-fledged sonata-form movement. Its four movements, however, follow the tradition of “serious,” though not heavy, concert music as opposed to the light, popular salon style that he cultivated in many of his piano pieces. The lush, dramatic first movement comes the closest to sonata form, with its contrast of themes—one full of counterpoint, interplay, and running passages and the other introduced chordally by the piano followed by give and take between the two violins. Moszkowski develops these ideas, but stops short of a full recapitulation, giving just enough to recall the opening. The second movement, Allegro moderato, gives the impression a minuet, romanticized by sweetly resolving tensions and pleasing harmonic excursions. The “trio” appears twice and even maintains a presence in the final return of the “minuet,” which is condensed and altered to give a sense of closure—almost like a farewell scene. The piano introduces the lovely slow movement with a low melody, which gives way to a poignant canon between the two violins. The fact that the dynamic level never rises above an impassioned piano (p) makes the vivacity of the finale particularly pronounced. The last movement barrels along in the manner of a tarantella (a fast dance named for Taranto in southern Italy and not for the tarantula or a dance to cure its bite). A slower “trio” provides contrast before the tarantella returns. A brilliant coda rushes headlong to the end, with the violins in perpetual motion, egged on by the “boom-chick” of the piano. By Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

April 19, 2009 – Jon Manasse, clarinet; Rafael Figueroa, cello; John Novacek, piano MAX BRUCH (1838-1920) Andante con moto in C# Minor, Op. 83 for clarinet, cello, and piano April 19, 2009 – Jon Manasse, clarinet; Rafael Figueroa, cello; John Novacek, piano A brilliant child prodigy, Max Bruch began composing at the age of nine. By his early teens he had completed his first symphony, and his reputation as a precocious talent had spread across Europe. As an adult, Bruch was renowned as a conductor, teacher, and the composer of major operatic, symphonic, choral and chamber works. At his height, many saw him as destined to be remembered as one of history’s greatest composers. And yet, by the time he died in 1920, Bruch’s reputation had receded precipitously. His output had been long overshadowed by his Romantic contemporaries, Brahms, Dvorak, and Tchaikovsky, and he lived to see himself become something of a musical anachronism. His relative obscurity at the end of his life was due largely to his conservative nature. Early in his career Bruch modeled his compositions after those of Mendelssohn and Schumann. As he grew older, he stubbornly refused to embrace the musical language of such revolutionaries as Liszt, Wagner, Strauss, and Schoenberg. Indeed, many of his final works sound as if they could have been composed sixty years before. Taken on it own terms, though, Max Bruch’s music is melodious, masterfully crafted, and fully deserving of being heard. His two most popular works are his G Minor Violin Concerto and Kol Nidrei, a work for cello and orchestra based on Hebrew melodies. The 1910 trio for clarinet, cello (or viola), and piano, Andante con moto in C# Minor, Op. 83, is one of a set of eight pieces for this combination that he dedicated to his son, a professional clarinetist. These pieces were not intended to be performed as a suite; Bruch wrote them to be played separately or in smaller groupings. The C# Minor trio highlights Bruch’s extraordinary melodic and dramatic gifts. Though not specifically programmatic, the piece seems to tell a story. The cello begins with an agitated lament, suggesting the image of a suffering penitent. After a minute or so, the clarinet responds with a soothing hymn, like the voice of a consoling angel. The two protagonists continue to alternate in their contrasting worlds until the clarinet finally prevails, gently drawing the cello into a heavenly resolution. By Michael Parloff Return to Parlance Program Notes

February 16, 2020: Ying Fang, soprano; Ken Noda, piano WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756-1791) Un moto di gioia and Deh vieni, non tardar from The Marriage of Figaro, K. 492 February 16, 2020: Ying Fang, soprano; Ken Noda, piano The Marriage of Figaro has often been described as the perfect comic opera because it combines engaging entertainment with exquisite musical construction. Mozart had complained to his father in 1783 of having read hundreds of plays, none suitable as a comic opera subject. In late 1785, after aborting several attempts to set existing Italian librettos, he eagerly turned to Beaumarchais’s play Le mariage de Figaro, ou La folle journée (The marriage of Figaro, or The crazy day) once it became clear that Lorenzo da Ponte would write him a libretto. That Mozart composed at “breakneck speed” suggests an imminent production at Vienna’s Burgtheater that December, but the opera was not produced until May 1, 1786. It seems that censors needed time to ascertain that enough adjustment had been made to the politically subversive elements that had caused the play to be banned throughout the Hapsburg empire. Apparently, there were also delays owing to machinations by da Ponte’s rival Abbé Casti and Mozart’s rival Antonio Salieri, as well as problems with procuring dancers and a cast change for the Countess. In the end it was a success, to the point that after the third performance the emperor had to limit encores to keep the opera from lasting all night. Yet Figaro did not achieve