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GUILLERMO FIGUEROA, VIOLA One of the most versatile and respected musical artists of his generation – renowned as conductor, violinist, violist, and concertmaster – Guillermo Figueroa is the Principal Conductor of the Santa Fe Symphony Orchestra. He is also the Music Director of the Music in the Mountains Festival in Colorado and Music Director of the Lynn Philharmonia in Florida. Additionally, he was the Music Director of both the New Mexico Symphony and the Puerto Rico Symphony . International appearances, among others, include the Toronto Symphony, Iceland Symphony, Orquesta Sinfonica de Chile and the National Symphony of Mexico . In the US he has appeared with the orchestras of Buffalo, Detroit, New Jersey, Memphis, Phoenix, Tucson and the New York City Ballet . As violinist, his recording of Ernesto Cordero’s violin concertos for the Naxos label received a Latin Grammy nomination in 2012. Figueroa was Concertmaster of the New York City Ballet , and a Founding Member and Concertmaster of the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra , making over fifty recordings for Deutsche Grammophon . Also accomplished on the viola, Figueroa performs frequently as guest of the Fine Arts, Emerson, American, and Orion string quartets. Figueroa has given the world premieres of four violin concertos written for him: the Concertino by Mario Davidovsky, at Carnegie Hall with Orpheus ; the Double Concerto by Harold Farberman, with the American Symphony at Fisher Hall , Lincoln Center; the Violin Concerto by Miguel del Aguila, commissioned by Figueroa and the NMSO and Insula , by Ernesto Cordero with the Solisti di Zagreb in Zagreb.

March 9, 2025: Ravel’s 150th Birthday Concert, with Erika Baikoff, Soprano; Soohong Park, piano Maurice Ravel (1875-1937) Shéherazade for soprano and piano March 9, 2025: Ravel’s 150th Birthday Concert, with Erika Baikoff, Soprano; Soohong Park, piano While still a student at the Paris Conservatory in 1899, Ravel conceived an opera to be based on the tales of the Thousand and One Nights . Well-aware of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade (1888), Ravel wrote his own Shéhérazade Overture based on the legends, but the work’s lack of success when Ravel conducted it that June gave him pause, and he prohibited it from being published. Then in 1903 he was inspired to set three poems by fellow member of the Apache society Tristan Klingsor (pseudonym of Leon Leclerc), whose cycle entitled Shéhérazade had just been published. Wrote Leclerc: Ravel immediately announced his intent of setting some of my poems into music. His love of difficulty led him to choose, in addition to “L’indifférent and La flûte enchantée , one which, by reason of its length and narrative form, seemed the least likely suited for his purpose: Asie . The fact is that at this time he was extremely preoccupied with the challenge of adapting music to speech, heightening its accents and inflections and magnifying them by adapting them into melody; and to assist him to carry out his project he asked me to read the poems out loud to him. Like much of France and other European countries at the turn of the twentieth century, Ravel was fascinated with evocations of the Far East. The interest was not so much a kind of armchair tourism, but rather represented in the words of musicologist Kurt Oppens—whose knowledge of French poetry was second to none—“the decadence of a hypercivilized culture.” Worth quoting at length, Oppens wrote: Concerning decadence : all such once-fashionable catch names and slogans isolate one single element that, in truth, is common to all art. Every new style is “decadent” in the sense that it pays the price of progress by falling off from a previous achievement. Ravel’s Shéhérazade , however, is decadence with a capital D, a prototypical example of what Decadence as a movement was about. The kind of travel described in a poem such as Asie leads out of the boundaries of the self into archetypal images, a world of subconscious dreams, or eroticism and murder, a mixture that in its concrete political embodiments, led to the unspeakable tragedies of [the twentieth] century. . . . The emotonal-musical climax coincides with these words: “Je voudrais voir des rose et du sang; / Je voudrais voir mourir d’amour ou bien de haine .” (I would like to see roses and blood; / I would like to see those who die for love or else for hate.” . . . The “I” of Leclerc’s poem does not think of dying; he is looking at death and responding to it as if it were a stimulant, an aphrodisiac. . . . Ravel’s music for “Asie” is essentially one big rolling wave, a masterfully articulated and controlled crescendo and decrescendo. (The element of control is of course non-decadent; decadent art is in itself a contradictory or dialectical proposition.) It is fascinating that when Ravel conducted these songs himself, he began with “Le