“The Octet began with a dream,” Stravinsky recalled in his Dialogues and a Diary, “...in which I saw myself in a small room surrounded by a small group of instrumentalists playing some very attractive music. I did not recognize the music, though I strained to hear it, and I could not recall any features of it the next day, but I do remember my curiosity — in the dream — to know how many the musicians were. I remember too that after I had counted them to the number eight, I looked again and saw that they were playing bassoons, trombones, trumpets, a flute, and a clarinet. I awoke from this little concert in a state of great delight and anticipation, and the next morning began to compose the Octet.”
Such a colorful confession about the genesis of a work from an arch-Romantic like Schumann or Berlioz might have been expected, but coming from Stravinsky, it was extraordinary. Stravinsky was, after all, the most outspoken of the 20th century’s composers in proclaiming the separation of music and emotion — the philosophy that music is merely an abstract patterning of sounds arranged to satisfy the composer’s intellect, and that it “means nothing” in the programmatic or expressive sense — and in 1924, a year after the Octet was completed, he issued a sort of apologia for his dream-confession in which he stated, “My Octet is not an ‘emotive’ work but a musical composition based on objective elements which are sufficient in themselves.”
It is precisely such a clear-eyed, anti-Romantic (and anti-Debussy) belief that served as the philosophical basis of Stravinsky’s music for the thirty years after the 1923 Octet, the period of his creative career known as “neoclassicism,” when the emotional detachment and pristine clarity of 18th-century formal models and the intricate motivic and contrapuntal workings of Johann Sebastian Bach’s music (realized, of course, through modern practices of harmony and sonority) were the ideals fueling his creativity. The Octet was among the first important musical documents of the neoclassical movement that profoundly influenced the music of the mid-20th century.
The three movements of the Octet are built on Classical models, though the influences of the French instrumental divertissement, Johann Sebastian Bach, and even Venetian music of the Renaissance have also been cited. Stravinsky admitted the inspiration for the opening “Sinfonia” came from the symphonies of Haydn, though the slow introduction is more mischievous than ceremonial in character and the compact sonata form reverses the themes in the recapitulation. Stravinsky began the second movement as a waltz, and only after he had written the theme did he discover that it would make a fine subject for a set of variations. He composed the “ribbons of scales” (his phrase) variation first, and then used it as an interlude between most of the sections, giving the following form to the movement: Variation A (“ribbons of scales”) — Variation B (a Prussian march) — A — C (a slightly tipsy waltz) — D (a vertiginous galop) — A — E (a lugubrious fugato that Stravinsky said was his favorite episode in the Octet). “The finale,” according to the composer, “grew out of the fugato [‘little fugue’], and was intended as a contrast to that high point of harmonic tension.” The movement is jaunty in spirit and terse in speech, and confirms Stravinsky as one of the 20th century’s foremost masters of counterpoint.
Note by Dr. Richard E. Rodda
Toru Takemitsu’s understanding and philosophy of aesthetics, music, and art greatly influenced his music. While these concepts might seem foreign to musicians with training in Western art music, Takemitsu’s music does bear similarity to other 20th-century Western composers.
However, any particular system of composition is antithetical to Takemitsu’s aesthetic: “I believe, however, that the task of the composer should begin with the recognition and experience of the more basic sounds themselves rather than with concern about their function.” In his music, then, each sound (and silence) has a personality or shape independent of how the music functions within a pre-conceived system of composition or how the music is notated.
Regarding the nature of sound, Takemitsu wrote: “Sound is continuous, unbroken movement. If we understand it that way, conventional notation, which divides sound into discrete measures, is fruitless.” This philosophy is rooted in an understanding of sound as a natural phenomenon and a concept that Takemitsu highlighted as one of the primary differences between Western music and Japanese music. Takemitsu understood, better than almost any Western composer, that sound and silence are two sides of the same coin and exist on the same unbroken continuum.
As a result, Takemitsu’s incorporation of silence, space, and resonance as an integral part of his music is without compare. The “…continuous, unbroken movement” of the “Takemitsu sound” can be found in Le son-calligraphié. While a Western listener might associate this concept with Richard Wagner’s unendliche Melodie, a more appropriate metaphor for this sonic connection might be the flow of water, or, as in Japanese calligraphy, the “continuous, unbroken movement” of the brush after a stroke has begun. Calligraphy, in fact, serves as titular adjective in Le son-calligraphié #1, #2, and #3.