its full measure of success until it was produced in Prague the following year, leading to the commission Don Giovanni. Mozart had been writing with such zeal in part because knew that banned subject matter would attract an audience. Further, he could count on familiarity with the characters from Giovanni Paisiello’s greatly successful opera Il barbiere di Siviglia (The Barber of Seville), based on the first of Beaumarchais’s trilogy—and, he was certain he could outdo his rival. As in the play, all of the action takes place in one day, the marriage day of Figaro and Susanna, servants to Count and Countess Almaviva. The main strand of the plot concerns the Count’s flirtations with Susanna in connection with the droit du seigneur (his supposed right as a noble to have his way with her on her first night of marriage) and her clever foiling of his advances. The eventual humiliation of this member of the aristocracy by his “inferiors”—even in its toned down guise—greatly appealed to the rising middle-class audience. Woven into the web are myriad subplots involving Figaro and Marcellina (the Count’s housekeeper), Dr. Bartolo’s desire for revenge on Figaro, the Countess trying to regain her husband’s love, and the womanizing young page Cherubino. For the Vienna revival in 1789, Mozart wrote two replacement arias specifically for Adriana Ferrarese del Bene, da Ponte’s mistress, who—unlike Nancy Storace, the original Susanna—had no comedic acting skills though she had a beautiful voice. In Act 2, Susanna dresses Cherubino as a girl to take her place and compromise the Count. The original “Venite, inginocchiatevi” requires a great deal of comedic acting, so Mozart instead substituted a “stand-and-sing” aria, “Un moto di gioia” (A feeling of joy) for Ferrarese, saying, “The little aria I have written for her I believe will please, if she is capable of singing it in an artless manner, which I very much doubt.” The strophic (several verses sung to the same music) aria is indeed very pleasing, and lovely to hear, since it is rarely used in modern performance. The great “Deh vieni, non tardar” (Oh, come, do not delay) was Susanna’s other aria that Mozart had to replace (which he did with “Al desio” [At the desire], an elaborate rondo showcase). With that substitution, the 1789 audience missed out on one of his most masterful arias—happily included on this afternoon’s program and in most performances of the complete opera. The crucial situation in Act II when Susanna sings “Deh vieni” called for multiple layers of meaning, which Mozart admirably achieved. Susanna and the Countess are disguised as each other to entrap the Count. Figaro has found out about their scheme, but Susanna knows he knows and that he is hiding in the bushes. Thus, as she sings of her love, supposedly for the Count, she is actually singing seductively to Figaro, though he suspects otherwise and becomes jealous. Mozart acknowledges Susanna’s being disguised as the Countess by giving her music more usually suited to noble characters than servants, including preparing it with an extended accompagnato recitative. He also provides the perfect mix of tender longing and mischief. © Jane Vial Jaffe Texts and Translations Aria SUSANNA Un moto di gioia Mi sento nel petto, Che annunzia diletto In mezzo il timor! Speriam che in content Finisca l’affanno Non sempre é tiranno Il fato ed amor. —Lorenzo da Ponte Recitative accompagnato SUSANNA Giunse alfin il momento che godrò senz’affanno in braccio all’idol mio. Timide cure, uscite dal mio petto, a turbar non venite il mio diletto! Oh, come par che all’amoroso foco l’amenità del loco, la terra e il ciel risponda, come la notte i furti miei seconda! Aria Deh, vieni, non tardar, oh gioia bella, vieni ove amore per goder t’appella, finché non splende in ciel notturna face, finché l’aria è ancor bruna e il mondo tace. Qui mormora il ruscel, qui scherza l’aura, che col dolce sussurro il cor ristaura, qui ridono i fioretti e l’erba è fresca, ai piaceri d’amor qui tutto adesca. Vieni, ben mio, tra queste piante ascose, ti vo’ la fronte incoronar di rose. —Lorenzo da Ponte Aria SUSANNA An emotion of joy I feel in my breast, which proclaims delight in the midst of fear! I hope that in contentment distress will end; not always tyrannical are fate and love. Accompanied recitative SUSANNA At last the moment has come when I can rejoice without worry in my lover’s arms. Timid cares, coming forth from my breast, do not come to disturb my delight! Oh, how it seems to the amorous fire, the congeniality of this place, that earth and heaven respond, as the night furthers my designs! Aria Oh, come, do not delay, oh beautiful joy, come where love calls you to enjoy, until night’s torches do not shine in the sky, while the air is still dark and the world quiet. Here the stream murmurs, the light plays, which with sweet whispers restores the heart, here little flowers laugh and the grass is fresh, here everything entices to love’s pleasures. Come, my dear, hidden among these bushes, I want to wreathe your brow with roses. Return to Parlance Program Notes

