Program notes: Sibelius Symphony No. 7

JEAN SIBELIUS 
Finlandia, Op. 26 
BORN: December 8, 1865, in Hämeenlinna, Grand Duchy of Finland 
DIED: September 20, 1957, in Järvenpää, Finland 
WORK COMPOSED: 1899–1900 
WORLD PREMIERE: July 2, 1900, in Helsinki, Finland 

What to Listen For: 

• Undulating figures in the cellos and double basses propel an urgent, sped-up variation of the opening brass theme. 

• Sibelius makes sparing yet dramatic use of percussion throughout Finlandia, especially thundering timpani and cymbal crashes that allude to military brass bands. 

Ever-changing titles and a lost score should have doomed Finlandia to obscurity. The now-classic tone poem, originally Suomi herää (“Finland Awakens”), premiered at a benefit that featured dramatized scenes of Finnish history — and repressive Russian rule. As the concert’s finale, Suomi herää not only reversed the title of a popular choral tune Herää Suomi (“Awaken Finland”) but orchestrated the well-known melody, “Only when the lion awakens will Finland’s suffering come to an end,” for its imposing introductory chorale. 

An inveterate tinkerer, Sibelius kept revising Suomi herää, and in its final form, debuted it as Suomi. Yet the score vanished, likely misplaced due the composer’s dissolute lifestyle and perpetual disorganization. A desperate Sibelius penned a frantic letter to his copyist, writing, “My score of Patrie (you know, Vaterland) is lost. It’s supposed to be published — what to do?” Fortunately, the parts for the individual instruments were located and the full score reconstructed for publication.  

The multiple monikers were no accident: To avoid trouble with the Russian authorities, the composer and his fellow conductors camouflaged Finlandia on various concert tours with neutral names such as Vaterland, La patrie and Impromptu. As news of Finnish unrest and defiance spread in the first decades of the 20th century, foreign audiences and critics hailed Finlandia regardless of its advertised title. Along with adding to Sibelius’ growing reputation, Finlandia symbolized the trajectory of Finland’s struggle as a nation.  

Oppressive, brooding chords rise as if from an inextricable morass. This slower, hobbled setting borrowed from “Awaken Finland” repeats, spurred on by timpani. The chorale theme shifts to the flutes and woodwinds and unfolds into a martial battle anthem. Soaring strings drive the music into combative fanfares. Following a pastoral hymn of gratitude, Finlandia concludes with a pageant of victorious proclamations. 

BENJAMIN BRITTEN 
Violin Concerto, Op. 15 
BORN: November 22, 1913, in Lowestoft, England 
DIED: December 4, 1976, in Aldeburgh, England 
WORK COMPOSED: 1938–1939 
WORLD PREMIERE: March 28, 1940, in New York 

What to Listen For: 

• Twinkling harp strums, pizzicato (plucked notes) strings and long, plaintive tones on the violin signal the end of the first movement. 

• Chirping, bird-like piccolos whirl around a rumbling tuba solo in the middle of the Vivace. 

Britten’s only Violin Concerto begins with what the composer calls “a tiny phrase for timpani, answered by the cymbal.” This five-note motive — a gentle boom-pa-pa-pa-boom — recurs throughout the Moderato con moto, initially in a trio of flute, harp and bassoon, and then in the strings. The violin launches into a lyrical theme, which also unfolds another recurring motive, emphatic groups of four and five repeated notes that elongate into a staccato seven-note pattern. 

Britten demands not only virtuosity, but endurance; the violinist plays almost nonstop in the Concerto. After an acrobatic, high-flying passage on the violin’s E-string, the violinist and strings tumble back to earth together, greeted by hectoring brass punctuated by pounding cellos and double basses. Filigreed by interjections from the winds and strings, the violin plays a lament based on the five-note motive that's soon echoed in the strings and timpani. The music proceeds attacca (literally “to attack”) without pause. 

Several unusual elements mark the centerpiece of the Concerto. Britten dispenses with the typical fast-slow-fast format and marks the middle part Vivace (“lively”). Scholars continue to debate whether the jaunty (and eventually ominous) rhythms and Spanish tinge depict the Spanish Civil War of 1936–1939. As an ardent (and considering the era, unfashionable) pacifist, Britten did make an explicit reference in his 1939 Ballad of Heroes, Op. 14, which he wrote to “express sympathy with the beleaguered Spanish Republic and honor a brave, unhappy people.” What we do hear, definitively, is the influence of the Catalonian violin virtuoso Antonio Brosa, who worked closely with Britten on the Concerto and visited Barcelona with him in 1936. 

