Our program features music that derives from a vocal impulse:

Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet is so named, as it pays homage—in its central movement of theme and variations– to his previously-written and highly popular song about a fish. Francine Trester’s new work is based on text by children and teachers at schools funded by Communities Without Borders in Zambia. And, in Robert Schumann’s 2^nd piano trio, the composer bases the second theme of his first movement on one of his earlier love songs to his wife Clara.

 

 Piano Quintet in A Major, D.667 (1819)      Franz Schubert    

Anselm Hüttenbrenner, one of Schubert’s regular drinking partners, loved to tell the story of the night he invited the composer over to share some bottles of Szekszárd, a Hungarian red wine he had received as a gift.  They drained the wine to the last drop, he said, and then Schubert sat down and composed the wonderfully lovely song, Die Forelle [“The Trout”], from which this famous piano quintet takes its name.  Schubert even dated the manuscript “at 12 o’clock at night,” to pinpoint the moment that yet another song poured forth as freely as wine.  That was on Feb. 11, 1818. In fact, Schubert had composed Die Forelle early in 1817; he was merely writing it out from memory for his dear friend that night a year later, under the beneficial influence of the blood-red Kadarka grape, and he was probably far too giddy to worry about fraud.  For many years, Schubert’s reputation rested on such anecdotes, which created an abiding image of him as a good sport who composed music quickly and without effort.  Hüttenbrenner apparently was not even suspicious when Schubert appeared to compose Die Forelle off the top of his head, without once stopping to change a note, in handwriting as clean and legible as possible after several bottles of Szekszárd.

It has taken musicians some time to recognize that Schubert’s beguiling natural voice was the result of serious study, hard work, vision and the kind of inner struggle we associate with his Viennese contemporary, Beethoven.  Even Robert Schumann, who understood the true depth of Schubert’s genius better than anyone else at the time, once described him as a “guileless child romping among giants.”  Both the song Die Forelle, which reveals Schubert’s most playful side, and the great piano quintet, which treats the Forelle theme to a magnificent set of variations, have only perpetuated this image over the decades, for these two have long been among Schubert’s most popular works.

The song itself, a setting of a commonplace poem by Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart, is one of Schubert’s most felicitous creations. It was probably composed early in 1817 — Schubert was just 20 years old — although the exact timing can’t be determined because the first draft is lost. The years 1815 to 1817 are the heyday of Schubert’s songwriting; more than 300 songs can be dated to that three-year outpouring alone, and 1817, although responsible for fewer works than the previous two years, produced some of his greatest songs, including An die Musik and Der Tod und Das Mädchen [“Death and the Maiden”]. Die Forelle, a delightful song in three stanzas, with the third unexpectedly different from the first two, quickly became a favorite, and to meet the unusual demand, Schubert made several copies of the song, each time changing details ever so slightly. (He fussed in particular with how it begins and ends; the familiar opening piano figuration as we know it appears in only one version.) This was one of his best-loved songs almost from the start, and it remains so today.

Die Forelle, however, went on to even greater popularity once it became the anchor of a new piece of chamber music composed two years later. Schubert and his friend Josef Vogl spent the summer of 1819 in the town of Steyr, nestled in the “inconceivably lovely” countryside some 90 miles west of Vienna. There they met Sylvester Paumgartner, a rich merchant and enthusiastic cellist with more money than talent. His large home included a well-stocked music library, a music room on the first floor, and a grand performing salon upstairs. He told Schubert that he loved Die Forelle and commissioned him to write a chamber work that incorporated a set of variations on the tune.

Die Forelle is the basis for just a single movement of the quintet, yet the naturalness of its lyrical effusion and the pictorial quality of the accompanying figures — as well as the sheer joy it communicates about the very process of making music — has infected the entire composition. The Trout Quintet represents Schubert at his most natural, unaffected and carefree. In fact, this is truly music of Schubert’s innocence, before he contracted syphilis, probably late in 1822, and began to see life, and therefore music, in a darker and more complex light.