February 16, 2020: Ying Fang, soprano; Ken Noda, piano SERGEI RACHMANINOFF (1873–1943) Six Songs, Op. 38: In My Garden at Night, To Her, Daisies, Pied Piper, Dreams, A-oo February 16, 2020: Ying Fang, soprano; Ken Noda, piano Rachmaninoff composed all of his approximately ninety songs in the first half of his life—the first in 1890, when he was a student at the Moscow Conservatory, and his final set, op. 38, in 1916, the year before he left Russia for what turned out to be the last time. This last collection and the one before, op. 34, came about in part through a fan letter he received in 1912 from someone signed “Re.” Soon discovering that the sender was poet Marietta Shaganian, he wrote to ask for suggestions of poems to set, saying: “The authors may be living or dead—it makes no difference!—only that the things must be original, not translations, and must be no more than 8 to 12 lines long, at most 16. And one more thing: the mood should be sad rather than happy. The lighter shades don’t come easily to me!” Of the fourteen songs in Opus 34, half, he wrote to Shaganian, were ones she had suggested and analyzed for him. Most were Romantic poets with the addition of the more modern Bal’mont. For the Opus 38 set, she again provided texts for him, trying to turn his conservative tastes toward more contemporary symbolist poets, such as Blok, Bryusov, Severyanin, Sologub, and again Bal’mont. Though the composer had noted his affinity for dark moods, which had characterized his earlier songs, these two last sets for the most part transmit more peaceful, uplifting, and even humorous aspects than gloomy ones. Rachmaninoff had plenty of reason for gloom in the fall of 1916 because he was being treated at a sanatorium in Essentuki for tiredness and a pain in his wrist. Shaganian visited him there and described his state of total despair and self-doubt saying that he broke into tears several times as he described his inability to work and the galling idea that it was impossible to be anything more than “a well-known pianist and a mediocre composer.” She ended her lengthy description saying, “He spoke of the impossibility of living in the state he was, and all this in a terrible dead voice, almost that of an old man, with his eyes lifeless and his face grey and ill.” It was during that visit that she gave him a notebook full of her suggestions of poems to set, just as she had done four years earlier. This helped to jolt him out of his creative slump, but he was also aided by visits from other friends, his move out of the sanatorium to nearby spa city Kislovodsk—and above all spending time with the young soprano Nina Pavlovna Koshetz, whom he had accompanied in a recital that spring and who had also visited him at Essentuki. They made plans for another concert, he composed the Opus 38 Songs in August and September, and they premiered them in Moscow in October 24. Rachmaninoff opens the Six Songs with the haunting “In My Garden at Night,” his setting of Alexander Blok’s translation of Avetik Isaakian’s poem, in which he responds to the images of the weeping willow—metaphorically a lovelorn maiden—with simple, melancholic unmeasured phrases. The second half rises to an impassioned peak at “bitterly” as the poem promises that “tender maiden dawn” will dry weeping willow’s tears. “To Her” continues the lovelorn theme, this time a poem by Andrey Bely in which each of three verses ends with the poet calling futilely to his beloved. Rachmaninoff allows great metric freedom in his through-composed setting but preserves the structural text refrains with recognizably similar but ingeniously varied, impassioned phrases. Other striking features include the opening five-note chromatic gesture, which permeates the setting even when the accompaniment becomes more dense, and the fluid music for the river Lethe, the mythological river in Hades that causes forgetfulness. For “Daisies,” op. 38, no. 3, Rachmaninoff chose a 1909 unassuming nature poem by Igor Severyanin. His setting exudes charm with its treble-oriented sonorities, its graceful, independent melodies for the voice and the piano right-hand, and its memorable extended piano postlude. “The Pied Piper,” fourth in the set, shows Rachmaninoff’s rarely seen humorous side as he responds to Valery Yakovlevich Bryusov’s 1914 poem, itself a play on the famous legend. The piper lures—not rats or children—but his beloved out of her house with the enticing sounds of his flute. Rachmaninoff delightfully depicts the flute in both the voice and piano parts. In “A Dream,” op. 38, no. 5, Rachmaninoff responds ingeniously to poet Fyodor Sologub’s images of disembodied dreaming. His atmospheric piano part uses various bell-like sounds—a favorite device of his—to set the scene for the soaring vocal lines. Placed last in Opus 38, “A-oo” sets a 1909 poem by Konstantin Dmitriyevich Bal’mont in which a lover remembers fondly the laughter of his beloved and a dream of them running together to a mountain slope. Rachmaninoff’s pianistic shimmer aptly conveys the poet’s eager, anticipation of finding her, his agitated chords and short vocal phrases portray the lover’s confusion at not finding her, and the music builds to an incredibly impassioned peak as the lover calls “A-oo” hoping she’ll answer back. That hope clearly dies in the piano postlude, which trails off in open-ended quiet. © Jane Vial Jaffe Texts and Translations Ночью в саду у меня Ночью в саду у меня Плачет плакучая ива, И безутешна она Ивушка, Грустная ива. Раннее утро блеснет, Нежная девушка Зорька Ивушке, плачущей горько, Слёзы кудрями сотрет. —Alexander Blok In My Garden at Night At night in my garden a weeping willow weeps, and she is inconsolable, weeping willow, sad willow. When early morning shines tender maiden dawn will dry bitterly weeping willow’s tears with her curls. К ней Травы одеты перлами. Где-то приветы Грустные слышу, Приветы милые . . . Милая, где ты, Милая! Вечера светы ясные, Вечера светы красные Руки воздеты: Жду тебя, Милая, где ты, Милая? Руки воздеты: Жду тебя, В струях Леты смытую Бледными Леты струями… Милая, где