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September 24, 2017: Emily Daggett Smith, violin; Michael Brown, piano MANUEL DE FALLA (1876-1946) Danza española No. 1 from La vida breve September 24, 2017: Emily Daggett Smith, violin; Michael Brown, piano Falla composed his opera La vida breve (The short life) at a feverish pace in 1904–05 for a composition competition that offered a substantial financial prize and the hope of a performance at one of Madrid’s theaters. With librettist Carlos Fernández Shaw, he settled on a tragic subject from one of Shaw’s poems, El chavalillo (The little lass), about a lover’s treachery because of class distinction. Falla won the competition by unanimous decision, but no performance materialized in Madrid—nor did a projected performance occur in Paris, where he soon settled. After numerous revisions and many failed attempts for performance and publication, La vida breve was premiered in Nice on April 1, 1913, and in Paris the following January as part of a joint agreement. The critics raved! Among the opera’s most popular numbers is “Spanish Dance No. 1,” a lively jota , which has since been arranged for a plethora of instrumental combinations, such as the present version for violin and piano by [Fritz Kreisler?]. In the opera, the dance is performed as part of the betrothal celebration for Paco and Carmela, the girl of his own class that he must marry instead of his beloved Salud, a Gypsy maiden. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

May 19, 2019: Wendy Bryn Harmer, soprano; Ken Noda, piano WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756-1791) Three Late Songs, K. 596 – 598 May 19, 2019: Wendy Bryn Harmer, soprano; Ken Noda, piano Mozart composed three songs on January 14, 1791, just short of two weeks before his thirty-fifth and last birthday. His lodge brother Ignaz Alberti printed them early that same year in the Frühlingslieder (Spring Songs) section of the Liedersammlung für Kinder und Kinderfreunde (Song collection for children and their friends). This four-volume set, of which only the spring and winter volumes survive, was edited by teacher, poet, humanities scholar, and Catholic priest Placidus Partsch, who likely had the responsibility of assigning texts to different composers. Mozart’s three songs are all strophic—that is, several verses sung to the same melody and, unlike his usual practice, Mozart formatted them like piano pieces with one verse written between the staves. The remaining verses were printed on separate pages. Sehnsucht nach dem Frühling (Yearning for spring), placed first in the spring volume, has achieved folk-song-level popularity owing to its happy melody and charming storytelling images. The poem by Christian Adolf Overbeck (1755–1821) was originally titled Fritzchen an den Mai (Little Fritz, to May), referring to an appealing character Overbeck had contributed to German children=s literature. The title Mozart used stems from a collection edited by J. H. Campe, though many people know the song simply by its first line, Komm, lieber Mai (Come, dear May). The poem consists of five verses, but many modern performers often omit one or more of the middle verses. Clearly Mozart had the melody on his mind because he had just used it as the theme of the rondo finale in his last Piano Concerto, K. 595, completed only nine days earlier. For Im Frühlingsanfange (At spring’s beginning), Mozart sets a poem by Christian Christoph Sturm (1740–1786) titled simply Der Frühling (Spring). Mozart’s own title stems from the catalog he kept of his works, but the first edition bore the title Dankesempfindungen gegen den Schöpfer des Frühlings (Thankful feelings toward the creator of spring). Here, despite the strophic setting, Mozart leaves the world of childhood behind with his dramatic opening chords, a touching melody with signature upward leap and gently elaborated descent, a throbbing bass repeated note in the middle, judicious chromatic harmonies, and a sophisticated if brief piano postlude. Sturm’s poem contains six verses (ordered differently from the Mozart complete works edition as given below), but performers often omit two or three of them. Mozart returns to childlike fun and Overbeck’s poetry for Das Kinderspiel (Children’s play). The nine-verse poem was originally titled simply Kinderlied (Children’s song), but its carefree high spirits, which Mozart captures perfectly, make Kinderspiel an especially fitting title. As with the other songs in this set, singers today often omit some of the interior verses. Mozart gives the performance direction Munter (Blithely) and sets the text in a lightly dancing 3/8 meter. Little leaps and oscillations add to the playful atmosphere. © Jane Vial Jaffe 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

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

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

May 12, 2024: Chee-Yun, violin; Brad Gemeinhardt, horn; Alessio Bax, piano Johannes Brahms Trio in E-flat, Op. 40 for violin, horn, and piano May 12, 2024: Chee-Yun, violin; Brad Gemeinhardt, horn; Alessio Bax, piano Johannes Brahms always loved the sound of the horn. Among many other instruments, his father, Johann Jakob, played horn professionally, in dance halls and taverns, and even substituted on horn in the sextet that played at the fashionable Alster Pavilion. Though he finally gave in to his young son’s pleas to learn piano, Johann Jakob had already begun teaching him “useful” instruments, in particular the Waldhorn—the natural, valveless horn, or “hand horn,” referring to the method of obtaining certain pitches by the positioning the right hand inside the bell. Valved horns rapidly became standard during Brahms’s lifetime, and the natural horn had fallen out of common use by the time he wrote his Horn Trio in May 1865 while sojourning in Baden-Baden. But he specifically wrote the piece for natural horn out of fondness for its sound, characterized by the muted quality of certain notes. Brahms may also have been thinking of his early home life—a theory that early biographer Max Kalbeck suggested—in particular since his mother had recently died. But, whereas the poignant slow movement could indeed serve as a memorial tribute, the complete rousting of that mood by the spirited, irreverent music of the finale suggests that the work as a whole is not entirely an homage to her. The two quotation sources that Kalback suggested to back his theory—the folk song “Dort in den Weide steht ein Haus,” which Brahms may have learned from his mother, and the chorale “Wer nur den lieben Gott lässt walten”—are certainly appropriate but do not comfortably correspond to the main theme of the finale and its preview near the end of the slow movement. Scholar John Walter Hill proposes a different folk-song source, which Brahms likely knew and which fits the finale’s main theme like a glove: “Es soll sich ja keiner mit der Liebe abgeben” (No one should have anything to do with love). This would shift Brahms’s thoughts, says Hill, to the end of his romantic involvement with Agathe von Siebold in the late 1850s. Brahms had broken off their relationship when it seemed they were headed for marriage, much to Agathe’s heartbreak, but he paid her tribute in his G major Sextet, op. 36, written around the same time as the Horn Trio. Either as a salve to his conscience, or as a farewell, Brahms had woven notes equivalent to the letters of her name into the Sextet’s first movement, composed in September 1864. He completed the Sextet in May 1865, so it is entirely likely that she was still on his mind as he wrote his Horn Trio in the same month. As Hill suggests, the comical jab at love by a confirmed bachelor makes a great deal of sense in light of the newly revealed folk-song source. No matter what extra-musical thoughts may have come to Brahms in 1865, the Horn Trio stands as an inspired piece of chamber music for the unusual combination of violin, horn and piano. Brahms played the piano part in a trial performance in September in Baden-Baden, and the first public performance took place in Zürich on November 28, 1865, with violinist Friedrich Hegar, horn player Anton Gläss, and Brahms himself at the piano. One of the Horn Trio’s greatest surprises, in view of Brahms’s supreme interest in sonata form, is that the first movement is the only example of a first movement in his multimovement works that is not in sonata form. Rather it contrasts a lovely melancholy main theme with two somewhat livelier sections, resulting in an A-B-A-B-A rondo-like pattern. The rollicking scherzo provides a perfect change of scene, racing along as if on the hunt but without characteristic horn fanfares. The soaring second theme and the lovely pathos of the trio section’s theme provide elegant contrast. The slow movement, one of Brahms’s most melancholy and moving utterances with its expansive melody, grave chords, and soulful bass notes, gives a taste of his much later Four Serious Songs. The canonic treatment of a new theme begun by the horn alone particularly shows Brahms in a nostalgic light and leads to one of his most glorious climaxes. The preview of the finale’s theme occurs just before that peak, nicely scored with the horn above the violin. The finale takes off at full gallop, perhaps the banishment of his last thoughts of Agathe, but surely reveling in the historical connection of the horn with the hunt. Here Brahms achieves an ebullient, rondo-like character but in a full-fledged sonata form. He delights in rhythmic play, bits of yearning, the occasional starry twinkle or growling bass, horn calls that are not typical fanfares in horn fifths, and—most exhilarating—a breathless drive to the close. —©Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

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

March 11, 2018: Benjamin Beilman, Violin; Orion Weiss, piano WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756-1791) Sonata in A, K. 526 March 11, 2018: Benjamin Beilman, Violin; Orion Weiss, piano Little is known about the circumstances surrounding the composition of the A major Violin Sonata, K. 526, other than that it was written in August 1787 in Vienna during the composition of Don Giovanni. Mozart himself was an accomplished violinist, but there is no evidence that he wrote it with himself in mind; nor is there evidence that he wrote it for anyone else. It seems unlikely, however, that Mozart would have interrupted work the opera unless some occasion demanded it. Mozart’s violin sonatas span an interesting time in the history of the genre. His earliest violin sonatas belong to the tradition of keyboard sonatas for the amateur to which ad libitum violin (or flute, and sometimes cello) accompaniment could be added if available. His violin sonatas, though called piano sonatas with violin accompaniment(!), exhibit equality and great independence of the two instruments. In the Sonata, K. 526—his last except for K. 547, “a small piano sonata for beginners, with a violin”—the piano and violin are truly equal partners. The contrapuntal textures throughout may suggest Mozart’s study of Bach, but the language remains thoroughly his. The Molto allegro is set in 6/8, an unusual meter for Mozart to use for a first movement. (It is interesting that he also cast the first movement of his other A major Violin Sonata, K. 305, in 6/8, a meter commonly associated with “the hunt,” and indeed the meter he used for the first movement of his Hunt Quartet in B-flat major, K. 458.) The hemiola effects (switching from rhythmic patterns of two groups of three to three groups of two) and extensions of cadential phrase endings constitute some of the delightful features of this sonata-form movement. The Andante, again in sonata form, is remarkable for its spare texture, often achieved by the kind of octave doublings that Brahms later favored. Mozart never ceases to amaze in his ability to create such expressive music with deceptively simple means—fragmented melodic utterances, flowing regular accompaniment, chromatic touches, major-minor shifts—how can these produce such a compelling effect? The finale, though one of Mozart longest in a chamber work, races by at a presto tempo. It combines virtuoso tendencies with an almost demonic high-spirited quality. Mozart scholars Derek Carew and Neal Zaslaw have independently reported that the movement is based on the finale of Carl Friedrich Abel’s A major Violin Sonata, op. 5, no. 5, possibly as a memorial tribute since Abel had died on June (Carew mistakenly says January) 20, 1787. © 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

November 4, 2018: Pascual Martinez-Fortese, clarinet; Cynthia Phelps, viola; Alessio Bax, piano WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756-1791) Clarinet Trio in E flat, K. 498 (“Kegelstatt”) November 4, 2018: Pascual Martinez-Fortese, clarinet; Cynthia Phelps, viola; Alessio Bax, piano Let’s dispense with the nickname right away. Mozart composed this richly imaginative Trio for clarinet, viola, and piano for Franziska von Jacquin, one of his best piano pupils, as we learn from the 1844 memoirs of historical novelist Caroline Pichler, who herself took lessons from Mozart as a young girl. He no doubt wrote the clarinet part for his good friend Anton Stadler— for whom he also wrote his Clarinet Quintet, Clarinet Concerto, and prominent parts in La clemenza di Tito—and the viola part with himself in mind. Mozart dated the work August 5, 1786, in his own catalog, calling it simply: “A Trio for Piano, Clarinet, and Viola.” So what does this have to do with a Kegelstatt (skittles/bowling alley)? Mozart did love to play skittles, a game in which one threw or rolled (accounts vary) a wooden ball or disk to knock down nine pins. He also loved bocce, which he learned in Rome. However, the only inscription about skittles on one of his manuscripts appears not on the Trio but on the Duets for Two Horns, K. 496a (K. 487), completed only nine days earlier. It reads—not in his own hand—“Wien den 27.t Julius 1786 untern Kegelscheiben” (Vienna, 27th July 1786 while playing skittles). Somehow the nickname got transferred to the Trio in the nineteenth century, likely through a misappropriation from the Horn Duets. Köchel’s pioneering 1862 catalog transmitted the “Kegelstatt” nickname with the Trio, but at the time Köchel himself had no access to the manuscript, so he was unaware that it bore no inscription. Further, he had not seen the Horn Duets and had assigned K. 487 as Violin Duets—no inscription—and gave the date February 27, 1786. He often had to rely on information from collectors Aloys Fuchs, Josef Hauer, and Leopold von Sonnleithner, who may or may not have been responsible for the misinformation. Various writers perpetuated the “Kegelstatt” nickname for the Trio, as did later editions of the Köchel catalog (revised by others), even as they included the Horn Duets with the “untern Kegelscheiben” inscription. The Trio will probably always carry the spurious nickname, but does it help or hinder? Nicknames tend to save works from obscurity or promote more performances, and in this case it has led numerous writers to marvel that Mozart could have written such a poetic work amid the clatter of a skittles alley. Even without a nickname, however, clarinetists and violists would always have been happy to keep this unique work in the repertoire. Presumably the Trio was first performed shortly after its completion by Franziska von Jacquin, Anton Stadler, and Mozart himself at one of the “convivial” Wednesday soirees at the Jacquin home described by Caroline Pichler. When the Trio appeared in print in September 1788, Mozart’s publisher wanted to assure its commercial success by advertising it as “a trio for harpsichord or pianoforte with violin and viola accompaniment,” adding that the violin part could be performed by clarinet. With violinists more plentiful than clarinetists at the time, it made business sense, but Mozart clearly loved the mid and low range of the clarinet—Stadler’s specialties—paired with the warm sound of the viola. The piano’s top billing also reflected the custom of the day, but Mozart treats all three instruments with remarkable equality. The lovely first movement flows at a gentle Andante pace, perhaps dispensing with the need for a slow second movement. It seems perfectly suited for Mozart’s reveling in the mid-range sonorities of two of his favorite instruments. Throughout his entire sonata form he engages the ear with the imaginative settings and permutations of the five-note ornamental turn that occurs at the outset. Also striking is Mozart’s interest in chromaticism in the form of rising half-step flourishes at the ends of many of his phrases. Chromaticism takes on a more astonishing aspect in the trio section of the minuet. This is an intimate, serious Menuetto of expansive proportions, far removed from the courtly dance tradition. The outer minuet sections feature emphatic contrasts between loud and soft, the former emphasized by the piano’s distinctive bass figure doubled in octaves and the latter concentrated in the treble register. Chromaticism takes on a special yearning quality toward the end of the second section. It is the Trio, however, that brings chromaticism spectacularly to the fore: Mozart focuses pointedly on a four-note motive that circles in on itself in half steps, alternating this idea with spates of running triplets—a truly novel idea. The finale with its sunny, lyrical refrain unfolds as a seven-section rondo—A-B-A-C-A-D-A, in which Mozart ingeniously varies each return of the main theme. The mood darkens suddenly for the middle episode with the viola’s stormy outburst in the minor mode. This movement features some especially brilliant passages for all the instruments—the piano in particular, which would have shown off Franziska von Jacquin’s fleet fingers to great advantage. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

December 5, 2021: Paul Jacobs, organ JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH (1685-1750) Prelude and Fugue in C Major, BWV 547 December 5, 2021: Paul Jacobs, organ Dating has proved extremely elusive for this remarkably masterful, surprisingly underperformed work. Scholars have proposed dates as early as c. 1719, which would mean post-Weimar (see note for BWV 532 for more about Weimar) when Bach was in Cöthen serving Prince Leopold as Kapellmeister, and as late as the 1740s in Leipzig (see note for Sinfonia from Cantata 29 for more about Leipzig), with some middle ground as “by 1725” (early Leipzig). The complexity of both movements and the parallels between them argue for Leipzig, but Bach’s mixture of originality, tradition, and scattered similarities to various works surely account for the differing opinions. Both the Prelude and the Fugue employ short pithy motives that give no hint of the spontaneous excursions that Bach spins out nor what scholar Peter Williams calls their “carefully planned finality.” Each of the first three bars of the Prelude offers a distinct shape that proves recognizable in many variations throughout. The leaping jagged middle idea provides the basis for the leaping pedal, which never takes up the other two shapes. Bach creates the finality that will have its parallel in the Fugue with dramatic chords and a final sustained low pedal note that all point to home. The Fugue subject also operates in one-bar segments, seemingly unfolding as a four-voice fugue with each manual responsible for two of the voices and a palpable absence of pedal. Unusual for Bach, he presents five slightly varied expositions with imaginative ways of linking them and the sheer number of times we hear the subject in myriad ways is stunning. Suddenly, two-thirds of the way into the fugue, the pedal thunders out in a fifth voice with the subject in longer note values (augmentation) while the other four voices perform miraculous strettos and inversions of the subject—pure contrapuntal wizardry. The coda takes place over the same low home pedal that Bach employed in the Prelude, now providing even grander finality by sustaining to the very end. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes