Robert Blocker, Dean
oneppo chamber music series
Brentano String Quartet
David Shifrin, Artistic Director Tuesday, April 10, 2018 • 7:30 pm Morse Recital Hall
Oneppo Chamber Music Series
Brentano String Quartet mark steinberg, violin • serena canin, violin misha amory, viola • nina lee, cello Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart 1756–1791
Dmitri Shostakovich 1906–1975
String Quartet No. 19 in C major, K. 465, “Dissonance” I. Adagio – Allegro II. Andante cantabile III. Menuetto and Trio. Allegro IV. Allegro molto String Quartet No. 12 in D-flat major, Op. 133 I. Moderato II. Allegretto – Adagio – Allegretto intermission
Ludwig van Beethoven 1770–1827
String Quartet in C minor, Op. 18, No. 4 I. Allegro ma non tanto II. Andante scherzoso quasi Allegretto III. Menuetto. Allegretto IV. Allegretto
As a courtesy to the performers and audience, silence electronic devices. Please do not leave the hall during selections. Photography or recording of any kind is prohibited.
Artist Profile
Since its inception in 1992, the Brentano String Quartet has appeared throughout the world to popular and critical acclaim. “Passionate, uninhibited and spellbinding,” raves The Independent (London); The New York Times extols its “luxuriously warm sound [and] yearning lyricism;” the Philadelphia Inquirer praises its “seemingly infallible instincts for finding the center of gravity in every phrase and musical gesture;” and The Times (London) opines, “the Brentanos are a magnificent string quartet… This was wonderful, selfless music-making.” Within a few years of its formation, the quartet garnered the first Cleveland Quartet Award and the Naumburg Chamber Music Award; and in 1996 the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center invited them to be the inaugural members of Chamber Music Society Two, a program which was to become a coveted distinction for chamber groups and individuals. The quartet embarked on its first European tour in 1997 and was honored in the United Kingdom with the Royal Philharmonic Award for Most Outstanding Debut. That debut recital was at London’s Wigmore Hall, and the quartet has continued its warm relationship with the Wigmore, appearing there regularly and serving as the hall’s quartet-in-residence during the 2000–2001 season. In recent seasons the quartet has traveled widely, appearing all over the United States and Canada, and in Europe, Japan, and Australia. It has performed in the world’s most prestigious venues, including Carnegie Hall and Alice Tully Hall in New York; the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C.; the Royal Concertgebouw in Amsterdam; the Konzerthaus in Vienna; Suntory Hall
in Tokyo; and the Sydney Opera House. The quartet has participated in summer festivals such as Aspen, the Music Academy of the West in Santa Barbara, the Edinburgh Festival, the Kuhmo Festival in Finland, the Taos School of Music, and the Caramoor Festival. In addition to performing the entire twocentury range of the standard quartet repertoire, the Brentano String Quartet has a strong interest in both very old and very new music. It has performed many musical works that pre-date the string quartet as a medium, among them the madrigals of Gesualdo, fantasias of Purcell, and secular vocal works of Josquin. Also, the quartet has worked closely with some of the most important composers of our time, among them Elliott Carter, Charles Wuorinen, Chou Wen-chung, Steven Mackey, Bruce Adolphe, and György Kurtág. The quartet has commissioned works from Wuorinen, Adolphe, Mackey, David Horne, and Gabriela Frank. The quartet celebrated its tenth anniversary in 2002 by commissioning ten composers to write companion pieces for selections from Bach’s The Art of the Fugue, the result of which was an electrifying and wide-ranging single concert program. The quartet has also worked with the celebrated poet Mark Strand, commissioning poetry from him to accompany works by Haydn and Webern. The quartet has been privileged to collaborate with such artists as soprano Jessye Norman, mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato, pianist Richard Goode, and pianist Mitsuko Uchida. In 2015–2016, the quartet collaborated with pianist Jonathan Biss on a project centered around late works of great composers.