ты, Милая! —Andrey Bely To Her Pearls adorn the grass. From somewhere I hear mournful greetings, Cherished greetings . . . Dear one, where are you? Dear one! The lights of evening are clear, The lights of evening are red, My arms raised, I await you, Dear one, where are you? Dear one? My arms raised, I await you; In the streams, Lethe washes the years away, Pale Lethe, In the streams, Dear one, where are you? Dear one! (Маргаритки) О, посмотри! как много маргариток— И там, и тут . . . Они цветут; их много; их избыток; Они цветут. Их лепестки трёхгранные—как крылья, Как белый шёлк . . . В них лета мощ! В них радость изобилья! В них слетлый полк. Готовь, земля, цветам из рос напиток, Дай сок стеблю . . . О, девушки! о, звезды маргариток! Я вас люблю . . . —Igor Severyanin Daisies Oh, look! how many daisies— here and there . . . they are blooming; so many; they are abundant. they are blooming. Their petals are triangluar—like wings, like white silk . . . they have the power of summer! the joy of abundance! they are a radiant regiment. Earth, prepare the flowers a drink of dew, give the stems juice. Oh, maidens, oh starry daisies, I love you! Крысолов Я на дудочке играю,— Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, Я на дудочке играю, Чьи-то души веселя. Я иду вдоль тихой речки, Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, Дремлют тихие овечки, Кротко зыблются поля. Спите, овцы и барашки, Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, За лугами красной кашки Стройно встали тополя. Малый домик там таится, Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, Милой девушке приснится, Что ей душу отдал я. И на нежный зов свирели, Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, Выйдет словно к светлой цели Через сад через поля. И в лесу под дубом темным, Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, Будет ждать в бреду истомном, В час, когда уснет земля. Встречу гостью дорогую, Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, Вплоть до утра зацелую, Сердце лаской утоля. И, сменившись с ней колечком, Тра-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля-ля, Отпущу ее к овечкам, В сад, где стройны тополя. —Valery Yakovlevich Bryusov Pied Piper I play upon my little pipe,— tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, I play upon my little pipe, making people’s souls merry. I walk along a quiet stream, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, gentle lambs doze, Fields wave softly. Sleep, sheep and lambs, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, beyond the meadows of red clover slender poplars rise. A little house is hidden there, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, a sweet girl will dream that I gave her my soul. And at the gentle call of my flute, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, she will come as if to a radiant goal, through the garden, through the fields. And in the forest under a dark oak, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, she will wait in dazed delirium for the hour when the earth falls asleep. I shall meet my dear guest, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, I shall kiss her until morning, assuaging my heart with caresses. And once we have exchanged rings, tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, I’ll let her go to the lambs, to the garden with the slender poplars. Son (Сон) В мире нет ничего Дожделеннее сна, Чары есть у него, У него тишина, У него на устах Ни печаль и ни смех, И в бездонных очах Много тайных утех. У него широки, Широки два крыла, И легки, так лёгки, Как полночная мгла. Не понять, как несёт, И куда и на чем Он крылом не взмахнет И не двинет плечом. —Fyodor Sologub Dream There is nothing in the world better than sleep, he has an enchantment, he silence. He has on his lips neither sadness nor laughter and in bottomless eyes many secret pleasures. He has wide, two wide wings, and they are light, so light like a midnight shadow. How he carries you is unknown, and where, on what, he won’t flap his wing And he will not move his shoulder. Ау Твой нежный смех был сказкою изменчивою, Он звал как в сон зовёт свирельный звон. И вот венком, стихом тебя увенчиваю. Уйдём, бежим вдвоем на горный склон. Но где же ты? Лишь звон вершин позванивает Цветку цветок средь дня зажег свечу. И чей-то смех все в глубь меня заманивает. Пою, ищу, Ау! Ау! кричу. —Konstantin Dmitrevich Bal’mont A-oo! Your gentle laughter was a volatile fairy tale, calling like a flute in a dream. Now I crown you with a wreath of verse. Let’s go, let’s run together to the mountainside. But where are you? Only the sound of the heights is ringing a flower for another flower lit a candle midday. And someone’s laughter deep inside lures me. I sing, I search, “A-oo!” “A-oo!” I shout. Return to Parlance Program Notes