flûte enchantée,” followed by “L’indifférent,” and ended with “Asie,” as in the order of the premiere, which was sung by Jane Hatto of the Paris Opéra on May 17, 1904, with Alfred Cortot conducting the orchestra of the Société Nationale. The published order makes for a more subdued ending, in keeping with the intimate love songs of “La flûte enchantée” and “L’indifférent.” Of the two shorter songs, “La flûte enchantée” offers an intimate melody—often sad, occasionally joyful—evoking the thoughts of the poem’s slave girl, who in her master’s house hears her lover playing the flute. “L’indifferent” also unfolds as a private love song, one shrouded in an air of mystery both as to the poem and Ravel’s setting. Is the protagonist Scherherazade herself seducing a young boy or is the androgenous nature of the addressee something that attracted Ravel? Whatever the case, Ravel skillfully captures the elusive, maybe dreamed or imagined-from-afar seductiveness of the poem. —©Jane Vial Jaffe Texts and Translations Asie Asie, Asie, Asie, Vieux pays merveilleux des contes de nourrice Où dort la fantasie comme une impératrice En sa forêt tout emplie de mystère. Asie, Je voudrais m'en aller avec la goélette Qui se berce ce soir dans la port, Mystérieuse et solitaire, Et qui déploie enfin ses voiles violettes Comme un immense oiseau de nuit dans le ciel d’or. Je voudrais m’en aller vers des îles de fleurs En écoutant chanter la mer perverse Sur un vieux rythme ensorceleur, Je voudrais voir Damas et les villes de Perse Avec les minarets légers dans l’air, Je voudrais voir de beaux turbans de soie Sur des visages noirs aux dents claires; Je voudrais voir des yeux sombres d’amour Et des prunelles brillantes de joie En des peaux jaunes comme des oranges; Je voudrais voir des vêtements de velours Et des habits à longues franges, Je voudrais voir des calumets entre les bouches Tout entourées de barbe blanche; Je voudrais voir d’âpres marchands aux regards louches, Et des cadis, et des vizirs Qui du seul mouvement de leur doigt qui se penche Accordent vie ou mort au gré de leur désir. Je voudrais voir la Perse, et l’Inde, et puis la Chine, Les mandarins ventrus sous les ombrelles, Et les princesses aux mains fines, Et les lettrés qui se querellent Sur la poésie et sur la beauté; Je voudrais m’attarder au palais enchanté Et comme voyageur étranger Contempler à loisir des paysages peints Sur des étoffes en des cadres de sapin Avec un personnage au milieu d’un verger; Je voudrais voir des assassins souriant Du bourreau qui coupe un cou d’innocent Avec son grand sabre courbé d’Orient, Je voudrais voir des pauvres et des reines; Je voudrais voir des roses et du sang; Je voudrais voir mourir d’amour ou bien de haine. Et puis m’en revenir plus tard Narrer mon aventure aux curieux de rêves En élevant comme Sinbad ma vieille tasse arabe De temps en temps jusqu’à mes lèvres Pour interrompre le conte avec art . . . La flûte enchantée L’ombre est douce et mon maître dort Coiffé d’un bonnet comique de soie Et son long nez jaune en sa barbe blanche. Mais moi, je suis éveillée encor Et j’écoute au dehors Une chanson de flûte où s’épanche Tour à tour la tristesse ou la joie. Un air tour à tour langoureux ou frivole Que mon amoureux chéri joue. Et quand je m’approche de la croisée Il me semble que chaque note s’envole De la flûte vers ma joue Comme un mystérieux baiser. L’indifférent Tes yeux sont doux comme ceux d’une fille, Jeune étranger, et la courbe fine De ton beau visage de duvet ombragé Est plus séduisante encor de ligne. Ta lèvre chante sur le pas de ma porte Une lange inconnue et charmante Comme une musique fausse. Entre! Et que mon vin te réconforte . . . Mais non, tu passes Et de mon seuil je te vois t’éloigner Me faisant un dernier geste avec grâce Et la hanche légèrement ployée Par ta démarche féminine et lasse . . . —Tristan Klingsor Asia Asia, Asia, Asia, Ancient, marvelous country of fairy tales, where fantasy sleeps like an empress in her forest filled with mystery. Asia, I would like go away with the ship which is rocking this evening in the port, mysterious and lonely, and which finally spreads its violet sails like an immense bird of night in the golden sky. I would like to go towards the islands of flowers, while listening to the wayward sea sing to an old bewitching rhythm. I would like to see Damascus and the Persian cities with airy minarets rising into the sky. I would like to see beautiful silk turbans above black faces with bright teeth; I would like to see eyes dark with love and pupils shining with joy in faces with skins yellow as oranges; I would like to see velvet clothes and robes with long fringes, I would like to see pipes held between lips all surrounded by white beards; I would like to see harsh merchants with shifty looks, and cadis, and viziers, who with a single movement of their bending fingers, grant life or death according to their wish. I would like to see Persia, and