Trombones announce the theme of the Passacaglia: Andante lento (un poco meno mosso), whose ostinato is staggered among different instrumental groups. A series of nine variations — by turns insouciant, witty and regal — guide us to an incantatory ending. 

DAI FUJIKURA 
Wavering World 
BORN: April 27, 1977, in Osaka, Japan 
WORK COMPOSED: 2022 
WORLD PREMIERE: February 2, 2023, by Seattle Symphony 

What to Listen For: 

• Rising, ribbon-like scales of clarinets and bassoons at the end of the percussion interlude evoke an aura of primordial splendor. 

• Trumpets and trombones often insert Harmon mutes into the bell of the instrument for reedy, metallic sound. 

Wavering World was commissioned to pair with Sibelius’ Seventh Symphony. Dai Fujikura finds it fitting to share a program with the Finnish composer’s Seventh, declaring it “my ultimate — most favorite — symphony.” But Wavering World is neither a quote-filled homage to Sibelius nor a set of variations. The composer is adamant: “Because I love the Seventh, I didn’t want to quote or touch anything musically.” 

Inspired by Sibelius’ fascination with Finnish folklore, Fujikura found a deeper connection in Japanese mythology. “I didn’t want to write a bombastic mythical piece,” says the composer, who moved to London from his native Japan when he was 15. Instead, he wants to convey “the humid wetness and wonder of creation” along with “the opening up of the world and how the gods — the first three had no shape, body, or gender! — appeared.” 

According to the composer, the initial layers of tremolo (Italian for “trembling”) strings were suggested by ancient tales that describe the human world as a bed of reeds. Wind instruments employ the flutter-tongue technique, whose articulation smears flickering notes into continuous sound. Masses of thrumming, unearthly timbres dart and swerve into a series of impassioned tuttis. A brief spotlight on percussion with timpani, tom-toms, bongos and the bass drum embark on a series of dialogues with the strings. These scattered exclamatory statements thicken, enfolding additional instruments and converging into a melodic panorama of delight and underworld grandeur. 

JEAN SIBELIUS 
Symphony No. 7 in C Major, Op. 105 
WORK COMPOSED: 1923–1924 
WORLD PREMIERE: March 24, 1924, in Stockholm, Sweden, conducted by the composer 

What to Listen For: 

• The famed trombone solo appears at three crucial moments: After the big chorale in the Adagio; in the middle of the Symphony against swirling scales played by the strings; and as a heroic introduction to the finale. 

• Quiet, often hushed drumrolls on the timpani imbue a sense of ethereal distance. 

Symphony or tone poem? Originally titled Fantasia sinfonica, Sibelius wavered on what to call the orchestral work now known as his Symphony No. 7 in C Major. Tempo indications in the score including Adagio, Presto and Misterioso, etc., demarcate sections as in a symphony. Similar to a tone poem or orchestral fantasy, the music flows attacca with no regard for traditional symphonic form. Yet the composer did not provide a program note; there are no “dusky forests” or “wood-sprites” as portrayed in his 1926 tone poem Tapiola. The Seventh continues the lineage of great symphonies as “absolute” music exuding impassioned, transcendental qualities beyond images, beyond language. 

In place of contrasting melodic themes or “subjects” found in most symphonies, Sibelius compacts and collages the hallmarks of his orchestral style — tremolo strings, chant-like chorales, sweetly bucolic scenes, heroic climaxes and granitic tuttis. The composer makes his raw materials apparent, sometimes uncomfortably so. We can glimpse the incessant, often furtive and occasionally maniacal repetition of various scales (such as the “Do-Re-Mi...” of the C-major scale). Sibelius audibly transforms these patterns into rolling waves of cloudy, often dense textures or sculpts tiny motivic fragments into a melody. 

The Adagio commences with an ascending A-minor scale, which halts suddenly, akin to an exhausted series of steps trudging up a mountain. Supported by horns and violins, the bassoons play a morose theme cheerily brightened by flutes and clarinets. From humble, seemingly simple scales heard in the strings, Sibelius erects a massive chorale, in his words “as though before the face of God.” A rapturous exaltation envelops the entire orchestra and leads to the first appearance of the noble trombone theme.  

Tidal, careening strings and cautionary brass plunge a frolicsome Vivacissimo into foreboding gloom. The trombone theme emerges a second time, buttressed by reassuringly heroic horns and trumpets. Skittering passages in the strings and winds restore the festive mood, which spills over into the carefree Vivace. The final trombone solo signals the inexorable conclusion. Sibelius reassembles motives heard earlier into a monumental declamation in the Affetuoso (Italian for “affectionate,” connoting a tempo between adagio and andante) — and reveals a  sweeping view from the heavenly plateau of C-major. 

All notes by Christopher DeLaurenti © 2023