Schubert writes not four movements, as convention dictate, but five: an exploratory sonata-form movement, a songlike andante, a dazzling scherzo, and the requested set of variations on Die Forelle slipped in just before the rollicking finale. Schubert used to be faulted for writing sonata-form movements that were so different from those by Mozart or Beethoven — Schubert’s start developing things before the so-called development section and play fast and loose with the common key scheme. In time, he has been more rightly understood as one of the earliest and boldest of the great romantic innovators, breaking with classical procedures again and again in favor of brazen harmonic license and freedom of form.

Not one of Schubert’s five movements is quite textbook standard, because Schubert was working with harmonic colors he loved — the very opening of the first movement slips unconventionally from A major to F major and back again — and developing long forms built as much on the narrative power of extended melody as on classical harmonic tension. Schubert is one of music’s greatest storytellers, and melody is his voice — unforgettable and innately compelling, drawing us in and leading us on, in a way known to few composers.

In the fourth-movement set of variations on “Die Forelle,” Schubert dissects his little song and finds in it a world of ideas to investigate. With his born sense of development — not in the strict classical meaning, but as a freewheeling process of exploration and invention — he manages to make great things of even the tiniest detail, such as the piano’s bubbling arpeggios, originally written to depict the darting fish and the sparkling waters in the poem by Schubart, whose name would soon no longer be confused with Schubert’s.

Notes by Phillip Huscher

 

“Sekelela (Rejoice)”, 2018        Francine Trester

“Sekelela (Rejoice)” and the five poems you have in today’s program are based on the writings of Zambian students and teachers who have benefited from the work of Communities Without Borders. I encountered their writing through “Sekelela Magazine,” “Living Hope Magazine,” and captions students had written to accompany photos they had taken of their teachers and peers. At turns funny, sad, and beautiful, these quotes had an immediacy that resonated deeply. They are specific to circumstance and universal at once, united by the common thread of hope.

The quotes are based on the writings of: Sarah Ngoma, Jennifer Lungu, Farai Mweetwa, Kaumbi Always, and Patrick Zulu along with students of the Living Hope Foundation – Francine Trester, 2019

I.

I saw a little girl
Who was trying to hold,
Trying to hold
A pencil

She was trying to read
Trying to read
And write
But she didn’t know how

For children to progress
They must know how
How to read
And write

How to hold a pencil
The alphabet
From A to Z…

I’ve been giving
Extra lessons
Vowels and phonetics
Correct pronunciation

And one thing…
One thing we do here
Is share the same love
Joy, peace
Care for all

How to hold a pencil
How to read and write
How to hold
How to hold
Hold…

II.

“Sometimes I feel
Like I should give up on school
Do other things…”

I told her
These things do happen
But they are not the end of the world

Sekelela will offer you
And your sisters
All you need in education
Bring them here
So they can be in class

From now on
You need to be free
Express yourself to me
Or your other teachers

Now she’s in 8th grade,
In 8th grade now
She became
Free

III.

What we need:

Electricity
Salaries
Five more classrooms
A library
Computers
Water
Books
Enough food
Proper kitchen
Water
Enough Water

Our bore hole dries up
Mostly after rain,
After the rainy season

For this reason
Our school
Has failed
To have a garden 

IV.

This photo shows the style
Of a very real and assertive kid
Real and assertive
Look at two fingers
And the way they are pointing
At the camera
The lady’s eyes
And a smile
LOL…

V.

This photo reminds me of nature
And wherever I am
I am reminded of nature
I am reminded of God
The Creator
Of Heaven
And Earth 

 

Piano Trio #2 in F Major, Op. 80  (1847)        Robert Schumann (1810-1856)

Although not as enigmatically idiosyncratic as his earlier piano music, Schumann’s chamber music—most of which dates from 1842—nevertheless bears the stamp of his highly original, emotionally- charged musical spirit. His first essay for piano trio, a set of four vignettes called Fantasy Pieces, Op. 88, was written during that year—but bears a higher opus number than the D minor and F Major trios, perhaps because of a later publication date.  Although they are lovely and full of character, Schumann’s use of his instrumental resources is rather limited: he treats the strings more as doublings of the piano’s lines than as independent voices in their own right.