The three compositions titled Le son-calligraphié were not intended to be performed together but designed as separate, discrete compositions. Le son-calligraphié #1 and #2 were composed in 1958, and Le son-calligraphié #3 was composed in 1960. Tonight’s recital represents the first performance of all three Le son-calligraphié on the same concert in the United States. This performance of Le son-calligraphié #2 was made possible through the generosity of Maki Takemitsu, daughter of Toru Takemitsu, who provided the manuscript score. Thank you also to musicologist Mitsuko Ono for her assistance in preparing tonight’s edition for performance.
Dai Wei is originally from China. Her musical journey navigates in the spaces between east and west, classical and pop, electronic and acoustic, innovation and tradition. She often draws from eastern philosophy and aesthetics to create works with contemporary resonance and reflects an introspection on how these multidimensional conflicts and tension can create and inhabit worlds of their own. Her artistry is nourished by the Asian and Chinese Ethnic cultures in many different ways. Being an experimental vocalist, she performs herself as a Khoomei throat singer in her recent compositions, through which are filtered by different experiences and backgrounds as a calling that transcends genres, races, and labels.
Dai says of Honeycomb: “I wrote this piece at the end of 2021, a year when I had the opportunity to be with my parents in China because of the pandemic travel ban. I did not know when there was a beehive hanging outside the window of my bedroom. The honeybees constantly came and left and buzzed around all the time. Later I found out that when a honeybee returns to its hive, it passes the nectar to another bee by regurgitating the liquid into the other bee’s mouth. They keep repeating this process until the nectar finally settles into the honeycomb. I looked at that giant beehive and thought to myself: these repeating hexagonal cells can be turned into such a fruitful, beautiful, and powerful honeycomb. So I started the piece with an imaginary hexagonal unit that, through repetition, built it into a honeycomb—all great moments are worth remembering, but so are every little moments.”
To envision the Viennese wind music scene in the 1780s, think of jazz in New Orleans at the turn of the century: late eighteenth-century Vienna had an incredible confluence of virtuoso musicians, emerging instrument technology, artisan craftsmen and compositional geniuses — each exploring new ways to expand a musical vocabulary within established traditions. This was the setting for the creation of Mozart’s Serenade in B-flat, K. 361/370a, a work that encompasses emotions ranging from lyrical expressions of joy and longing to raucous dance music and beer garden oompah — all presented by an unusual type of wind ensemble.
Although the choice of these 13 instruments was somewhat unusual, in writing this serenade Mozart was following well-established tradition. During the latter part of the eighteenth century multi-movement works of a predominantly light-hearted, entertaining nature for various combinations of instruments were produced throughout the countries of central Europe. Interchangeably titled “divertimento,” “cassation,” “notturno” or “serenade,” and containing from four to seven movements, these works found their origin in the desire for entertaining “background” music for court functions—not as concert works. With the Serenade in B-flat and the Serenade in C Minor (for the more typical Harmonie ensemble), however, Mozart began to transform works of this genre into genuine concert pieces, albeit ones in which the “outdoor” origin of the musical style remains clearly visible.
The sound of wind instruments gave particular pleasure to Emperor Joseph II, and in the spring of 1782, he determined to gratify this enthusiasm by drawing musicians from his Burgtheater orchestra to form a wind band, which he called the Harmonie. While he dined, it was to play arrangements of tunes popular in Viennese theaters — thus delighting the imperial ears as it aided the imperial digestion. To lead this ensemble, he chose one of his most esteemed wind players who, fortunately for posterity, was also a close friend of Mozart: the renowned clarinetist Anton Stadler.
At first, the emperor had envisaged his Harmonie as a sextet, and Mozart hoped that the repertory of the new ensemble might expand to include the commissioning of serious original works. Indulging this idea, he composed a sextet for winds (the Serenade, K. 375) in the expectation that one of Emperor Joseph’s “Gentlemen of the Chamber” would recommend it (and him) to the Emperor’s attention. Soon, however, the ensemble grew into an octet (pairs of oboes, clarinets, bassoons, and horns), and Mozart hastened to revise K. 375 for this new format.