India, and then China, The pot-bellied mandarins beneath the umbrellas, and the princesses with fine hands, and the scholars who quarrel over poetry and beauty; I would like to linger at the enchanted palace and as a foreign traveler contemplate at leisure countrysides painted on fabrics in frames of fir with a figure in the midst of an orchard; I would like to see smiling assassins, the executioner who cuts an innocent neck with his great curved sabre from the Orient. I would like to see beggars and queens; I would like to see roses and blood; I would like to see those who die of love or hate. And then come back later narrate my adventure to those curious of dreams while raising like Sinbad my old Arab cup from time to time to my lips to interrupt the tale with artistry . . . The Enchanted Flute The shadow is soft and my master sleeps wearing a comical bonnet of silk and his long yellow nose in his white beard. But I, I am still awake, and I hear outside a flute song in which pours out sadness or joy in turn. An air sometimes languorous, sometimes frivolous that my dear lover plays. And when I draw near the window, it seems to me that each note flies away from the flute to my cheek like a mysterious kiss. The Indifferent One Your eyes are soft like those of a girl, young stranger, and the fine curve of your beautiful face shadowed with down is still more seductive in its curve. Your lip sings on my doorstep an unknown and charming language like a false music. Enter! And let my wine refresh you . . . But no, you pass, and from my doorstep I see you leaving making a last gesture with grace and your hips gently swaying, with your feminine and languid walk . . . Return to Parlance Program Notes

KARI DOCTER, CELLO Kari Jane Docter, cello, is a native of Minneapolis, MN. She was a student of Eleonore Schoenfeld at the University of Southern California, and graduated magna cum lauda from Rice University, where she studied with Norman Fischer. Upon graduation from Juilliard, as a masters’ student of Joel Krosnick, Kari entered the professional orchestra scene, which took her from the New World Symphony, the Buffalo Philharmonic, and the Utah Symphony, to the Minnesota Orchestra, where she played two seasons. In the fall of 2002, she joined the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. A lover of chamber music, Kari has been heard at such prestigious music festivals as Marlboro, Tanglewood, and the Grand Teton Music Festival, as well as on the smaller stages of Carnegie Hall with the MET Chamber Ensemble. She can be seen on Wynton Marsalis’ PBS series, “Marsalis on Music” performing with Yo-Yo Ma.

September 24, 2017: Arnaud Sussmann, violin; Michael Brown, piano GABRIEL FAURÉ (1845-1924) Romance in B-flat major, op. 28 September 24, 2017: Arnaud Sussmann, violin; Michael Brown, piano Fauré began composing his Romance, op. 28, in August 1877 out of great boredom while on a three-week visit to Cautarets in the Pyrenées. He had been persuaded to go there by the famous singer Pauline Viardot to give her daughter Marianne, his reluctant fiancée, some time to think. On September 17, back in Paris, he wrote to his friend Marie Clerc that he had tried out the Romance with Marianne’s violinist brother Paul. Finally on the third run-through the assembled Viardot ladies warmed up to the piece, prompting Fauré to remark, “What a pity one cannot always begin with the third hearing.” Two years later he found himself asking Pauline Viardot if he could borrow the piece, having left the only manuscript at her house. The Romance unfolds in A-B-A form, with the flowing motion of the outer sections contrasted by a dramatic central section with an angular theme for the violin. A cadenza-like passage restores the calm of the opening. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

November 20, 2022: Steven Banks, Saxophonist-Composer Xak Bjerken, Piano, Principal Strings of The Met Orchestra ASTOR PIAZZOLLA (1921-1992) Milonga del ángel for alto saxophone and piano November 20, 2022: Steven Banks, Saxophonist-Composer Xak Bjerken, Piano, Principal Strings of The Met Orchestra The tango, which originated in late nineteenth-century Buenos Aires in brothels and urban courtyards, gained ballroom status through its seductive powers, spreading to Paris and other European centers in the early twentieth century. Tangos traditionally featured not only couples dancing in tight embrace with almost violent leg motions, but also melodramatic poetry sung to the accompaniment of solo guitar; or a trio of flute, violin, and guitar (or bandoneon, a square, button-operated accordion); or larger ensembles of strings, bandoneon, and piano. Piazzolla infused the tango with new life following the Second World War, though he was criticized by traditionalists for adding dissonance and extended rhythmic techniques. His style, called nuevo tango, bears certain similarities to bebop and bossa nova, while