Of the three major works for this ensemble which followed, the first two were written in rapid succession: the Piano Trio in D minor, Op. 63, during the summer of 1847, perhaps stimulated competitively by the recent completion of his wife Clara’s Piano Trio in G minor; and the F Major Trio was soon to follow suit. Another factor that may have led to his interest in writing a piano trio at this time was his immersion, in 1845, in contrapuntal study, which gave him the confidence to write more vivid and intricate part-writing.

The second of Schumann’s two 1847 piano trios could hardly be more different from trio #1. As opposed to the tumultuous and impassioned D minor Trio, the F major Trio is ebullient and filled with confident energy. It is a work which, as the composer himself said, ‘makes a friendlier and more immediate impression’. Once again Schumann demonstrates his mastery of “Witz”: the principle at work in the novels of the contemporary German novelist Jean Paul Richter—the subliminal referents that bind seemingly disparate elements together, or the idea of unity in diversity.  For example,  the opening movement’s gentle second subject, although it sounds utterly new, is actually a rhythmically varied version of the highly energetic main theme.  A staccato idea in the piano which follows it, with strategically -placed accents highlighting a sequence of descending thirds, will provide the basis for some intensely contrapuntal arguments in the development section; but before it can do so, Schumann introduces a broad new melody — an unmistakable self-quotation from his song Dein Bildnis wunderselig, from the Eichendorff Liederkreis, Op 39. The melody arises out of an important subsidiary motif which bridges the movement’s two main themes, and Schumann points up the relationship between the two ideas much later on, in the coda. Here, in its first appearance at the cusp between the exposition and development—a point of least dramatic tension– this melodic fragment serves as a moment outside of the time-frame of the piece—a memory, a dream or a love letter  “in a bottle” to his beloved Clara, as he was wont to send to her in his music through symbolic reference to bits of his or her musical thoughts. It then serves as the basis for much of the development section’s contrapuntal activity, almost as a musical metaphor for the act of working psychically through his thoughts and feelings of her. Then, at the end of the piece, this tune resurfaces and through a remarkably inspired stroke, Schumann has the music enact a kind of break-through process. Vertiginous, metrically unhinged bits of theme, spin in a convolution of activity until the ‘Dein Bildnis’ theme emerges from the depths of inwardness, in a vibrant canon between piano and strings, for an ecstatic vision of Dream actually becoming Reality!

Leaving the first movement’s earthbound key of F Major to begin the slow movement in the remote key of D-flat Major enhances the dreamy, otherworldly atmosphere of this tender love song. The actual directionality of the melodic lines—violin wafting down; cello and piano striving upward—suggest viscerally a yearning and reaching toward each other.  This sense of striving exists also on the harmonic plane: the only arrival on the home key is realized virtually toward the end– within the last few lines of the movement.

No less song-like than the opening movement’s Eichendorff quotation, and most likely inspired by its melodic profile,  is the melody, first unfurled by the violin in the opening measures. The cello and the piano are nevertheless equally significant here, for they play a long-sustained canon with each other; furthermore, the chromatically rising phrase with which the canon begins, is one that will assume great importance in the future progress of the piece. Like Schumann’s idol, Beethoven, in his late works, and no doubt influenced by the novels of Jean Paul Richter, Schumann’s literary inspiration, here we have a remarkable musical journey inward. Schumann conjures different qualities and senses of time and memory, and dares to evoke the complex vagaries of psychic processes. An analysis of the craft here can easily illuminate the many motivic connections and obvious repetitions that abound; but, the aural experience is one of a deeply-felt organic process rather than an intellectual realization. The music asks a question early on in this movement, which remains unanswered  until, finally, near the end, when the question returns, we sense that the musical elements are now patiently listening to each other, hearts open to each other,  and the answer comes as a blessing.