September 13, 2026: MOZART AND SCHUBERT AT 19 MUSICIANS FROM THE MET ORCHESTRA MICHAEL PARLOFF, CONDUCTOR Franz Schubert (1797-1828) Symphony No. 5 in B-flat major, D. 485 September 13, 2026: MOZART AND SCHUBERT AT 19 MUSICIANS FROM THE MET ORCHESTRA MICHAEL PARLOFF, CONDUCTOR Schubert was nineteen when he composed his Fifth Symphony, begun in September 1816 and completed on October 3. A full-time, year-round schoolteacher, he was also taking composition lessons twice a week with the renowned composer Antonio Salieri and attending myriad musical events in Vienna. Yet he continued to compose at a remarkable rate—slightly less than during his “miracle year” of 1815—but still producing over 110 songs, two symphonies, a string quartet, and three violin sonatas. Like his Third and Fourth Symphonies, the Fifth was composed for the private orchestra that had grown out of the Schubert family’s string quartet, in which he played viola. A significant shift in Schubert’s concentration from opera to instrumental ensemble music coincided with the orchestra’s move to the home of the conductor, Otto Hatwig, at the end of 1815. The impulse to compose his Fifth Symphony five months after completing his Fourth must have been sparked by the orchestra’s return to rehearsing after the summer break. Since there was enough space at the new venue for a small audience, Schubert may well have decided to join the listeners rather than lead the viola section as he usually did. As with most of his orchestral endeavors, the first public performance took place many years later—in this case fifty-seven years later in London, conducted by August Manns on February 1, 1873; publication finally occurred in 1885. The powerful influence of Beethoven’s symphonies—eight by then—flickered across the path of Schubert’s early symphonies, but more apparent is the younger composer’s absorption in Mozart’s style. He wrote in his diary on June 13, 1816: “As from afar the magic notes of Mozart’s music still gently haunt me. . . . Thus does our soul retain these fair impressions, which no time, no circumstances can efface, and they lighten our existence.” The Fifth Symphony, using Schubert’s smallest orchestral ensemble thus far, sounds utterly Mozartean in its charming first theme, introduced by a brief in-tempo preface that figures importantly in the development section. The graceful second theme displays more rhythmic variety than was customary for Schubert but common in Mozart. The development shows the young composer completely at ease with the manipulating of motives, and the recapitulation presents his first departure from a perfunctory repetition of the exposition by the inclusion of glorious new material to conclude the movement. Schubert’s lovely Andante con moto, following the experiment of his Fourth Symphony’s slow movement, alternates two contrasting sections to arrive at a five-part form. Again the inspiration sounds Mozartean—perhaps specifically the rondo of Mozart’s F major Violin Sonata, K. 377, as commentator Donald Francis Tovey suggests. The Menuetto strides forth boldly in the manner of the minuet from Mozart’s great G minor Symphony, K. 550, and continues with a similarly gentle trio section. Yet Schubert’s treatment of his engaging, original themes adopts none of his predecessor’s celebrated irregular phrase-lengths or contrapuntal feats, and scholar Brian Newbold notes that both minuet and trio draw on the young composer’s opera Des Teufels Lustschloss (The devil’s pleasure palace), completed in 1814. The spontaneous outpouring of merriment in the finale constitutes one of the great delights of this Symphony. Here Schubert employs sonata form with frequent ear-catching shifts between major and minor. The inspiration of Mozart set Schubert not on a path of slavish imitation but of perfecting his own original voice. The assurance and inventiveness of this jewel of a work makes it truly regrettable that his own generation did not recognize his symphonic genius. —© Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

May 8, 2022: Arnaud Sussmann, violin; Anna Polonsky, piano; Paul Neubauer, viola; Fred Sherry, cello; Michael Parloff, lecturer WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756-1791) Piano Quartet in G minor, K. 478 May 8, 2022: Arnaud Sussmann, violin; Anna Polonsky, piano; Paul Neubauer, viola; Fred Sherry, cello; Michael Parloff, lecturer According to Georg Nicolaus von Nissen (who married Constanze after Mozart’s death and wrote a biography of the composer), Mozart was contracted in 1785 by the publisher-composer Franz Anton Hoffmeister to write a series of three piano quartets. Mozart began the G minor Quartet in July that year—this is the date he entered in his own catalog for the work—and completed it on October 16, as indicated on the autograph manuscript. With this Quartet he had introduced a new genre to Vienna by adding the viola to the already prevalent piano trio combination. Hoffmeister complained that the Quartet was too difficult and that the public would not buy it. Reportedly he told Mozart, “Write more popularly, or else I can neither print nor pay for anything of yours!” Mozart released Hoffmeister from the contract saying, “Then I will write nothing more, and go hungry, or may the devil take me!” Hoffmeister allowed Mozart to keep the money he had already been paid. Mozart had already written the companion Quartet in E-flat major, K. 493, but never began the third. Hoffmeister did in fact issue the G minor Quartet in 1785, but lost money because of poor sales. He began engraving the first violin part of K. 493, but sold the plates to Artaria, who published the work in 1787. It is not surprising that Mozart’s piano quartets would have seemed unattractive to the Viennese public. Amateurs who were used to sightreading piano chamber music at salon gatherings found them too challenging. Even when the quartets had been rehearsed, the audience found them hard to appreciate because of the noisy surroundings and the poor performances at these social gatherings. An anonymous critic in 1788, after complaining bitterly about mangled, dilettantish performances, presumably of K. 493, wrote: What a difference when this much-advertised work of art is performed with the highest degree of accuracy by four skilled musicians who have studied it carefully, in a quiet room where the sound of every