largely avoiding the improvisations of jazz. Piazzolla helped bring about the even more recent tango renaissance through his many performances and recordings with his own Quinteto Nuevo Tango, which frequently joined with jazz ensembles, chamber groups, and orchestras across the globe. Piazzolla’s tangos are often soulful, expressive pieces that retain a certain melancholy even in their most lively passages. Along the way, delightful little surprises occur, such as bits of counterpoint, glissandos, harmonics, hesitations, a suddenly sweet sonority, a jaunty rhythm, and bursts of improvisatory-sounding but carefully written out figuration. Piazzolla composed a series of “angel” tangos, memorable for their melodic inspirations, in contrast to his diablo (devil) tangos, which feature brash harmonies and rhythms. One of his first “angel” works, Tango del ángel (1957) had inspired Alberto Rodriguez Muñoz’s 1962 play of the same title, for whose production the playwright asked Piazzolla to compose some additional pieces. One of these, Milonga del ángel, takes its name from the song form that was the prototype for the tango genre. Piazzolla himself and countless others have arranged his tangos for various combinations. The saxophone sound in particular has a clear affinity with the reedy sound of Piazzolla’s own instrument, the bandoneon. A sweet nostalgia pervades the opening and closing sections of Milonga del angel, framing a slightly more agitated middle section. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

May 12, 2024: Lucille Chung, piano Robert Schumann Scenes from Childhood, Op. 15 for piano May 12, 2024: Lucille Chung, piano Schumann was at his best when composing miniatures for piano, which he grouped together under various picturesque titles such as Davidsbündlertänze, Fantasiestücke, Noveletten, and Kreisleriana. Perhaps the most purely conceived works of this type, distilled to their essence, are the thirteen Kinderscenen (Scenes from Childhood), op. 15. He described them in a letter to Clara Wieck in March 1838, two years before their marriage, while they were still fighting parental disapproval: Whether it was an echo of what you said to me once, “that sometimes I seemed to you like a child,” anyhow I suddenly got an inspiration, and knocked off about thirty quaint little things, from which I have selected twelve [sic] and called them Kinderscenen. They will amuse you, but of course you must forget that you are a virtuoso. They have such titles as “Fürchtenmachen” [Bogeyman’s coming], “Am Kamin” [By the fireside], “Haschemann” [Catch me if you can], “Bittendes Kind” [Entreating child], “Ritter vom Steckenpferd” [Knight of the hobby-horse], “Von fremden Ländern” [Of foreign lands], “Kuriose Geschichte” [A strange story], etc., and I don’t know what besides. Well, they all explain themselves, and what’s more are as easy as possible. Unlike the later Album für die Jugend, which are written for children, Schumann said that the Kinderscenen are really addressed to adults, “reminiscences of an adult for adults.” Their unassuming front masks an incredible attention to detail, unity, and poetic content. They are connected not only by programmatic content, but by thematic unity: nearly all the pieces seem to stem from the thematic shape of the five-note opening of Von fremden Ländern und Menschen (Of foreign lands and people). Often the first ascending sixth is left out, leaving a four-note falling figure related to the “Clara motto” that Schumann often used in his compositions. Theorist Rudolph Reti went so far as to call the Kinderscenen a theme with variations, the “theme” comprising not only the opening figure of the first piece but two of its subsequent motives as well. While some of his conclusions stretch credibility to the limit, there is no doubt that the miniatures are bound together as a definite structural unit by more than their program. Each of the thirteen little pieces is a simple example of ternary or binary form. Schumann’s titles, whether added before or after the pieces’ completion (a matter of some discussion), are brought out in the music by a wealth of details. Bittendes Kind (Entreating child) is left still entreating by an unresolved chord (dominant seventh) at the close; the famous Träumerei (Reverie) compresses a whole world within the rise and fall of the opening four-bar phrase; Schumann chose the key of G-sharp minor to intensify Fast zu ernst (Almost too serious); Fürchtenmachen (Bogeyman’s coming) is illustrated by unexpected tempo changes and accents; Der Dichter spricht (The poet speaks), a typical Schumann epilogue, contains a “recitative” (a free unmetered declamation), and ends peacefully. It was perhaps this final piece that Schumann did not include in his original count of twelve, as it is not based on a simple child’s subject, but is rather the poet’s comment or reflection after the child has gone to sleep. —©Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