The third movement is a kind of melancholy ländler based on the sighing, descending 5^th  interval identified by Robert in many of his pieces as the “Clara” motif.  At the outset, Schumann  artfully presents the theme as a canon in varied instrumental combinations: first, piano/cello, then violin/cello, and piano/ violin. According to the composer: “the best fugue will always be the one that the public takes  for a Strauss waltz; in other words, where the artistic roots are covered as are those of a flower, so that we only perceive the blossom”. Here,  the contrapuntal writing, conspiring with the minor mode and the sighing gesture, suggest unfulfilled yearning, as the voices reach toward each other, but are,  sadly, out of sync with each other. The rising figuration of the more flowing and hopeful middle section is taken over into the first half of the reprise, before a coda binds the two parts of the piece together and gives a brief foreshadowing of the last movement.

The finale ushers us into a return of the opening movement’s ebullient, fun-loving, rhythmically robust and vivid character. The entire movement draws its material from the three main constituents of its opening theme: the sinuous legato phrases with which the piano launches the piece; the staccato idea with which the cello responds, and will provide the basis for some close-knit imitative writing later on, when troubling thoughts again emerge; and the first assertive phrase on the violin, which returns to form an important secondary theme. It is as if the music as protagonist, after the ruminations and sadness of the second and third movement,  is now “trying on” the possibility of being “in the moment”—does it dare to be jovial and fun-loving again? We sense the alternation of confidence and self-doubt; and the working through of these contradictory states, finally gives rise and release to a hard-won, “over-the-top” exhilaration.

Notes by Lois Shapiro

Celebrating the Radiance, Wit and Humanity of Mozart’s Music

Benefit Concerts for CWB featuring
The Triple Helix Piano Trio
and special guest violist, Min Choi
Ann Moss, soprano
Orchestra Without Borders, Luca Antonucci, conductor

The musicians who organized our two concerts wanted to make the following notes available to those who attend.  Many thanks to Lois Shapiro and Luca Antonucci for these notes, which add richness to our understanding of this beautiful music.

NOTES ON THE PROGRAM

Ernest Ludwig Gerber, a mid-18th century writer and musician, could well have been describing the effect of Mozart’s music on the receptive ear when he wrote:

“whoever makes men happy, also makes them better; and whoever makes them better is their benefactor.”

Piano Trio in C Major, K. 548 

The summer of 1788 was a particularly fruitful one for Mozart. Despite acute financial distress, the death of his 6-month-old daughter Theresia, and the necessity of moving into cheaper lodgings in Vienna, he composed a series of major works in the space of just three months. These included the piano Sonata. K.545, his last three symphonies (Nos. 39-41), and two piano trios: the bold and jubilant C Major Trio, K. 548, and the sublimely radiant E Major Trio, K. 542.

Earlier piano trios belonged firmly in the tradition of keyboard sonatas with “ad lib” accompaniment of violin or flute, and occasionally, cello. Written for amateurs, the technical demands were intentionally minimized, and the music was simple, melodic, relentlessly diatonic and homophonic. In musical conversation of this sort, there was little to say, but the saying of it had to be polite and charming. 

Mozart completed six piano trios for violin, cello and piano, of which five are mature works dating from the last ten years of his life.  Despite a general consensus that these works are of lesser weight than his works in many other genres, there is no doubt that in Mozart’s hands the piano trio was indeed transformed.

Mozart wrote his C Major piano trio in July of 1788, between the symphonies in E flat major (No. 39) and G minor (No. 40). As usual with Mozart, the trio is conceived as a kind of scena, or opera scene composed for instruments. The opening orchestral fanfare would seem to prepare some kind of grand gesture, but–much to our delight and surprise–it is, instead, followed by a puckish Pappageno-like tune in the piano which sets the tone for a high-spirited romp in the comic vein. In addition to the charm of the tunes themselves, part of the wit of this music derives from Mozart’s re-interpretation of function and character, giving musical motives an entirely new significance by placing them in another context. When the opening fanfare returns as a closing gesture, for instance, the very phrase that seemed to embody some kind of absolute Will now seems questioning and vulnerable. Such continual and subtle changes of musical character stem from Mozart’s abiding fascination with the variegated hues of human experience, which led him continually and deftly to modulate the prevailing mood, creating an atmosphere of pathos and self-doubt in the development section, before– with the subtlest of chromatic touches– good spirits are restored for the recapitulation.

