From the point of view of one person or another I understand all my music has been a crime: “Cockaigne,” the “Coronation Ode,” and the “Imperial March.” Yes, I believe there are a good many people who have objected to them. But I like to look on the composer’s vocation as the old troubadours or bards did. In those days it was no disgrace for a man to be turned on to step in front of an army and inspire them with a song. For my part, I know that there are a lot of people who like to celebrate events with music. To these people I have given tunes. Is that wrong? Why should I write a fugue or something that won’t appeal to anyone, when the people yearn for things which can stir them? —Edward Elgar.

Edward Elgar was born at Broadheath, near Worcester, on June 2, 1857. In his early musical career, he worked as a violinist and band director, but during the 1880s his compositions began to be performed in London. It was his Enigma Variations, 1898-99, which brought Elgar to wide international acclaim, the first composer to gain such recognition in 200 years. Elgar was knighted in 1904 and appointed professor of music at Birmingham University in 1905. He went on to conduct the London Symphony in 1911-12. His wife’s death in 1920 virtually stopped his compositional output. Elgar himself died at Worcester on February 23, 1934.
Elgar’s first reference to the Introduction and Allegro, op. 47 is in an excited letter to August Jaeger, his music editor at Novello’s dated January 26, 1905: “I’m doing that string thing in time for the [London] Sym: Orch. concert. Intro: & Allegro—no working out part, but a devil of a fugue.” The subsidiary theme is in a more reflective mood. After both themes have been briefly restated, the solo viola announces the famous Welsh melody. A further appearance of the forceful opening material and a final nostalgically reflective version of the Welsh theme conclude the Introduction. The allegro follows without a break, beginning with the second idea from the Introduction, played faster and transformed from minor to major. The solo quartet then announces a new idea of tremendous forward energy and vigor, unmistakable in its rapid repeated note figuration. This builds toward a pair of climaxes, both based on the work’s opening material. Then follows the “devil of a fugue” referred to in Elgar’s letter, which despite the composer’s natural aversion to strict counterpoint, displays a breathtaking mastery of texture. After winding down with the assistance of the repeated note theme, a slightly abbreviated restatement of the Allegro’s opening material follows. This builds inexorably toward a grand final statement off the Welsh theme, followed by a lively coda.