June 2, 2024: Mozart’s Double Concertos WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756-1791) Sinfonia Concertante for Violin and Viola, K. 364 June 2, 2024: Mozart’s Double Concertos Scarcely anything is known about the circumstances surrounding the composition of Mozart’s glorious Sinfonia concertante for violin and viola. In the voluminous Mozart correspondence there is no mention of any impending occasion, soloists for whom it was written, or performances that took place. The work was almost certainly completed in the summer of 1779 while Mozart was in Salzburg, having recently returned from a trip to Mannheim and Paris. No dated autograph source survives for scholarly reference, only a sketch of part of the first movement and some cadenza material. Modern editions must rely principally upon the first edition published in 1801 by Johann André. Many have guessed that Mozart had himself in mind as the viola soloist. He had switched allegiance from the violin during this Salzburg period, much to his father Leopold’s chagrin. One can only be thankful that the circumstances did arise for Mozart to compose this glorious work, which the great Mozart scholar Alfred Einstein went so far as to call “Mozart’s crowning achievement in the field of the violin concerto.” Though the Sinfonia concertante is scored like many earlier concertos for strings with oboes and horns, the orchestral writing is much richer. There are many passages for divided violas, extensive separation of the cello and bass parts, and the inclusion of the soloists in the many of the orchestral tuttis (ensemble sections). Furthermore, Mozart originally required the solo viola to be tuned a half-step higher than normal, to give it a brightness that made it stand out from the orchestral violas. Thus, though the work is in E-flat, the solo viola part was notated in D major. (Nowadays, however, the violist often elects to perform the solo part without this scordatura, or unusual tuning.) Mozart’s use of the marking maestoso (majestic) was infrequent; it colors the whole sonority of the first movement. Other unusual features of this sonata form movement are the use of a long, thrilling crescendo known as a “Mannheim crescendo”—used by Mozart in the Figaro Overture but seldom elsewhere—and the eloquent semi-recitatives that open the development. The poignant slow movement is in the older sonata form in which the second part closely follows the material of the first, except for the traditional alterations in the harmonic scheme; this framework was closer to a binary than ternary form. Each successive antiphonal phrase of the soloists seems to outdo the previous in expressiveness. For his Presto finale Mozart employed a sonata rondo without a development—or if there is a development, it lasts only four measures after which an exact recapitulation begins. Here the soloists enter with the main theme in the subdominant, a rare device for Mozart, but one later favored by Schubert. This coupled with other unexpected events, such as the very first entrance of the soloists, contribute to an exhilarating movement rich in inventiveness. —©Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

October 27, 2019: Quartetto di Cremona LUIGI BOCCHERINI (1743-1805) Quartet in C, Op. 2, No. 6 October 27, 2019: Quartetto di Cremona Boccherini achieved widespread recognition in his day both as a virtuoso cellist and as an extremely prolific composer, primarily of chamber music. He wrote more than 100 string quintets, close to 100 string quartets, and some 150 other chamber works, including more than thirty cello sonatas. The renown that Boccherini enjoyed in his prime is attested to by the remarks of the typically cautious Charles Burney, famed eighteenth-century historian, who rated him “among the greatest masters who have ever written for the violin or violoncello,” placing him second only to Haydn. In 1756 young Luigi made his concerto debut in his native Lucca, and the following year he likely accompanied his bass-playing father and his older siblings on engagements in Venice and Trieste. The following year Luigi gave a successful solo performance in Vienna, and he and his father were soon hired for subsequent full-season orchestral engagements there, returning for the 1760–61 and 1763–64 seasons. Though he continued to give performances in Vienna and in various Italian cities, times were such that a musician could not earn a living as a solo cellist alone, which is why he took various orchestra jobs and began composing at a great rate. This, then, is the backdrop for Boccherini’s first chamber works, composed in 1761—the six String Trios, op. 1, and six String Quartets, op. 2. After his father died in 1766, Boccherini embarked on a concert tour with violinist Filippo Manfredi, traveling first to Paris, where the Trios and Quartets were published in 1767 (with the opus numbers