The andante cantabile is a marvel of vocal writing, for all three instruments, imbued with a fragile tenderness and directness of expression that masks the intellectual complexity of its form. In the outer sections, the musical dialogue–particularly the exchange between piano and cello–suggests a model for human interactions of the “I, thou” variety: each picks up on the other’s message and responds in a loving and considered fashion. The development takes a surprising harmonic turn as the strings appropriate the piano’s opening music for the first time. The ensuing heated discussion amongst the instruments finds Mozart using the formal process of a development section in the service of an interpersonal drama. Mozart’s uncanny ability to write music which mirrors real life is manifest in the nature of these exchanges. 

Rather than the facile, pro forma “resolution” one might expect, he gives the music a kind of quite climactic “moment of truth” just before the return of the opening material. Here, an obstinate note that seemed to stand for a stolid insistence on a point of view, resulting in a sense of alienation, is seen in a kind of “new light” of commonality, and the tonic note of an A Major chord relinquishes its self-concept as a dominant of D, and finds a home in the F Major opening harmony after all. With this turning point, Mozart seems to be inviting us to look at those “stuck places” in a new way, and discover some new, latent possibility that allows for reconciliation or transformation.

The third movement’s rondo theme brings to mind Ravel’s characterization of Mozart’s genius as “the unity of symmetry and surprise.” It begins like the setup to a joke whose punchline we assume we can readily predict, given the four opening thematic bars of generic classical-period theme that seem to suggest a “square” response. However, its continuation Mozart endows with piquant charm, subverting our expectations with surprising accents and flourishes–all in a masterfully subtle way, in which simplicity belies inner complexity.  You are invited to enjoy many moments of Mozart’s masterful wit–e.g., when the strings vs. piano “argue” about when “enough is enough” –as they continually interrupt each other’s attempt to achieve a final cadence. 

– Lois Shapiro

Concert Aria “Ch’io mi scordi di te?” K. 505

Known as the greatest of the concert arias he ever wrote, Mozart composed “Ch’io mi scordi di te?” in 1786 for the farewell concert of the Anglo-Italian soprano, Nancy Storace, who created the role of Susanna in his Le Nozze di Figaro. The prominent piano part was written for Mozart himself to play.  His concert arias, modeled after Italian opera and the libretti of Pietro Metastasio, consisted of a recitative followed by an aria in which the dramatic flow mirrors the psychological unfolding.

The text of this aria was taken, in part, from a revised version of his 1781 opera Idomeneo, based on the Trojan War and its aftermath. At the beginning of Act II, the captive Trojan princess, Illia, begs Idamante—son of the Cretan King Idomeneo who has fought alongside Agamemnon to reclaim the kidnapped Helen—to forget her in favor of Elettra, the woman his father has chosen for him. In the ensuing aria, Idamante refuses, proclaiming his steadfast love for Illia, and expressing his anguish and frustration over the untenable situation in which he finds himself.

If the role of Idamante in Idomeneo is played by a man, WHY would Mozart choose this particular text as the basis for a special concert aria for a woman? Even taking into account the not-uncommon 18^th century practice of having a female play a heroic man’s role, can we find any suggestion of evidence in the work itself, and in the circumstances surrounding it, to make sense of this choice?

Nancy Storace was obviously someone dear to Mozart’s heart.  Later writers alleged that the couple was romantically involved. Although this cannot be substantiated, it does seem true, in the words of the eminent musicologist Alfred Einstein, that this aria represented “the transfiguration of a relationship that could not be realized except in this ideal sphere.” It is no wonder that Nancy’s imminent departure from Vienna would evoke from Mozart a strong emotional response which he would then so touchingly express in K.505!

