DANCES WITH THE WINDS

Composed 1930, by Jacques Ibert (1890-1962).

Born in Paris in 1890, Jacques Ibert grew up in a musical household and showed early talent at the piano, though his father initially encouraged a more practical career. After working briefly in the family business, Ibert entered the Paris Conservatory in 1911. His training was interrupted by World War I, during which he served in a medical unit in the French Navy, for which he earned the Croix de Guerre – a medal conferred for acts of bravery. Returning to music after the war, he quickly distinguished himself by winning the prestigious Prix de Rome in 1919, France’s highest award for young artists, which provided for Ibert to further his studies in Rome for three years.

Ibert's time in Rome sparked an outpouring of creativity, with an output that included shimmering orchestral suites, operas, ballets, chamber works, and over sixty film soundtracks. Just as important were his roles in French cultural life – most notably as the first musician ever appointed director of the French Academy at the Villa Medici in Rome, a post he held (with a World War II interruption) from 1937 to 1960. Throughout his life he resisted aligning with any particular musical school, preferring clarity, independence, and expressive freedom.

Those qualities shine brightly in Divertissement, a six-movement suite drawn from Ibert’s incidental music for a 1929 staging of the classic French farce The Italian Straw Hat. True to its title – meaning “amusement” or “entertainment” – the piece is a riot of wit, elegance, and irreverent humor. The miniature overture that opens the suite gives way to a cheeky Cortège (complete with a sly quotation of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March), followed by a gentle Nocturne, and a deliciously “wrong-note” Waltz that pokes fun at other famous waltzes from the era, including Blue Danube. After a short Parade, a chaotic piano cadenza launches the Finale in a whirlwind of comic energy.

Scored for a modest orchestra, Divertissement nevertheless dazzles with brilliant color – proof of Ibert’s effortless craftsmanship and his gift for transforming even the lightest music into something irresistibly alive.

Note by Jacob Pope

Composed 1974, by Einojuhani Rautavaara (1928 - 2016)

What I find most fascinating about Einojuhani Rautavaara's evolution as a composer is his somewhat “roundabout” journey of finding his musical voice. The trend of the latter 20th-century was to write music that pushed the academic envelope; the period was heavily shaped by the idea that “serious” composers needed to engage with modernist techniques to gain respect in the field and for their work to be of value. Rautavaara felt this pressure – he clearly experimented with 12-tone serialism, aleatoric textures (music that literally depends on randomness!), and even electronic music. Long story short, from the 1960s to early 1970s, Rautavaara’s music was quite rigorous in both methodology and aesthetic.

I’ll be honest with you. As someone who didn’t quite grow up with classical music as a household staple, these sorts of modernist compositions never really appealed to my ears. Even today, after years of performing and studying music in institutional settings, my appreciation for this music seems somewhat exclusive to a scholarly lens – yes, impressive from a compositional perspective, but not always the most fun to play or listen to. The reaction of my parents when they hear me perform these pieces totally paints the picture – my dad (who’d frankly be happy hearing Star Wars music at every concert) struggles to call these sorts of pieces “music,” and my polite yet most honest mom can only sum up the guts to call them “...interesting?” I get it, mom and dad!

This is what’s so special about Rautavaara to me. By the mid-70s, I feel that he finally found himself, brave enough to embrace his most authentic artistic self. He himself admits it in an interview in 1996: “I couldn’t go on that way, on that path, because that was not the kind of music I wanted to hear.” His musical output changed dramatically, shifting from what once catered to these academic pressures to something that truly spoke to his heart, I sense. The result? Music full of the most beautifully soaring melodies, vivid orchestrations that transport any listener beyond their immediate reality, and timeless pieces that will live on beyond his recent passing in 2016.

This flute concerto is perfect testament to Rautavaara’s return to music that moves. Wish me luck as I juggle between four different flutes - “C” flute, piccolo, alto flute, and bass flute - in a piece that demands for an extraordinary variety of colors and sound palettes.

In some moments the music exhibits a primal quality, painting pictures of street songs or lousy carnival music. In other moments you might find yourself face to face with the cosmos, hearing celestial soundscapes that depict the most expansive of Nordic landscapes (I picture cold, misty mountains, vast arctic tundras, maybe even a frozen lake under Northern Lights). With sweeping gestures of naturalistic flair and sonic illustrations of monumental forces, I find myself wondering if Rautavaara’s curiosity for spirituality and his “taste for the infinite” seep through this haunting piece of music… all that said, I am grateful for this absolute treasure of a piece and excited for you all to hear it today.

I leave you with the most beautiful sentiment from Rautavaara himself:

“It is my belief that music is great if, at some moment, the listener catches a glimpse of eternity through the window of time… This, to my mind, is the only true justification for art. All else is of secondary importance.”

Note by the soloist, Arin Sarkissian

Composed 1806–7, by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770 - 1827)

Beethoven’s Fourth symphony is the middle child: often overlooked between its attention-hogging siblings, the revolutionary Third and the fate-obsessed Fifth, but brilliant in its own right. It doesn’t demand the spotlight. It earns admiration with wit, sparkle and the kind of confidence necessary for anyone who grew up around loud brothers. Ironically, it also has the misfortune of sharing its era with several formidable “cousins”: the Appassionata Piano Sonata, the three Razumovsky String Quartets, Fidelio, Piano Concerto No. 4, and the Violin Concerto. And so, the Fourth sits quietly and waits.

The premiere was a private house concert in Vienna, March 1807. The first public performance was a year later in April at the Burgtheater. Beethoven started composing the symphony in 1806 after meeting Count Franz von Oppersdorff, a Silesian nobleman who commissioned it for 500 florins. At the time, Beethoven was staying at the estate of Prince Lichnowsky. Although Beethoven had already begun sketching ideas for what would become the Fifth, he set that aside for this project, writing the Fourth even though he had a dramatic falling out with Lichnowsky. The story goes (an anecdote recounted by Beethoven’s friend Ferdinand Ries) that when Lichnowsky requested Beethoven to improvise for French soldiers, Beethoven reportedly stormed out of the palace, smashing a bust in the process.

Regardless of broken statues, there is still drama in the Fourth, just not the monumental drama we have come to associate with Beethoven. He embraces a more Classical poise: a smaller orchestra relatively speaking and an economical 30-plus minutes rather than an epic hour. And within a Classical frame he introduces subtle surprises, like the atmospheric slow introduction, which wanders through minor harmonies before jumping into a lively Allegro as well as a tiny, ingenious motif. Listen for a short three-note figure built around a leap of a third.

The movement you should take special note of is the Adagio, one of the most tender slow movements in all of Beethoven’s symphonic output. It’s possible that it reflects his emotional state at the time. Around 1805–1807, Beethoven was deeply in love with Josephine Brunsvik, and as surviving letters reveal, the relationship seemed to awaken a gentler, more romantic side.

The Menuetto (marked Allegro vivace) features playful, cat-and-mouse exchanges between woodwinds and strings, built around a mischievous theme. The contrasting trio highlights charming woodwind solos.

The finale is a spirited, high-speed romp. It opens with a dazzling perpetual-motion violin theme. Building to a vigorous climax, Beethoven caps the symphony with humorous touches before racing to its close.

Although the Fourth has sometimes been misunderstood and overshadowed, champions such as Schumann, Mendelssohn, and Berlioz recognized its elegance. Schumann famously called it a “slender Greek maiden between two Norse giants.” Berlioz wrote, “The general character of this score is either lively, alert, and gay, or of a celestial sweetness.”

The Fourth is balance, humor, and invention. And in true middle-child fashion, it waits patiently, knowing that once you finally notice it, you will wonder how you ever overlooked it.

Note by Pam Chaddon