Artist Profile • notes on the program
The quartet has recorded the Op. 71 wolfgang amadeus mozart Quartets of Haydn and has recorded a String Quartet No. 19 in C major, K. 465, Mozart disc for Aeon Records consisting “Dissonance” of the K. 464 Quartet and the K. 593 Quintet, with violist Hsin-Yun Huang. To enter into the opening of Mozart’s In 2010–2012, the quartet recorded all of String Quartet in C major, K. 465, is to Beethoven’s late quartets, which were also come upon a Beckett landscape, barren released on Aeon. In the area of newer and austere, alone with the pulsating music, the quartet has released a disc of background radiation of the cosmos. the music of Steven Mackey on Albany Lonely voice upon lonely voice happen Records and has also recorded the music upon the scene, foreign visitors, and they of Bruce Adolphe, Chou Wen-Chung, clash, yearn toward resolution and are and Charles Wuorinen. Upcoming rethwarted. This is the famous opening leases include a recording of Schubert’s which earns the piece the nickname Cello Quintet, recorded at Amherst with “Dissonance.” Mozart dedicated the set Michael Kannen. of six quartets from which this hails to Haydn, whose brilliant and groundbreaking In 1998, cellist Nina Lee joined the quartet, Op. 33 quartets Mozart had just studied. succeeding founding member Michael Haydn was deeply impressed by the Kannen. The following season, the quartet composer 24 years his junior, making his became the first ensemble-in-residence at famous declaration to Mozart’s father Princeton University, where its members “Before God, and as an honest man, I tell taught and performed for fifteen years. you that your son is the greatest composer In the fall of 2014, the quartet became the known to me either in person or by name. resident string quartet at the Yale School He has taste, and, what is more, the most of Music, succeeding the Tokyo String profound knowledge of composition.” Yet Quartet in that position. At Yale, the he remained a bit flummoxed by this Brentano String Quartet performs in opening, saying only “if Mozart wrote it concert each semester and works closely he must have meant it.” This from the with students in chamber music contexts. composer who, later on, would make a musical depiction of Chaos resolved into The quartet is named for Antonie Brentano, blinding C major light in The Creation. whom many scholars consider to be Mozart’s upper lines here individually Beethoven’s “Immortal Beloved,” the outline a turn, the most innocent ornaintended recipient of his famous love mental figure of the time, but slowed confession. down so as to be unrecognizable as such, the familiar stretched in the fun house » brentanoquartet.com mirror. Not only is the harmony unstable, but the organization of the pulse as well, time that floats rather than flows. The first violin reaches upward and at the moment of arrival the foundation drops away and the alienated searching begins
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anew. The upward reaches, unfulfilled all, continue through the introduction. And then, in the face of existential crisis, Mozart chooses to look to the horizon rather than at his own navel. At the appearance of the Allegro main part of the movement the ominous pulsation of the opening levitates, liberated from the cello that tolled forth the prophecy of darkness. The melodic line again reaches upward and this time overleaps its landing point in order to sigh down into it, discovering its destiny only when shedding the necessity of climbing directly to it. Henceforth only the memory of shadows dares to shade the proceedings. The Andante begins as a song spun from warmth and contentment. Once the singing has found temporary completion, the first violin and cello begin an exchange of tenderly questioning glances, privately musing, a wordless expression of wonder. Underlying this is a pulsation reminiscent of those in the first movement, now a marker of time that flows easily, never wanting to be anywhere but where it is. and this ushers in a passage where single notes vibrate and pulsate weightlessly, holding time as one instinctively holds breath, to savor the perfection of the present moment, tenderly tremulous, intimate and still. As paradisiacal as this moment is, its comfort proves illusory; toward the end of the movement, the currents that only hinted at flow now crash upon the shore, through painful dissonances and the darkest caverns one might fear to find inside. And yet, as Mozart and only Mozart knows how to do, all this is let go, allowed to drift away into the most magical occurrence of the piece. As the wonder-filled glances
return, a new melody appears atop them, a discovery of a completion that had never been understood as a lack. Again, as in the first movement, Mozart does not wrestle with despair but, noting it, steps aside into a garden previously unnoticed that yet has been awaiting him. John Tarrant writes, in a book about Zen koans, “since joy might be hiding anywhere, you would be willing to look with curiosity at sadness or fear, just in case.� Mozart is thus willing, a teacher for all of us. In the Minuet, the repeated note idea returns, this time within the role of the coy, suggestive partner in a flirtatious exchange, a sort of provocative posturing, answered by an assertive, stubborn response. The figures dance around each other, masculine and feminine, the energy of the game paramount. In the contrasting trio section the repeated notes reappear as an undertow, and the back and forth takes on a mock ominous cast, all bluster and swirling storms on stage, one of Prospero’s storms that we know will lead, eventually and inevitably, to a double wedding. By the time we arrive at the Allegro molto last movement the repeated notes have taken on a launching role, ready for vaulting, leaping motion except when they don a serious countenancein good fun to play at interrupting the good cheer of the proceedings. At two points the music gets stuck in a furiously repeating pattern, from which Mozart escapes simply by lifting up above a stalled note as one lifts above cloud cover to see the perennially blue skies. Just as in the opening of the piece, he escapes trouble by levitating above it. Just as the piece readies itself to
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say goodbye, Mozart reintroduces the chromatically yearning idea from the introduction, but now it simply teases and is tossed aside. With the recurring character of the repeated note binding the piece together Mozart evinces psychological acumen in his ability to see darkness and tame it. The piece takes and transforms dream images, making them both recognizable and new. It models a sort of lucid dreaming, where a wall becomes a gate because we choose to see it so. In Invisible Love, Emmanuel Schmitt says “Happiness isn’t about hiding from suffering, but about integrating it into the fabric of our existence.” We could have no better guide to this integration than Mozart. — Mark Steinberg dmitri shostakovich String Quartet No. 12 in D-flat major, Op.133 Dmitri Shostakovich had a favorite chamber group: the Beethoven Quartet, whom he considered dear friends, and who premiered nearly all 15 of his string quartets. When the second violinist, Vasily Shirinsky, passed away in 1965, Shostakovich composed his Eleventh Quartet in his memory. It was almost inevitable that he would follow that with three more quartets, one in honor of each of the other three members. The Twelfth Quartet, written in 1968, is dedicated to the first violinist, Dmitri Tsyganov, who was noted for his vigorous style of playing. The Twelfth Quartet is a work of physical extremes, demanding of its performers
the most rapid brilliance as well as the most patient, long bows, the most monumental fortes and the most hushed pianissimi, the greatest intensity in some passages and a nearly lifeless resignation in others. These oppositions are not unusual in Shostakovich’s music, but there is one other which is: in this quartet the composer explored for the first time the atonal system of twelvetone harmony, invented by Arnold Schoenberg, and opposed it to the tonal center of D-flat major, the home key of the work. The underlying principle of the twelve-tone system is that the twelve chromatic pitches of Western music should be placed in a strict order – a “row” of pitches – and the composer must use them in that order, that is, the first note may not be repeated until all eleven other notes have been played. Part of the aim of this system was to liberate music from the tyranny of any one pitch, or key, and thereby usher in a new, freer mode of harmonic expression. As might be expected, a composer as famous as Shostakovich, who had never used this system in his writing before, came in for plenty of interrogation when it appeared in this quartet. Was he “going over” to the other side? Had he been converted in some sense? To this he made the excellent reply: “Everything in good measure. If, let’s say, a composer sets himself the obligatory task of writing dodecaphonic music, then he artificially limits his possibilities, his ideas. The use of elements from these complex systems is fully justified if it is dictated by the idea of the composition.” It is hard to imagine a clearer mark of artistic maturity than this
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affirmation, that the creative idea must be served by the technique and not vice versa. This begs the question: what idea is served by the juxtaposition of D-flat major tonality with (often 12-tone) atonality in this piece? One might imagine that Shostakovich would use D-flat major as his terra firma, a source of comfort or reassurance, versus atonal writing that depicts chaos, turbulence, or menace. However, this is not really the case, and often the opposite seems to be true: the atonal writing expresses a searching uncertainty at some points and a desperate kind of striving at many others, and the D-flat major presence, while sometimes quite beautiful, often carries with it a feeling of great oppressiveness, inescapable gravitational pull, or brutal finality. This contrast appears right away at the opening of the first movement. A wandering figure in the cello, which is in fact a 12-tone row, settles on a low D-flat. In response to this tentative question, the first violin sings a D-flat major melody which is crushing in its sorrow, played in the lowest register, expressing pain without consolation. The wandering 12-tone figure appears several times in the movement, each time seeming to search for a way out of this black state of D-flat, but not succeeding. As a contrast to this mood, the music moves at times into a faster, almost waltzlike tempo; but this waltz has a wooden, lifeless quality, as of a grieving person who is commanded to dance, but is barely able to go through the motions. The second and final movement of the work feels less like a single movement than an amalgamation of several contrasting ones. First there is an extended,
energetic section — almost a stand-in for a Scherzo — which features a rapid assertion of falling pitches in the cello, punctuated by savage trills from the other voices. Essentially atonal in its harmony, this section moves through several textures, including vehement pizzicato chords, steady tattoos of quieter repeated notes, and headlong passages of whirling slurred figures. The falling motif appears in other guises, one quiet and considered, one intense and enlarged with double-stops. This energetic section ultimately dissolves into a declaration by the cello alone, which introduces the next section, a “slow movement.” Here the cello explores an intense and heartfelt version of the falling figure, to which the other three voices respond in hushed tones as a single, three-voice chorus, masked celebrants attending a moonlit scene. This section reaches an agonized climax of its own, with the first violin inheriting the cello’s melody; then it gives way to a bridge where the first violin plays an extended pizzicato solo with figures from the very opening of the piece. This is the signal that we are coming to the final section of the work, a patchwork which revisits and reconsiders all three earlier sections. There are arconflicted alternation of figures and textures from the scherzo and the slow movement, and at one point the lower three instruments play monstrous pizzicato chords which contain all twelve chromatic pitches — the densest sonority imaginable. Then, finally, in a sorrowful release, the opening music of the first movement reappears, and we imagine for a moment that the quartet will end where it began, coming full circle, a relenting of sorts. But this is not to be: the energetic rhythms and tempo of the scherzo-like opening of the second movement sneak
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in, first teasingly, then gradually growing to full strength. This time, however, the key of D-flat major asserts a stranglehold on the harmony from which there is no escaping. Exciting, brutal, horrifying after a fashion, these harmonic and rhythmic elements sweep up all the human concerns that appeared before, and frog-march them uncompromisingly to a stony-faced conclusion. — Misha Amory ludwig van beethoven String Quartet in C minor, Op. 18, No. 4 What is it in theatrical masks, those frozen faces, that so captivates us and draws us in? Ossified and yet vibrant, masks, reaching outward from their still essence, draw forth our emotional heritage. Despite their immobility they become potent and resonant symbols that pierce us to the core. Certain tropes of theatricality are like that as well. Dramatic clichés catch us unawares and render us vulnerable to their charge. Paradoxically, from within the string quartet’s arena of intimacy Beethoven, in his C minor quartet, Op. 18 No. 4, creates a work of the theater, an exploration of symbol and clever caricature, emblematic more than evocative. Keys have flavors, and c minor had already been associated with sturm und drang in the works of Haydn and Mozart, as well as in those of Beethoven himself in the piano trio, Op. 1 No. 3, the string trio, Op. 9 No. 3, and the “Pathétique” piano sonata, Op. 13. However, works that more deeply and darkly explore the philosophical underpinnings of C minor, such as the Fifth Symphony or the last piano sonata, still
lay in the future. In this quartet Beethoven, unusually, stays in C (minor or major) for all four movements, and in various ways keeps exploring masks, disguises and dramatic device. He opens the piece with an unrelenting elemental pulsation in the cello and an unstable theme, with displaced sighs and jabs, atop. This is angst made audible and palpable, rhythmically restless, replete with distortion and suppression, eminently operatic. These are volcanic rumblings that lead, inevitably, to eruption and a simple caricature of conflict, the one against the many, an Olympian hurling of thunderbolts as a competition between the gods. Again, all is consciously primitive theatrical trope. After this idea is punctuated by an exclamation point of sorts, a single unison note changes the scene, one that in a symphony would be a horn’s proclamation. It is a sort of deus ex machina that announces the major mode come to save us, heroism personified in a single pitch. The phrase is followed, however, by the tragic mask replacing the comic one, the same figure drawing us back into minor, albeit only momentarily, reminding us that Beethoven, the distributor of masks, is a conjurer. When we arrive at the second theme, in major as expected, we might recognize it as the barely refashioned first theme, the spell reversed so the old witch is restored to her youthful beauty as a princess. And so it goes throughout the movement. We are held in doubleness, under the power of a clever Sophist. (And in fact this second theme that would most usually be drawn into the minor mode later in the movement
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steadfastly refuses to do so and remains a foil to the first theme, undermining the expected tragic or serious cast of the movement.) The first theme is Caliban, the second, Ariel; both are emanations from a single enchanted island. Beethoven is Prospero, puppet-master of the theater of our emotions, and he wields his magic staff with aplomb. The quartet is without a slow movement, as if to go there the composer would have to relinquish his thespian’s costumes and speak more confessionally. The second movement replaces the missing slow movement with a playful one, clocklike in its mesmeric regularity. It begins with the character of innocence and the veneer of the scholarly, aping the start of a fugue, children playing at serious discourse. Even the opening, a couldn’t-be-simpler thrice repeated pitch, dons several masks during this clever movement, borrowing disguises rather than growing or transforming, from teasing to chuckling to pompous to mysterious to tender. The movement also opens with the selfsame two pitches as the first movement, a flirtation in the villain’s eyes. Again these pitches are used to catapult us into the third movement, a Punch and Judy show of a minuet. Belying his fairly moderate marking of Allegretto, Beethoven indicates a speed for the movement that is certainly too quick to be danced to with any decorum, and, as if that weren’t enough to discourage any attempt at elegant dancing, he throws in jagged offbeat accents with abandon. Although Haydn and Mozart have quartets with minuets in minor that are defiant or strong, this minuet that deals in mock
anger is an innovation. The trio section is more acquiescent and attempts to take wing and leave behind the shackles of the minuet proper. But somehow it can’t help looking back over its shoulder at the last moment and, after three hesitant, whispered chords, it gets pulled back into the room and, devilishly, is forced to try to dance at fever pitch, even faster than before. It is a sort of parody of a dance of death and it whirls by in a flash. A new character enters the scene in the final movement, an itinerant gypsy, fiddling with virtuosity and pride and stamping his foot for emphasis. (The stomping may be another version of the repeated notes underpinning the opening of the piece, of the theme of the second movement, or the trio of the minuet.) His music alternates with visits with other characters. In the first a suave and elegant suitor appears. It shouldn’t surprise us at this point that a closer inspection reveals him to be the gypsy himself in borrowed garb, as evidenced by echoes of the contours and figuration of the opening tune. A third music starts with four taps of a magic wand traveling up the quartet from lowest instrument to highest, and each tap is nothing but the quick, ornamental filling in of the rising interval announcing the suitor. All is shapeshifting, Prospero’s magic. Some demoniac fiddling sets us up, after a theatrically suspenseful pause that echoes the moment waiting to collapse back into the minuet in the previous movement, for a wild, breathless Prestissimo romp, all swagger and panache. And then, a last moment reprieve as the major mode arrives and evaporates up into the stratosphere, having vanquished the evil minor for good. Or has it? The piece ends
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with three repetitions of the same two pitches that started all the movements but this one, now filled in with the notes in between. This is also the material that formed the four magic wand taps earlier in the movement, but now they are rooted in place, defiant. (They are possibly also a gruff answer to the elfin start of the second movement.) Beethoven places them only on pitches that belong, equally and enigmatically, both to C minor and C major, adding nothing else. He thus refuses to tip his hand toward one or the other, relishing this ambiguity, surely with an impish grin, as the curtain snaps shut. — Mark Steinberg
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Upcoming Events Marin Alsop, guest conductor april 20 Yale Philharmonia Guest conductor Marin Alsop leads the Yale Philharmonia, Yale Glee Club, and Yale Camerata in a performance of Beethoven’s monumental Ninth Symphony, on a program that also includes Bernstein’s Opening Prayer and Chichester Psalms. Woolsey Hall | Friday | 7:30 pm Tickets start at $10 • Yale Faculty/Staff $8 Students $5 $3 surcharge for purchases at the door Yale Cellos april 25 YSM Ensembles Aldo Parisot leads the beloved Yale Cellos in arrangements of music by Ravel, Corelli, Bach, Joplin, Vivaldi, Schumann, and Rossini. Morse Recital Hall | Wednesday | 7:30 pm Tickets from $10 • Students from $5 Caroline Shaw, guest composer may 3 New Music New Haven A program of works by the School’s graduatestudent composers and music by Pulitzer Prize-winning composer and School of Music alumna Caroline Shaw ’07MM. Sudler Recital Hall | Thursday | 7:30 pm free admission
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