The piano functions as a second voice here, thus providing a unique link between Mozart’s great piano concerti and his operas. Entering at the beginning of the love duet, after the recitative—during which the singer is alone with the empathic orchestra, giving instrumental representation to Idamante’s expression of horror and grief at the mere suggestion of abandoning his beloved Illia for another woman, to satisfy his father—the piano pours forth the initial statement of tender love, with simplicity and eloquence. Mozart presents here a physical and spiritual closeness; the piano line is often literally intertwined suggestively with the vocal line, as if in intimate embrace—a perfect musical metaphor for attunement.

– Lois Shapiro

  

Concert Aria (Words and translation)

Ch’io mi scordi di te?

Che a lui mi doni puoi consigliarmi?    

E puoi voler ch’io viva?

Ah no, sarebbe il viver mio

Di morte assai peggior!

Venga la morte!

Intrepida l’attendo,

Ma, ch’io possa struggermi ad altra face,

Ad altr’oggetto donar gl’affetti miei,

Come tentarlo?    

Ah! Di dolor, morei!    

Non temer, amato bene,

Per te sempre, il cor sarà.

Pìu non reggo a tante pene,

L’alma mia mancando va…

Tu sospiri? O duol funesto!    

Pensa almen che istante è questo!    

Non mi posso, oh Dio! Spiegar

Stelle barbare, stele spietate!

Perché mai tanto rigor?        

Alme belle, che vedete        

Le mie pene in tal momento,        

Dite voi s’egual tormento        

Può soffrir un fido cor?

——

To forget you?

To give myself to him is your advice?

And then you expect me to live?    

Ah, no. Such an existence

Would be worse than death!

If death comes,

I shall face it with courage.

But to be kindled by another flame,

to give my heart to another man,

how could I do that?

Ah, I should die of grief.

Do not fear, beloved,

My heart will always be yours.

I can bear such pain no longer,

my soul grows sick and faint.

You sigh? Oh, what anguish!

Think how significant this moment is!

I cannot, dear God, express it..

Cruel, pitiless stars!

Why are you so harsh?

Tender souls, who perceive

my present suffering,

tell me if such torment

can be borne by a faithful heart..

 -Lois Shapiro and Sarah Pelletier

Divertimento in D Major, K. 136 (“Salzburg Symphony No. 1”)

Mozart was a mere sixteen years old when he penned his Divertimento in D Major, K. 136 in 1772 after returning from a concert tour of Italy with his father Leopold. The young Mozart was already an accomplished virtuoso performer, and his set of three Divertimenti K. 136-138, known affectionately as the “Salzburg Symphonies,” show compositional finesse far beyond his tender years. Cast in the customary three movements of the early Symphonies, the Divertimento in D was originally written without an independent contrabass part and can therefore be performed by a string quartet or a string orchestra. The designation Divertimento refers to a piece that is light in character and intended to divert or entertain; modeled after the Symphonies of Italian composers such as Sammartini and Padre Martini, K. 136 is full of wit, radiance, and good spirits, though–much like the C Major Trio–it also has its darker moments. 

The Divertimento opens with a strong tutti passage that evokes the premiere coup d’archet common to early Classical symphonies, and the exposition that follows features brilliant passagework and playful antiphonal writing between the violins. Unlike many of early symphonies, whose development sections are short and limited in their harmonic and melodic interest, the allegro here shows an extended development section that makes several forays into minor keys. One of its more striking moments includes a passage in the parallel key of D minor that features a slowly-unfolding melody high in the first violins.  above a bed of murmuring second violins and pizzicato lower strings, creating an atmosphere of mystery and suspense that is operatic in its drama. After the grandeur of the opening theme, the movement’s close seems almost cheeky, with a little wriggling gesture that recedes into the distance like a wink and a wave.

Where the first movement is energetic and declamatory, the andante is all graceful tranquility. Cast in a moderate triple meter, this movement evokes a stately minuet. Indeed, the instruments of the orchestra seem to dance with each other, first the violins as a pair opposite the lower strings, and later, the second violins and violas playing together over a gently revolving bassline, with the first violins spinning out a delicate thread of melody high overhead. A short developmental interlude features beautiful arioso writing for the first violin above a gently rippling Alberti bass, before the opening returns with its mood of serenity, infused at the ends of phrases with expressive appoggiaturas like wistful sighs. 