reversed) and where most of Boccherini’s works would continue to be published. They soon left for Madrid and environs, which through royal patronage became Boccherini’s base for the remainder of his life. In 1770 he added to his other duties the position of “court chamber composer” to the King of Prussia, an arrangement through which he sent twelve works a year but never actually visited or lived there. The last years of Boccherini’s life brought loss of family members, illness, and dwindling financial resources, though reports of him dying in poverty are likely exaggerated. The Opus 2 Quartets brim with elegant Italianate melodic lines and perhaps a few Viennese traits but predate any Parisian influence. The works are notable for the cello’s equality with the other instruments and Boccherini’s frequent use of its tenor register—natural features for a cellist-composer. The C major Quartet, op. 2, no. 6, like the others in the set, contains three movements: a fast first movement, a slow middle movement, and—in this case, like Nos. 3 and 4—a closing minuet. Boccherini launches the spirited first movement with a forthright chord, a sprightly upward gesture, and a gradual sequential descent, all over pulsing repeated notes that lend forward propulsion. Both the second theme, led off by paired second violin and high cello, and the exposition’s closing theme maintain the elegant figures and pulsating drive. The second half begins like the first, but Boccherini soon introduces the minor mode and more sinuous lines before the merriness returns, not with the opening theme but with the second and closing themes. The brief slow movement contains a wealth of ideas—melancholy imitative entries, chromaticism, gentle wide leaps, paired triplets, a lovely passage for second violin and cello, descending gestures answered by emphatic chords, and a flowing cello passage. The concluding section, which begins like a development section, drifts into quiet contemplation with the cello in a haunting prominent role. The closing minuet swings along extrovertedly, relying on loud-soft contrasts. After a more introverted trio section, the cheerful minuet returns to round off the movement. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

February 12, 2023 – Gloria Chien, piano, Alexi Kenney, violin, Milena Pajaro-van de Stadt, viola, Mihai Marica, cello GUSTAV MAHLER (1860-1911) Piano Quartet in A minor February 12, 2023 – Gloria Chien, piano, Alexi Kenney, violin, Milena Pajaro-van de Stadt, viola, Mihai Marica, cello Schumann’s famous words about Brahms, that he had sprung “fully armed like Minerva from the head of Jove” might just as well have been uttered about Mahler, whose surviving compositions show that he apparently achieved mastery “not step by step, but at once.” Yet we now know that Brahms destroyed dozens of student works that might have offered a glimpse into his development. In Mahler’s case it seemed no such glimpse was possible until 1964, when Peter Serkin and the Galimir Quartet played what may have been the first public performance of a youthful piano quartet movement by Mahler (New York, January 12). The only surviving authenticated composition from a list of possible student compositions by Mahler, the Piano Quartet in A minor (first movement and thirty-two measures of a scherzo) was found in a folder labeled “early compositions” in Alma Mahler’s hand. The date 1876, inscribed on the title page may or may not be authentic. Beginning in the academic year 1875–76, Mahler spent three years as a student at the Vienna Conservatory, studying harmony with Robert Fuchs and composition with Franz Krenn—both conservatives in their musical orientation. Other sources of influence may have been Brahms’s Piano Quartets—Julius Epstein, Mahler’s piano teacher at the Conservatory, had helped introduce Brahms and his Quartets to the Viennese public in 1862. Mahler’s Quartet movement in A minor shows thorough knowledge of sonata form. Such knowledge is intriguing to find in light of Mahler’s more complex and less orthodox sonata-forms in later works. Of the three main themes in the exposition, the second is somewhat unusual in appearing in the home key, only moving away somewhat later, and the third, which has a closing character, exhibits harmonic instability. A tendency in Mahler’s later works to “slip” into other keys quickly rather than modulate painstakingly is already apparent in this movement. A “textbook” development section is followed by the recapitulation, which varies its presentation of exposition materials by incorporating passages from the development and reversing the order in which the second and third themes return. But perhaps the most unusual feature of the movement is the introduction of a violin cadenza just before the tranquil close. Composers throughout history have treated their student or early works with varying degrees of disdain, but would the discovery of more such works truly alter our opinion of a master’s greatness? We can at least be grateful for one glimpse into a formative stage in Mahler’s development as a composer. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