note cannot escape the listening ear, and in the presence of only two or three attentive persons! Like its E-flat major successor, the G minor Quartet is laid out in three movements: a large sonata-form first movement, a melodious slow movement—in this case in sonatina form (sonata form minus the development), and an exuberant rondo finale. Striking features of the G minor Quartet’s first movement include the earnest unison opening by all four players and the unusual dynamic emphasis of the second theme, grouping the subject into units of five beats. The graceful second movement, in the relative major, allows the seriousness of the first movement to abate. The piano presents the songlike first theme and the strings the second theme. Streams of thirty-second note figuration extend both themes. Mozart makes subtle alterations in the “recapitulation”—the cello in particular receives more attention. The finale turns the mood to one of out-and-out cheerfulness. Mozart clearly had a fondness for the D major theme of one of the episodes, which Alfred Einstein called “a moment of perfect bliss.” Instead of overexposing it in this movement, in which it never recurs, he reused it in the Rondo for piano, K. 485. Mozart sets the listener up for the conclusion only to divert the course by a crashing deceptive cadence, after which he winds up again for the true finish. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

November 20, 2022: Steven Banks, Saxophonist-Composer Xak Bjerken, Piano, Principal Strings of The Met Orchestra CLAUDE DEBUSSY (1862-1918) Rhapsody for alto saxophone and piano November 20, 2022: Steven Banks, Saxophonist-Composer Xak Bjerken, Piano, Principal Strings of The Met Orchestra Debussy accepted an unusual prepaid commission in 1901 from Boston arts patron and amateur saxophonist Elise Hall for a piece for “orchestra and saxophone.” She had begun losing her hearing, and her husband, a prominent doctor in New York and Santa Barbara, had advised her to take up a wind instrument to help the tubes in her ears keep her from going deaf. Her search for a wind instrument and teacher in then-small Santa Barbara turned up only a saxophone player, so that became her instrument. After her husband’s death, Hall moved to Boston where she founded the Orchestral Club, which brought in Frenchman Georges Longy to conduct. They became good friends, traveling to France together during summers, and he suggested to her the names of colleagues to commission in her quest for saxophone repertoire. Debussy was the most prominent of the twenty-two composers she commissioned. For Debussy’s part, he accepted the commission, promptly spent the money, and “forgot” about writing the piece. He was busy preparing for the premiere of his opera Pelléas et Mélisande, but even so, by September 1902 he had still not written a note for the commission—or any other piece for that matter. Debussy’s writer’s block persisted, and then at the end of May 1903 Longy, who was in Paris with “the Saxophone Lady” paid him a surprise visit. With nothing to show for the commission, Debussy hoped to appease her with a signed copy of the Pelléas et Mélisande vocal score, but he put off meeting her, fibbing during Longy’s second surprise visit that he still had just “fifty measures to find.” Meanwhile in letters to his first wife Lilly he railed against writing for “this ridiculous instrument” and the woman who “must surely be an old bat who dresses like an umbrella.” Forcing himself to work on the piece—provisionally titled “Rapsodie orientale,” which he later changed to “Rapsodie arabe” and finally to “Rhapsodie mauresque”—he began to sound more positive in his letters. To his friend, conductor André Messager he wrote on June 8: “I am searching for the most original combinations that are most appropriate for bringing out this aquatic instrument. . . . I worked just like in the good old days of Pelléas.” As it turns out, the forced work on the Rapsodie served to break his creative block—that summer, in addition to completing the Rapsodie in short score (four staves that include orchestration indications), he composed Soirée dans Grenade, planned his twelve Images, and made three symphonic sketches for La mer. All that remained to finish the Rapsodie was to create the full orchestral score from the short score, but for some reason Debussy never did. Despite selling it to publisher Jacques Durand in August 1903—and thus being paid for it twice!—neither Durand nor Hall ever received the manuscript during Debussy’s lifetime. Just before Debussy’s death in March 1918, his second wife, Emma, or possibly he himself, gave the short score to his friend, composer Jean Roger-Ducasse to flesh out the orchestration. Durand finally published the Rapsodie pour orchestre et saxophone in January 1919 and the first performance was given on May 14 at a Société nationale concert—not by Hall but by Yves Mayeur and conducted by composer André Caplet, Debussy’s friend and assistant since 1908. It was likely Caplet who at long last sent Debussy’s original short score to Hall after that performance. Elise Hall will always be remembered for the remarkable body of work she commissioned for saxophone and orchestra, but sadly she never got to perform Debussy’s Rapsodie—or hear it. She gave the last known performance of her long career in 1920 in a state of almost total deafness. Many questions remain. Why did “mauresque” get axed from the title just before printing? Debussy himself had decided on that adjective, and once when championing Spanish music said that “the stark beauty of the old