The presto finale shows a young Mozart at his most ebullient. Both first and second violin parts are full of musical acrobatics, and the sudden dynamic changes — from piano to forte and back again — leaven the seeming regularity of the music, keeping us guessing. As in the trio, one hears clearly Ravel’s “unity of symmetry -Luca Antonucci

Piano Quartet in G minor, K. 478 (1785)                                     

While Mozart’s colleagues and associates recognized him as a risk-taker who excelled in the exploration of “difficult” musical ideas, even his father Leopold encouraged his son to keep the desires of his public in mind and write “easier” music. While writing this piece, his first piano quartet, the younger Mozart decided to forge new musical territory, and his commercial aspirations for the piece paid the price. The early critics of this work, realizing how unusual it was, deemed it more of a curiosity than a crowd-pleaser. 

Indeed, it was the popular failure of this piece that led to his publisher’s 1786 withdrawal from a contract for two more quartets. But the problem lay not with the quality of Mozart’s work per se; rather, the issue seemed to have been the quartet’s sheer novelty. Compounding the quartet’s defiance of conventional expectations was Mozart’s refusal to compromise his writing to suit the tastes and abilities of an amateur clientele, for whom the work was supposedly written. Instead of the lightness and humor of his other chamber works–including the Trio and Divertimento on tonight’s program–Mozart chose for his G minor quartet a tone of gravitas. In addition to this unexpected seriousness, Mozart’s use of irregular phrases likely jarred early audiences, who preferred their chamber music regular and symmetrical. Thus ill-suited to the audiences for which it was intended, the work was often poorly performed. No wonder contemporary critics found themselves stymied in the efforts to assess the music!

Fortunately, subsequent generations have vindicated Mozart’s boldness, with critics unanimously proclaiming the G-minor piano quartet a masterwork by any standard. In 1956, Hans Keller wrote that the Quartet “furnishes conclusive proof, more than any other single masterpiece of his, that Mozart’s was the only true omniscient ear of which we know.”

For Mozart, the key of G minor reflected a somber mood, and a quality of existential angst somewhat similar to Beethoven’s C-minor works. Mozart’s two minor-key symphonies (No. 25 and No. 40) are also both in G minor, and both recall the Sturm und Drang passion of Haydn’s middle period. The bold, passionate, and at times even threatening first movement of this piece is symphonic in emotional range and written in a grand-scale manner not normally found in Mozart’s chamber music. At the outset, the instrumental writing also evokes the groundbreaking writing for piano and strings of his piano concerti. By setting the piano — as musical protagonist — against the tutti strings — representing the surrounding society — Mozart creates a metaphor for a vast range of complex human interactions every bit as compelling as those enacted in his operas. 

The opening is pregnant with suspense as the strings confront the piano with a stark unison proclamation of the movement’s emblematic, obsessive motif. We feel the individual met head-on by an intransigent force, and we are strongly drawn into a drama in which each is affected and changed by the other in remarkable and unexpected ways.

The andante that follows is built on a vocally conceived melody in the relative major key of B-flat, overflowing with tenderness and lyricism. Following the violence and desperation of the first movement, it is a kind of soothing balm, attempting to assuage the pain wrought in the unfolding of the preceding drama by capturing the fragility of a yearned-for moment of peace.

Then, after Mozart has dispelled the tensions and troubles of the first movement with that exquisite and songful middle one, he brings us the sublimely witty rondo finale, whose joyous vitality is truly captivating. Here, in the Quartet’s last movement, Mozart’s fecund melodic invention operates at full tilt as he unfurls an abundance of jovial themes. These include one, in the middle of the movement, that was borrowed from J. C. Bach, and another that would see repeated use in his Rondo for Piano in D, K. 485. There is a pseudo “tempest in a teapot” in the mock-serious argument between the strings, as a group, and the piano; but this is, after all, Mozart—the supreme master of comic opera—and so ultimately, everyone must kiss and make up, bringing the work to its delightful and life-affirming conclusion.        

 – Lois Shapiro