BRUNO EICHER, VIOLIN Violinist Bruno Eicher is Assistant Concertmaster of the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, which he joined in 2001, after serving for four years as Associate Concertmaster of the Atlanta Symphony and the previous four years as Assistant Concertmaster of the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra. His wide-ranging orchestral experience includes performing with the Vienna Philharmonic and State Opera orchestras, the New York Philharmonic, the Baltimore Symphony, and the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra, under the avid chamber musician, Mr. Eicher has performed extensively throughout Europe and the U.S., as well as South Korea. In New York, as a member of the MET Chamber Ensemble from 2002 to 2014, he performed regularly at Carnegie Hall. A native of Burgundy, France, Mr. Eicher is a graduate of the Paris Conservatoire where he studied with Pierre Amoyal and Jean Hubeau. In the United States, he was a student of Dorothy DeLay and Hyo Kang at the Juilliard School, from which he holds both bachelor’s and master’s degrees. In 1992, he was the 2nd prize winner of the Yehudi Menuhin International Violin Competition. He lives in Manhattan, with his wife, MET Orchestra cellist Kari Docter, and their two children. Mr Eicher plays an instrument made in 2011 by Christophe Landon, a copy of the “Circle” Stradivari.

February 20, 2022 – Danbi Um, violin; Juho Pohjonen, piano ERICH WOLFGANG KORNGOLD (1897-1957) Suite from Much Ado about Nothing, op. 11 February 20, 2022 – Danbi Um, violin; Juho Pohjonen, piano Erich Wolfgang Korngold showed an incredible gift for composition at an early age. Upon hearing him play his cantata Gold in 1907, Gustav Mahler proclaimed him a genius and recommended that he study with Alexander Zemlinsky at the Vienna Conservatory. At age eleven he composed a ballet, Der Schneemann, that so impressed Zemlinsky that the latter orchestrated and produced it at the Vienna Court Theater in 1910 to sensational acclaim. Richard Strauss was deeply impressed by Korngold’s Schauspiel Ouvertüre (1911) and Sinfonietta (1912), as was Puccini by his opera Violanta (1916). The pinnacle of Korngold’s early career came at the age of twenty-three when his opera Die tote Stadt achieved international recognition. By 1928 a poll by the Neue Wiener Tagblatt considered Korngold and Schoenberg the greatest living composers. In 1934 director Max Reinhardt took Korngold to Hollywood where the second phase of his career began. There he composed some of the finest film scores ever written—nineteen in all, including such classics as Captain Blood (1935), The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), and The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex (1939); he became Hollywood’s highest paid composer at that time. Yet he was caught between two worlds and two eras. He was criticized in some quarters for selling out to Hollywood and for ignoring modern trends in music; in Hollywood he was criticized for writing scores that were too complex. Even while immersed in the film world he periodically composed works in other genres—the Violin Concerto (1937; 1945) has remained in the repertoire and has even enjoyed a surge in popularity beginning in the 1990s. Korngold’s incidental music for Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing was composed in 1919 for a production at the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna in 1920, thus it dates from the same period as his successful Die tote Stadt. Though scored originally for chamber orchestra, Korngold arranged Much Ado for violin and piano—he himself played the piano part—when the run of performances was extended but no orchestra was available. He also fashioned several suites from the incidental music—one for violin and piano, one for orchestra, and one for solo piano. The violin and piano Suite consists of four movements. The Maiden in the Bridal Chamber, a graceful ternary-form movement, depicts Hero, the bride-to-be, on her wedding morning, happily unaware that Claudio has been tricked into doubting her fidelity. Occasional “modern” harmonies enliven the prevailing Romantic language. The second movement—Dogberry and Verges. March of the Watch—constitutes a mock serious march to accompany Shakespeare’s Dogberry, the pompous constable who comically confuses words (“comparisons are odorous”), his crony Verges, and the other men of the watch, who protect the good citizens of Messina. Sudden rhythmic shifts that throw the march off kilter add to the humorous effect. The third movement, a slow, flowing waltz with Romantic modulations and sudden key shifts, accompanies an earlier “Scene in the Garden,” in which