Moorish cantilenas remains unforgettable.” And why did the Rapsodie receive adverse criticism for so long? It seems many listeners expected a concerto rather than a piece for “orchestra and saxophone.” Since then many arrangers, among them Ernest Ansermet and Eugene Rousseau, have made versions that impart a more virtuosic role to the saxophone by giving it melodic material originally assigned to the orchestra. Another source of negativity was Debussy’s early biographer Léon Vallas—and others who followed his lead blindly—who took some of Debussy’s unkind remarks about Hall and her instrument out of context to explain why he supposedly never completed the work and kept it to himself. Why didn’t Debussy make it public? Scholar James Noyes has convincingly suggested that the Rapsodie served as source material for La mer, and his new more forthright style would be better presented to the public in a mainstream orchestral work rather than in the curio work to which it was indebted—better to keep the Rapsodie to himself than to invite comparison. After a short, atmospheric introduction, the saxophone presents a melancholy theme—like a Moorish cantilena?—which provides materials for the two main themes of the work. Episodic in nature, as expected with a rhapsody, Debussy nevertheless relies on features of sonata form as he develops and recapitulates his themes. The piece concludes brilliantly with the new “forthright” character noted by early listeners. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

2016-2017 ARTIST ROSTER MARIKO ANRAKU, HARP CARTER BREY, CELLO INN-HYUCK CHO, CLARINET DAVID FINCKEL, CELLO FRANK HUANG, VIOLIN ISABEL LEONARD, MEZZO-SOPRANO DOV SCHEINDLIN, VIOLA JASON VIEAUX, GUITAR EMANUEL AX, PIANO EMMANUEL CEYSSON, HARP ESCHER STRING QUARTET ÉRIK GRATTON, FLUTE JERUSALEM STRING QUARTET CYNTHIA PHELPS, VIOLA PHILIP SETZER, VIOLIN WU HAN, PIANO JONATHAN BISS, PIANO DAVID CHAN, VIOLIN RAFAEL FIGUEROA, CELLO JERRY GROSSMAN, CELLO WARREN JONES, PIANO CATHERINE RO, VIOLIN SHERYL STAPLES, VIOLIN MELINDA WAGNER, COMPOSER

October 30, 2016: Wu Han, piano; Philip Setzer, violin; David Finckel, cello FRANZ SCHUBERT (1797-1828) Piano Trio in E-flat major, D. 929, op. 100 October 30, 2016: Wu Han, piano; Philip Setzer, violin; David Finckel, cello Schubert made four contributions to the piano trio literature, two full-fledged trios—B-flat major, op. 99, and E-flat major, op. 100—and two one-movement pieces—the early Sonatensatz, D. 28 (1812), and the Adagio in E-flat, D. 897, sometimes called Notturno. Though the precise dating of the B-flat major Trio remains somewhat of a mystery, both the B-flat and the E-flat trios are known to have been composed close to the same time, about a year before his death. The manuscript of the E-flat Trio states that it was begun in November 1827; the finale was probably completed in December. The two trios, though considerably contrasting in character, show a typical Schubertian tendency to work on more than one major work in the same genre, if not simultaneously then in quick succession. The Notturno, which may have been intended as a movement for the B-flat Trio, was also composed around that time. Outside of songs and a few operas, most of Schubert’s compositions were not performed publicly during his lifetime, though many were heard at the private musical evenings known as “Schubertiads.” The E-flat major Trio was one of the few that received a public performance, at the only public concert of his works that Schubert instigated before his death. The concert took place at the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna on March 28, 1828, to an overflow crowd containing many ardent Schubert supporters who loudly voiced their approval; the concert also helped Schubert’s ailing finances. The Trio—played by pianist Carl Maria von Bocklet, violinist Joseph Böhm (not Schuppanzigh as is sometimes reported), and cellist Josef Linke—formed the centerpiece of the concert, which also included a string quartet movement, several songs, and a piece for double male chorus. Despite the success of the concert, the event was largely eclipsed by the Paganini frenzy that soon held Vienna in its grip. Schubert’s growing recognition, however, was reflected in the fact that two publishers outside Vienna—B. Schott of Mainz and H. A. Probst of Leipzig—began asking Schubert for works to publish, hoping mainly for “easy” pieces that would sell well, such as songs and piano duets. Probst eventually offered to publish the E-flat Trio for about one-quarter of the going rate for piano trios, saying “a trio is a luxury article that rarely brings in a profit.” Schubert felt obliged to accept the offer on May 10, 1828, in view of his financial situation, asking only for “the swiftest possible publication.” Schubert wrote to Probst on August 1 that “this work is dedicated to nobody but those who find pleasure in it.” On October 2 he still had to “beg to inquire when the Trio is at last to appear. . . . I wait its appearance with longing.” Regrettably, Schubert died one month before the first copies reached Vienna. Both the B-flat and E-flat trios show Schubert’s expansive approach to Classical forms, the B-flat lasting approximately thirty-six minutes and the E-flat about forty-four, which as Joseph Braunstein pointed out is longer than all the Beethoven symphonies except the Third and the Ninth. The sonata-form first movement of the E-flat Trio is built on four themes—the unison opening, which returns to signal the recapitulation and to conclude the work, the scherzo-like main theme, a more hesitant