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Antonín Dvorák (1841-1904) – Violin Concerto in A minor, op. 53

In my opinion (though possibly not yours), Dvorák’s destiny was shaped by Smetana, Brahms, and his father. His father? Well, yes: selflessly releasing Antonín from his apprenticeship lost Bohemia a budding butcher, but look what it gave to the World! Smetana (late 1860s) showed Dvorák the true potential of the musical riches of Bohemia’s woods and fields. Brahms (1876) took him under his wing and, albeit unwittingly, provided a creative model far more apposite than the fashionable “Wagner/Liszt”.

The daisy-fresh Violin Concerto is a happy early fruit of the union of these complementary influences. Contrariwise, its history is confused. Undoubtedly, it starts with Joachim’s premičre of Brahms’s Violin Concerto (January 1879). But, did Joachim then ask Dvorák for a concerto, or did Dvorák write one off his own bat?

Either way, Dvorák did (July to September 1879), and posted the score to its dedicatee. Joachim’s prompt, complimentary acknowledgement intimated that, although unable to do so immediately, he was “. . . looking forward to going through [the] work very soon and con amore.”

The next certainty is that František Ondricek premičred the concerto (October 1883). Accounts of the interim vary, the common factor being Joachim’s endless suggestions and generous insistence on tweaking the solo part. One account claims that Dvorák, feeling insulted, denied Joachim the premičre. Others more circumspectly suggest that Joachim “became sceptical” or “for some reason went rather cool”.

To be fair, although their exchange was uncommonly protracted, such goings-on were not uncommon. In his letters Dvorák complained (mildly) only of the delay. In mid-1882 he wrote, “[I] played through the Violin Concerto with Joachim twice; he is very delighted with it.” Indeed, they both worked hard – needing three revisions to finish the job (late 1882).

Why Joachim couldn’t do the premičre is a mystery. Ironically, in 1884, Dvorák wrote to Ondricek saying that Joachim had wanted to perform it prior to Dvorák’s formal London engagements; however, in deference to the Philharmonic, the offer was regretfully declined!

Each movement is marked ma non troppo, an insistence on moderation that – along with minimal pyrotechnic opportunities – probably worried the “professional” in Joachim. Yet, beneath the evident charms – eloquent melodies, toe-tapping rhythms and that characteristically “open-air” orchestration – further wonders forge a gratifying whole.

1. Allegro ma non troppo. Calling this a sonata-form means wrestling with considerable “unconventionalities”. Fortunately, unseemly wrestling is unnecessary – because it’s actually a variation-form. An introduction features imperious orchestra and wistful violin, disputing the tenor of a theme. The orchestra makes it a vigorous Slavonic subject [A], spilling into a tender, two-part Brahmsian subject [B].

The violin whips up a storm [A, v1]. This subsides, leaving violin and woodwind musing [B, v1]. An impassioned violin elaborates its original Slavonic idea, whose Brahmsian climax [A, v2] prefaces something special – through two successive variations [B, v2-3], the serene “Brahms” character magically acquires irresistibly lilting “Slavonicism”!

B retires. The tempo picks up; a long crescendo [A, v3] reaches a big climax for orchestra and soloist [A, v4]. A modest, horn-accompanied cadenza [A, v5] precedes a pregnant pause. Regretfully, the protagonists sigh goodbye to A, preparing and sliding seamlessly into . . .

2. Adagio ma non troppo . . . an exquisitely-turned tribute to Brahms! This serene stream of variation blurs the theme’s bounds, a strident variation twice rupturing its reverie – and conveniently guiding the wanderer (who might otherwise remain “lonely as a cloud”). Interrupting a “Brahmsian” orchestral climax, its first appearance (about Ľ way through) on violin is extensive, whilst its second (about ˝) is a brief tutti.

An expansive “Slavonic” orchestral climax (about ľ) mirrors the earlier “Brahmsian” and, thereafter, memories of early variations furnish feelings of ternary balance.

3. Allegro giocoso, ma non troppo. Dvorák, whose Slavonic Dances (op. 46) were a “smash hit” in 1878, makes a large-scale rondo of similar sizzling fare. The second and fifth As use only fragments of the ritornello, but otherwise the A B A C A D A B A C A/coda form is crystal-clear.

However, nothing’s ever twice the same. By imaginatively ringing the changes – of thematic detail, pulse, accents, instrumentation, ornamentation, key (and, well, everything really!) – Dvorák keeps your hair on end. Not that it needs much encouragement – the predominant style is that of the toe-teasing furiant. Dvorák’s sleeve, though, contains yet another trick – he reserves centre-stage [D] for music in the captivating slow/fast style of the dumkas.

Influences are generally something the listener must uncover. Rarely do composers deliberately exhibit them. But how many of those thereby convince us of their own greatness? Well, I know of one . . .

© Paul Serotsky, 2013

 


 


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© Paul Serotsky 


 

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