Program Notes: Dvořák Symphony No. 7

BEDŘICH SMETANA 
The Moldau, No. 2 from Má vlast 
BORN: March 2, 1824, in Litomyšl, Czechia 
DIED: May 12, 1884, in Prague, Czechia 
WORK COMPOSED: 1874–1879 
WORLD PREMIERE: April 4, 1875, in Prague 

What to Listen For:  

• The vivid depiction of a stream as it grows from quiet ripples in the flutes to a mighty river in the full orchestra’s stately theme 

• The final brass choir representing the grandness of the ancient castle overlooking Prague while the river motif recedes in the distance 

In the preface to the published score of The Moldau, Bedřich Smetana included this description: “The composition depicts the course of the river, from its beginning where two springs, one cold, the other warm, combine in a stream, running through forests and meadows and lovely countryside where merry feasts are celebrated; water-nymphs dance in the moonlight; on nearby rocks can be seen the silhouettes of ruined castles, proudly soaring into the sky.”  

The Moldau comes from a cycle of six symphonic poems titled Má vlast (“My Country”) that are dedicated to the city of Prague and form a musical ode to the composer’s homeland. Before Smetana, composers living within the Austrian Empire wrote with an international style: operas were in either Italian or German and symphonic music adhered to established formal structures. This began to change in the 1860s as the idea of nationalism surged. Missing home, Smetana returned to Prague from Sweden, where he was working as a conductor, and founded a Czech national school of music. Known as the father of Czech music, he developed a style that aimed to reflect the language, culture and pride of his country.  

The piece begins quietly at the source of the first stream, with flutes alternating in a rippling pattern over pizzicato strings. The clarinets join in, suggesting the second source of the river. The violins take over with a soaring folk-like melody as the water gains motion on its way to Prague. The “merry feast” is heard in a rustic dance full of rhythmic jollity before the quietness of night falls. Daylight breaks and the river flows into the city with a full brass choir reflecting the grandeur of the old castle on its banks. 

Though The Moldau resounds with a joyful spirit of celebration, Smetana composed it amid great hardship. He suffered from syphilis and tinnitus and by October of 1874, he was completely deaf. Rather than succumb to depression over his fate, he began to compose. Within weeks the first movement of Má vlast was complete — a work that would become the most important of his life. His illness eventually grew unbearable and his mind failed, forcing him into a sanatorium where he died at the age of 60.  

ESA-PEKKA SALONEN 
Cello Concerto 
BORN: June 30, 1958, in Helsinki, Finland 
WORK COMPOSED: 2017 
WORLD PREMIERE: March 9, 2017, with Chicago Symphony Orchestra and Yo-Yo Ma, conducted by the composer 

What to Listen For:  

• The shifting cosmic sound clouds from which the cello emerges in the first movement 

• The energetic duet between solo cello and principal percussion — on conga and bongo — in the finale 

As both a conductor and composer, Esa-Pekka Salonen is a preeminent innovator of our time, constantly expanding sonic boundaries with technological advances and rethinking ways in which music is presented. Formerly the music director of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, he was recently named Music Director of the San Francisco Symphony, where, as part of an unprecedented leadership model, he works with collaborative partners from a variety of disciplines (such as composition and robotics) to shape new and engaging pathways in which to experience classical music.  

His Cello Concerto was developed during the summer of 2015, after Salonen researched new textures within the instrument without a firm plan on how to use them. In approaching the genre of concertos, he wrote of liking “the concept of a virtuoso operating at the very limits of what is physically (and sometimes mentally) possible.” The virtuosity within this concerto goes beyond pure technique: moments of stillness and simplicity call for the soloist to communicate meaning and depth from a single note.  

The first movement begins with a cosmic energy that Salonen relates to chaos and the idea of “a simple thought emerging out of a complex landscape. Almost like consciousness developing from clouds of dust.” The solo cello acts as a comet moving through this space, sometimes being followed with a musical line, other times being imitated by groups of instruments.  

The slower second movement is simple in form yet complex in texture, with cello loops creating harmony from single lines. A duet between alto flute and solo cello fills the middle section.  

The third movement picks up speed, with the conga and bongos dominating the orchestra in a rhythmic dance. After a solo episode, the full ensemble returns. Here, Salonen wrote that he “imagined the orchestra as some kind of gigantic lung, expanding and contracting first slowly, but accelerating to a point of mild hyperventilation which leads back to the dance-like material.” The wild energy slowly burns out as the solo cello climbs into the stratosphere and dissolves into darkness.  

ANTONÍN DVOŘÁK
Symphony No. 7 in D minor, Op. 70, B.141 
BORN: September 8, 1841, in Nelahozeves, Czechia 
DIED: May 1, 1904, in Prague, Czechia 
WORK COMPOSED: 1884–85 
WORLD PREMIERE: Royal Philharmonic Society, London, 1885, conducted by the composer 

What to Listen For:  

• The brooding urgency of the opening theme in cellos and violas that sets the mood for Dvořák’s darkest symphony 

• The fourth movement’s dramatic transformation from D minor to the climactic emergence of D major in the work’s final minutes  

Antonín Dvořák spent much of his life navigating the difficulties of a shifting political landscape and the culture that reflected it. Born in rural Bohemia, a land that was under rule by the Austrian Empire, he often faced discrimination as a second-class citizen. When his musical talents became too great to ignore, he left home to study in Prague, where he was bullied for his provincial ways and chided for his poor language skills, having only learned Czech with his family and not the German of high society.  

He worked for a time as a violist in a dance band until he joined the orchestra of the new Provincial Theater in Prague. The Austrian government had loosened its hold on the Czech provinces and the theater was now allowed to stage Czech plays and operas. It was here where he met Smetana, the father of a Czech national school of music. Smetana conducted many of his own pieces at the theater and profoundly influenced the young composer, who built on the work of his elder and forged a style that drew on Czech folk dances and songs as well as the great German musical traditions.  

In the early 1880s, Dvořák was gaining momentum as a composer—especially after Brahms took notice of him and helped connect him with a music publisher—yet he still experienced anti-Czech sentiments while living and working in Vienna. The premiere of his Sixth Symphony kept getting delayed, likely due to discrimination. Friends advised him to alter his name to the more German-sounding Anton, but Dvořák identified with the rising Bohemian nationalism taking hold in his homeland and decided to honor his roots and keep his birthname. It was within this atmosphere that he wrote the Seventh Symphony, a work of intense darkness and poignancy.  

In contrast to the difficult scene in Vienna, London audiences loved Dvořák’s music and in 1884, he was invited by the Royal Philharmonic Society to conduct his Sixth Symphony. It was received with such rave reviews that the society immediately commissioned him to write another one. He worked tirelessly on this new work, declaring that the piece must be “capable of stirring the world, and may God grant that it will!” 

The symphony begins in D-minor with an ominous melody in the cellos that builds in intensity before moving to a pastoral section between the horn and oboe. Another storm gathers to a breaking point that leads into a more spacious melody in B-flat major. The second movement’s melodies are haunting and rich. The opening theme in the clarinet sings above the other woodwinds like a gentle folk song. The darker second theme surges with lush strings and somber trombones.  

The Scherzo offers a break from the darkness with busy dance-like cross rhythms that play with different divisions of a six-beat pattern: swinging groups of three trade off with melodic groups of two. The finale returns to the stormy traits of the opening and develops into a frenzied coda before coming to rest on a D-major chord: a glorious sound and cry of hope after such a tumultuous journey through the darkness. 

All notes by Catherine Case © 2022