Many aristocrats were quick to follow the Emperor’s example by setting up similar groups, and so-called Harmoniemusik soon became established as one of the most popular forms of musical entertainment throughout the 1780s and 1790s. Every major composer (and hundreds of lesser ones) wrote both original works and made arrangements for this compilation of instruments. The particular combination for which Mozart wrote his Serenade in B-flat represents, of course, a considerable expansion of the normal wind octet. Although several other composers had previously written for an enlarged ensemble, none had done so on a scale comparable to Mozart. By the addition of two more horns, as well as two basset horns, the sonority of the middle register was considerably enhanced, providing a richer (and to modern ears, a more “Romantic” sound). Mozart’s other innovation was to compose a special part for the string bass instead of leaving it to ad hoc doublings of the second bassoon part. Although Mozart explicitly calls for a string bass, the Serenade has often been performed using a contrabassoon and is hence commonly, though erroneously, referred to as the “Serenade for 13 wind instruments.”
Despite the firm place which Mozart’s works occupy in the concert repertoire, the genesis of some of his greatest ones — including this serenade — remains shrouded in mystery. Almost no other work of Mozart has been the subject of so many contradictory theories concerning the history of its composition, and textual inconsistencies between various sources present performers with difficulties in unraveling the composer’s true intentions.
It was long thought that the Gran Partita was composed around 1780 for a performance in Munich, but painstaking analysis of several critical factors (such as watermarks, inks and handwriting) reveals that it was probably written in Vienna somewhat later; the editors of the Neue Mozart Ausgabe suggest a time between the end of 1783 and the beginning of 1784. There is a slight possibility that Mozart might have composed the piece for the occasion of his own wedding in August 1782. However, if this were the case, one wonders why Mozart’s letters to his father so uncharacteristically fail to mention such a massive undertaking.
The only reliable contemporary reference to a performance comes from the newspaper advertisement of March 23, 1784 quoted above. Only four of the movements were played on that day, but the critic Johann Friedrich Schink reported on their performance. In his review, he described the exact instrumentation: two oboes, two clarinets, two basset horns, four horns, two bassoons and double bass. The movements he had heard could therefore only have been drawn from the Serenade in B-flat. Schink wrote: “At each instrument sat a master — oh, what an effect it made — glorious and grand, excellent and sublime.”
It is interesting to observe that this concert was given during Lent, when the participating musicians (who for the greater part of each year were employed by the Viennese nobility) were all effectively on holiday. This circumstance made it easy for Stadler to hand-pick the very best wind players, knowing that they would not otherwise be engaged. Mozart’s own silence regarding this concert at the Burgtheater can probably be explained by the fact that — Lenten holidays notwithstanding — his recently composed Piano Concerto No. 14, K. 449, was simultaneously receiving its first performance elsewhere in Vienna.
Since only four movements had been played on the 1784 concert, it had been thought that the work was composed as two separate pieces. Examination of the autograph, however, shows that the seven movements were notated at the same time. It may be, however, that the work was conceived with performance “options” in mind. After an opening sonata-form movement, the remaining six movements comprise pairs of slow movements, minuets and finales. One member of each pair tends to show Mozart at his most elegant and compositionally sophisticated while the other tends toward rollicking dance music more reminiscent of a “town band” than of the Emperor’s elegant Harmonie. The Serenade in B-flat is, therefore, a work that truly bridges the gulf between garden party and concert music.
Program note by Michael Votta
Jonathan Caldwell is director of bands and assistant professor of conducting at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro where conducts the Wind Ensemble and Symphonic Band and teaches undergraduate and graduate conducting. Prior to his appointment at UNCG, Caldwell held positions at Virginia Tech, the University of Wisconsin–Stevens Point, and Garner Magnet High School (Garner, NC).
Ensembles under Caldwell’s guidance have performed for the College Band Directors National Association Southern Division, the National Band Association–Wisconsin Chapter, and in Carnegie Hall. His writings have been published in the Journal of Band Research and the Teaching Music Through Performance in Band series. He has given presentations for the Midwest Band and Orchestra Clinic, the College Band Directors National Association, the Internationale Gesellschaft zur Erforschung und Förderung der Blasmusik (IGEB), and music educator conferences in North Carolina and Virginia.
Caldwell received a Doctor of Musical Arts in conducting from the University of Michigan and a Master of Music in instrumental conducting from the University of Maryland, College Park. He holds a Master of Arts in Teaching and a Bachelor of Music in performance from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.