second theme, and a lyrical closing theme. One of the most striking aspects of the movement is that Schubert uses the last of these as the basis of the development. Schubert’s friend Leopold von Sonnleithner reported that the composer had made use of a Swedish folk song in the Andante con moto, and, indeed, Schubert had heard several Swedish folk songs sung by Isak Albert Berg (later the teacher of the famous Jenny Lind) at the home of his musical friends the four Fröhlich sisters. Eventually, in 1978 musicologist Manfred Willfort showed the source of Schubert’s material to be “Se solen sjunker” (The Sun Is Setting) from a manuscript “5 Swedish Folk Songs . . . composed by Mr. B.” Schubert’s use of the folk song constitutes an absorption into his own expressive style rather than a simple quotation as seen in the example below. Despite his “Scherzo” label, Schubert referred to the third movement in a letter to Probst as a minuet, which was to be played “at a moderate pace and piano throughout.” And indeed the Scherzo, which opens canonically, suggests older models. “The trio, on the other hand,” wrote Schubert, should be “vigorous except where p and pp are marked.” Its heavy accents provide great contrast to the more graceful outer Scherzo sections. Schubert’s finale is remarkably progressive in its recall of earlier movements—such “cyclic” procedures were to become common with Romantic composers. The movement has often been criticized for its length, and Schubert himself made cuts in it which he told Probst “are to be scrupulously observed” in the engraving. In a reversal of his usual editorial practice, Brahms restored Schubert’s cut material when he prepared the movement for the new critical edition of Schubert’s works, making the finale over 1,000 measures(!), and adding to the decisions modern performers have to make. The movement’s expansiveness also brings to mind Schumann’s notorious phrase “heavenly length” in regard to Schubert’s Ninth Symphony, or the quip about Schubert often attributed to Stravinsky: “What does it matter if, on hearing these works, I doze off now and then, so long as, on awakening, I always find myself in Paradise?” © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

January 19, 2020: Paul Lewis, piano FRANZ SCHUBERT (1797-1828) Sonata in G major, D. 894, op. 78 (“Fantasie”) January 19, 2020: Paul Lewis, piano In October 1826 when Schubert wrote his G major Piano Sonata he had just moved into new lodgings near his old school where his friend Franz von Schober and his mother had taken up a new residence. Another longtime friend, Josef von Spaun, paid him a visit there, and Schubert played him the almost completed first movement of the Sonata. Spaun’s pleasure in the piece resulted in his receiving the dedication when the Sonata was published the following year—“for I like to do something to please you when I can,” he reported Schubert as saying. The 1827 publication of the Sonata employed the title Fantasy, Andante, Minuet, and Allegretto, a fabrication of the publisher either to attract customers or to recognize a new concept behind a work that began in a very moderate tempo and with the relaxed-sounding meter 12/8—unusual for a sonata first movement. This title served to confuse early critics and to keep the work from being considered a sonata for a number of years. Robert Schumann, however, recognized the Sonata for what it was, and in an 1835 review of three Schubert sonatas called it “the most perfect in form and substance.” Despite the early designation of fantasy for the first movement, it follows true sonata form, even though its course is primarily a leisurely and lyrical one. Commentators have found links between this movement and the opening of Beethoven’s G major Piano Concerto, which Schubert certainly knew, and also with a procedure he employed just three months earlier in his own G major String Quartet—that of immediately repeating the entire dancelike second theme with soaring ornamentation. The central development section explores some of the more impassioned possibilities of his songful melodies. Though Schubert did not always confine excursions to distant and colorful keys to his development sections, he largely did so in this movement. As in many of his slow movements, Schubert presents his serene main theme three times, alternating with two stormy episodes. His first return to the main theme is somewhat infused with the energy of the intervening episode, so that when the main theme makes its final appearance in its calm guise, it brings a sense of rounding-off and closure. Schubert’s Minuet continues the Sonata’s moderate pace where a scherzo might have seemed too brash. Much in the character of a Ländler (Austrian precursor of the waltz), the main Minuet section and its return encompass one of Schubert’s true gems—a delicate trio that grows out of a little figure heard at the end of the Minuet. In the finale Schubert may again have found inspiration in Beethoven—in this case the Rondo of the G major Piano Sonata, op. 31, no. 1, which like Schubert’s movement is marked “Allegretto.” Schubert’s rondo, though not so-labeled, features a tuneful refrain, based on a long note releasing into shorter and repeated notes. The refrain alternates with scenic episodes, of which the second contains a poetic minor-mode section with a magical shift to major. The movement ends with a quiet yet sparkling coda that peaks just before making a final hushed reminder of the rondo theme—a fitting close for such a lovely, unhurried work. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes