David Halen is the Sanford N. and Priscilla R. McDonnell Guest Artist.
The concert of Saturday, April 29, is underwritten in part by a generous gift from Mr. Milton Hieken and Ms. Barbara Barenholtz.
The concert of Sunday, April 30, is underwritten in part by a generous gift from Ms. Phyllis Tirmenstein.
The concert of Saturday, April 29, is sponsored by Steinway Piano Gallery.

Periphery and Center
BY PAUL SCHIAVO 

When discussing classical music, writers and commentators often make reference to the “central tradition,” meaning the line of musical thinking embodied in the work of certain Austrian and German composers stretching from Mozart and Haydn through Beethoven and Schubert to Brahms, Bruckner, and Mahler. This “central tradition” is, for many music lovers, the most classical part of classical music, and with good reason. Certainly its most characteristic compositions represent ideals and procedures that we have come to regard as essentially classical. Chief among these are an ideal of musical abstraction, the notion that music is sufficiently beautiful, interesting, and coherent in and of itself, and need not evoke events or places or traditions that stand outside the world of music. It is no coincidence that the most abstract and self-sufficient musical forms and genres--the sonata, the symphony, the concerto, and the string quartet--were fruitfully cultivated by the composers of the “central tradition.” By contrast, descriptive or theatrical genres of instrumental music, particularly the tone poem and ballet, held little interest for them.

The history of Western music unfolds geographically as well as chronologically, and the rise of the “central tradition” coincided with the emergence of Vienna as a uniquely important musical city. (All of the composers mentioned above in connection with the “central tradition” lived and worked in the Austrian capital.) But during the second half of the 19th century, and continuing through the first half of the 20th, the world of classical music expanded dramatically. First, countries on the periphery of Europe--Russia, Bohemia (today’s Czech Republic), Hungary, Spain, Scandinavia, England--and then in the Americas produced composers of international standing. If their achievement rivaled that of their Austro-German counterparts, it also departed from it in important ways. For one thing, these composers were more open to the idea that music might be referential rather than abstract, that it might evoke specific dramas, scenes, and events. For another, they tended to embrace folkloric elements--melodies, rhythms, and instrumental colors derived from folk music--something the “central tradition” composers did rarely, and only with considerable caution.

The contrasting outlooks and ideals of the “central tradition” and those composers working far from Vienna are one of the things that make Western music so rich and fascinating. But the situation is not so simple that we can assume all composers living in distant lands invariably have written colorful, referential, folkloric music. So strong has been the influence of the “central tradition” that many musicians with no geographic or ethnic connection to it have nevertheless embraced its principles. (Our own country offers a vivid example in the person of Samuel Barber, whose music, which significantly includes symphonies, concertos, and sonatas, is strikingly devoid of extra-musical references or folk influences.) Others sought to combine qualities of the “central tradition” with elements not usually associated with it, particularly folkloric themes and colorful instrumentation.

The three works on our program illustrate the geographic range of the orchestral literature, from South America to Russia to its historical epicenter, Vienna. They also encompass a wide range of compositional approaches. One piece subtly evokes its author’s homeland and employs the kind of brilliant orchestration developed outside the “central tradition.” Another finds a composer from Russia writing a concerto along classical lines, though with a distinctly Slavic lyricism. Finally, we have a Viennese symphony, exemplifying the “central tradition” in its purest form.

            We begin with an orchestral showpiece, the Variaciones concertantes of Alberto Ginastera. A native of Buenos Aires, Ginastera was the first internationally important musician to emerge from Argentina. Early in his career, he consciously cultivated an Argentinian character in his work, both through its subject matter and its musical details. His first major composition, Panambi, was a ballet based on Guarany Indian legends. There followed Argentine Dances for solo piano and another ballet, Estancia, depicting scenes of life on the Pampas, Argentina’s vast interior plains. These and other early works frequently incorporated folk melodies and native dances. Later, Ginastera abandoned such overt nationalist references, allying himself with the mid-20th-century avant-garde and turning to electronic sounds and other experimental techniques during the late 1950s and 1960s. He did not, however, lose touch with his “roots,” as contemporary parlance has it. For as Ginastera himself noted, his mature music “does not employ any folk material but instead uses rhythmic and melodic motifs whose expressive tension has a pronounced Argentine accent.”

            Composed in 1953, Variaciones concertantes is something of a transitional work. It entails neither outright quotation of Argentine folk melodies--though “a pronounced Argentine accent” certainly characterizes many passages--nor a determined use of advanced musical idioms. Indeed, the form of the piece is the classical theme-with-variations procedure, but scored to feature different instruments in each section. Listeners familiar with Benjamin Britten’s Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra will recall its very similar approach in presenting variations on a melody of Henry Purcell. Unlike Britten, however, Ginastera employs not only the traditional decorative and paraphrase types of variation but also the more modern technique of evolving entirely new material out of elements of the original musical idea.

            The theme that engenders the work is presented by solo cello with harp accompaniment. It is an original melody, not derived from a folk tune, and it unfolds in a venerable A-B-A form, with subdued music flanking a more impassioned central section. The variations that follow are adequately described by their titles: “Variation giocosa for Flute,” Variation in modo de Scherzo for Clarinet,” Variation drammatica for Viola,” “Variation canonica for Oboe and Bassoon,” “Variation ritmica for Trumpet and Trombone,” “Variation in modo di Moto perpetuo for Violin,” “Variation pastorale for French horn,” “Reprise of the Theme for Double Bass,” and “Final Variation in modo di Rondo for Orchestra.” Preceding both the flute’s variation and the Recapitulation are a pair of Interludes, the first for the string choir, the second for winds. In the rondo-form finale, a new version of the theme recurs several times between brilliantly scored episodes.

            Russia lies closer to Vienna than does Argentina, but distant enough, both geographically and culturally. It would be natural, then, to find Russian composers working outside the “central tradition,” and many of them have done so. But the larger picture entails more nuance. During the second half of the 19th century, Russian music was divided into two distinct camps. More conservative composers, typified by Anton Rubinstein, looked to Western Europe for models of compositional form and style. In particular, they retained an unshaken loyalty to the abstract musical genres of the Austro-German “central tradition”: the symphony, the sonata, and the concerto. Opposing this group was a band of nationalist composers that came to be known as the moguchaya kuchka, a term best translated as “The Mighty Band.” Led by Mily Balakirev and, later, by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, these musicians brought a strongly Russian character to their scores by referring to folk melodies in their themes, employing dramatic programs that frequently alluded to Russian history and lore, and developing a style of orchestration more vibrant and powerful than any cultivated in Western Europe.

            Although each of these schools claimed zealous partisans, some composers managed to draw on the style traits of both. Tchaikovsky did this with considerable success. So did Alexander Glazunov, whose Violin Concerto, op. 82, remains his most popular work. Glazunov neatly straddled the traditionalist and nationalist camps of Russian music. From the latter group, and specifically from his teacher Rimsky-Korsakov, he adopted a distinctly Slavic approach to melody, one in which the inflections of Russian folk song played an important part. At the same time, however, he accepted the view of the traditionalist school that the classical forms of symphony and concerto were still viable. Glazunov’s skilled handling of these forms and the thoughtful development of his themes are indebted above all to Mendelssohn and Brahms, exemplars of the Austro-German “central tradition” disdained by the kuchka.

            Mendelssohn’s influence is especially evident in Glazunov’s Violin Concerto, written in 1904 for the great Russian virtuoso Leopold Auer. In Mendelssohn’s celebrated concerto for the same instrument, transitional passages connect the three movements. Glazunov takes this approach a step further, casting his work in a single movement, but one whose three broad sections reflect the usual three-movement concerto format. Also like Mendelssohn, Glazunov abandons the traditional orchestral opening. Instead, he begins with the violin presenting a soulful melody over a quiet, restless accompaniment. This initial theme eventually gives way to a second subject of decidedly Romantic character, again introduced by the solo instrument.

            Hardly has this been presented, however, than a long transition passage ushers in the slow section that forms the central portion of the composition. Here Glazunov introduces a tender new melody. After some exploration of this idea by the soloist and orchestra, the music returns to the two themes of the opening “movement,” which receive further development. This portion of the concerto culminates in a demanding cadenza for the soloist. Its conclusion leads dramatically to the work’s final section. Based on a subject at once martial and dance-like in tone, this provides colorful music replete with passages in harmonics and other brilliant instrumental effects.

From Buenos Aires by way of St. Petersburg, we arrive in Vienna, home of the “central tradition,” and music by one of that tradition’s greatest practitioners. Franz Schubert completed his Symphony No. 4 in April 1816. The composer himself bestowed on this work the title “Tragic,” a designation that certainly matches the tone of the piece. Even though the symphony concludes vigorously in a major key, its crucial outer movements suggest, for the most part, a grim drama. What is not certain is what moved the composer to write such a dark work in the first place. Schubert’s life would indeed end tragically--in poverty, illness, and an appallingly early death--scarcely a dozen years later. But he could hardly have foreseen his unhappy fate at age 19, when he wrote this symphony. It seems likely, then, that the composer conceived this music as an expression of tragedy in the abstract, not as a reflection of some particular personal sorrow. This, of course, in no way compromises the sincerity of the music.