the plot unfolds to make the play’s other couple, Beatrice and Benedick, fall in love. The two targets, in turn concealed in the bushes, overhear different conversations meant for theirs ears each describing the love of one for the other. The “Masquerade” of the fourth movement actually occurs first in the events of the play described here. The second act begins with a masked ball, which provides a wonderful opportunity for word play between the confirmed bachelor Benedick and the sharp-tongued Beatrice. Korngold’s Hornpipe is a lively dance in rondo form, with a cheerful refrain containing delightful rhythmic shifts and episodes that include folk-like drones, brief touches of minor, and even a quick descending passage in whole tones. The piece ends with an unexpected humorous tag. By Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes

October 14, 2018: Garrick Ohlsson, piano JOHANNES BRAHMS (1833-1897) Variations on a Theme by Paganini, Op. 35, Book 1 October 14, 2018: Garrick Ohlsson, piano Once Brahms had settled in Vienna he naturally developed friendships with many of the musicians there, none more surprising to his old friends Clara Schumann and Joseph Joachim than his new relationship with piano virtuoso Carl Tausig, a student and lifelong supporter of Liszt. Associated with the New German School, Liszt and Wagner were considered progressive for developing new genres (program symphony, music drama), innovative transformation of motives, and cyclic unifying procedures, in contrast to supposedly more conservative composers such as Brahms who favored “old” abstract forms. In reality many innovative procedures came out of both “camps” and there was more respect than enmity between the two. The so-called conservatives did, however, complain about the tendency of Liszt and his disciples toward flashy virtuosity without substance. Thus in 1862 Brahms found himself having to explain his friendship with Tausig to Joachim: I socialize particularly with Cornelius [another Lisztian with whom Brahms later had a falling-out] and Tausig. . . . who can doubtless accomplish more with their little finger than all the other musicians with their whole head and all of their fingers. Against this backdrop Brahms composed his Variations on a Theme of Paganini in 1862–63 and dedicated the work to Tausig, which explains the bravura display of finger-busting pyrotechnics. Clara Schumann acknowledged the myriad challenges when Brahms sent her a copy, calling them Hexenvariationen (witches’ variations), though she added, “I have started practicing them most eagerly.” Brahms himself called attention to their exploration of pianistic techniques by calling them Studien , dividing them into two books of fourteen studies each when they were first published in 1866. That he also assigned them an opus number, however, points to the fact that he considered the work concert fare. He gave the first performance from the manuscript on November 25, 1865, in Zurich. Even though the Variations may have been written for Tausig, Brahms himself was able to surmount their difficulties in the days when he was still practicing regularly. Brahms had been schooled in composing inventive variations for years with his teacher Eduard Marxsen, and no one was considered a finer master of the art. In this particular case he seems to have chosen his subject—Paganini’s Caprice No. 24, already a set of variations—to try to equal in difficulty for the piano what Paganini had done for the violin. The following are just a few of the challenges Brahms sets for the pianist: parallel sixths or thirds (Book I, nos. 1 and 2, or Book II, no. 1), independent meters in the right and left hands (Book I, no. 5, and Book II, no. 7), light rapid contrary motion (Book II, nos. 8 and 11), octave glissandos (Book I, no. 13), and octave gestures that are approached and left by wide leaps (Book I, nos. 7 and 8; Book II, no. 10). Brahms was more often interested, as one commentator put it, in “marksmanship” rather than “graspmanship.” In other words, he tended toward feats a virtuoso could show off without huge hands, though the graceful waltz of Variation 4 in Book II, for example, requires a large left-hand span. Some of the most miraculous sonorities come in quiet variations, such as the lovely filigree of Variation 12 in Book I, the feather-light arches with their impish grace notes in Variation 6 of Book II, or the cascading chains of thirds in Variation 13, Book II. Throughout Brahms constantly amazes in his ability to “make music” even while taxing the pianist’s technical abilities. The closing variation in each book is crowned by a coda that encompasses several “études.” The first book’s coda begins loudly, dips down, then regains power in the last section; the second book’s coda begins quietly as it emerges from the variation proper, then grows in volume and texture to the end. © Jane Vial Jaffe Return to Parlance Program Notes