Classics I: Symphonic Dances Program Notes
Tlaloc (2024)
by Robert Xavier Rodriguez (b. San Antonio, 1946)
Distinguished American composer, longtime professor at UT Dallas and San Antonio native, Robert Xavier Rodriguez is the author of a large body of work (operas, symphonic and chamber compositions) that have been performed internationally. He has offered the following remarks on one of his most recent compositions:
Tlaloc (2024) is an eight-minute orchestral overture commissioned by the Plano Symphony Orchestra, Héctor Guzmán, Music Director. The work celebrates the ancient Aztec god of rain, hail, lightning, thunder and fertility. The Aztecs and Mayans created some of their most impressive temples in Tlaloc’s honor to ensure plenty of rain for the next year’s crops. Visual artists delighted in portraying his fearsome countenance, with huge, round eyes, a curved lip, sharp jaguar-like fangs and a helmet of horns. The score includes multiple percussion instruments and dramatic echoes of pre-Hispanic Mexico.
The music opems with a mighty invocation of Tlaloc, featuring a contrapuntal brass fanfare. A rain dance follows, with the timpani announcing the main theme. The dance begins quietly, with a solemn, ritual quality. When the ritual reaches its fierce climax, there is a quiet moment of anticipation: then, percussion, celesta, harp and strings announce the rain. At first, the rain is gentle, even lyrical, and it comes as a blessing. Then, Tlaloc shows off his power by creating a wild storm, with thunder, lightning and howling winds abetted by multiple layers of antiphonal brass and massive percussion, At the peak of the excitement, all the themes appear together in a grand, celebratory musical layer cake as the work roars to a close.
My musical language creates a post-modern synthesis of ancient modes, traditional tonality, the lyricism of the Second Viennese School and the octatonic scale of alternating half steps and whole steps that Stravinsky favored in The Rite of Spring. Here, I have added Aztec motives, driving Latin rhythms, playful references to storm music by Rossini and Beethoven and, as a surprise in the coda, a jubilant, polyrhythmic burst of mariachi.
Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 54 (1841-45)
by Robert Schumann (Zwickau, Saxony, 1810 - Endenich, nr. Bonn, 1856)
By the time Robert Schumann finished his Piano Concerto in 1845, he had been grappling with the problems of the genre for more than a decade and a half. Over the years, he had been involved with concertos in three different capacities: as a pianist, as a music critic, and as a composer. As an aspiring performer, he saw the concerto as the principal arena in which to shine; as a critic, he spent a great deal of time thinking about what an ideal concerto should be like; and as a composer, he was struggling to realize some of those theoretical considerations in practice.
We know from a diary entry that Schumann was planning to write a concerto as early as in his eighteenth year. Several other attempts followed, but none came to fruition. In the meantime, Schumann had injured the middle finger of his right hand as a result of overexertion, and, as a result, had to give up his plans to become a concert pianist. However, he had fallen in love with an exceptional young pianist named Clara Wieck, who became the most dedicated interpreter of his piano music.
Schumann and Wieck got married in September 1840. The following year, Robert composed a Fantasy for piano and orchestra in A minor, and Clara played it through at one of the Gewandhaus Orchestra’s rehearsals in Leipzig on August 13, 1841, less than three weeks before the birth of her first child. There were no performances at the time, and Schumann set the work aside until 1845, when he revised it and added two more movements.
We can tell from the first movement that it was originally intended as a self-contained piece. Although cast in a fairly regular sonata form, it can also be regarded as a three-movement concerto in miniature. The first half of the development section (about halfway through the movement) is in a slow tempo and in a different meter; it clearly plays the role of a slow movement. The end of the development (after the cadenza) is in a fast tempo and again a new meter; it is in many ways like a little finale. The slow section and the quasi-finale are both based on the main theme, ensuring the thematic unity of the entire movement.
Completing the concerto in 1845, Schumann composed a second-movement Intermezzo whose first melody is a filigree of tiny interlocking motifs, while the second is a broad cantabile (singing) theme. After a brief transition, using elements from the first movement’s main melody, the piano breaks into the happy A-major theme of the “Allegro vivace,” a lively and playful movement that literally bubbles over with energy and good humor. At the center of the movement stands a lyrical melody, shared by the first oboe and the piano. Elements of the main theme begin to appear, first almost unnoticeably, then more and more conspicuously until the recapitulation gets fully underway. The excitement steadily increases all the way to the brilliant conclusion.
Symphonic Dances, Op. 45 (1940)
by Sergei Rachmaninoff (Semyonovo, Russia, 1873 - Beverly Hills, CA, 1943)
During the quarter-century between his emigration from Russia and his death, Sergei Rachmaninoff completed only six new works. The exhausting schedule of a concert pianist took too great a toll on his creative energies. Yet in 1940, the 67-year-old composer gathered up his strength to write another major orchestra piece. The new work was originally conceived as a ballet to be choreographed by Michel Fokine, the famous Russian dancer and ballet director. Yet these plans never materialized, due to Fokine’s death in 1942.
Rachmaninoff may have instinctively known that Symphonic Dances would be his swan song. He wove a nostalgic reference to his early Symphony No. 1 into the last movement—a reference that would have been meaningful only to him, since this work had been withdrawn after a single, unfortunate performance in 1897. And the ‟Dies irae,” the famous chant from the Mass of the Dead that had haunted Rachmaninoff all his life, reappears here juxtaposed to the ‟Alleluia” theme from the All-Night Vigil (1915). The evocation of the Last Judgment (Dies irae) was thus complemented by the idea of the Resurrection, symbolizing a defeat of Death by the power of Redemption. It would indeed make sense to imagine the composer bidding farewell to his composing days with this gesture.
In spite of all this serious symbolism, Symphonic Dances is anything but a heavy dramatic composition. The dance character is always present (the work has been successfully choreographed several times). The work adheres to the traditional three-movement, fast-slow-fast format. Over a relentless rhythmic background, the first movement brings a simple opening motif to a powerful climax. After an extended, calm middle section, the relentless rhythms return with even more energy than before, to end on a more pensive note.
Opening with an ominous motto with stopped horns and muted trumpets, the second movement is a valse triste whose string theme wanders from key to key, accompanied by impressionistic woodwind figurations. At the end, the tempo becomes more animated and the movement ends, surprisingly, like a Mendelssohn scherzo.
After a gloomy introduction, the third movement presents some lively rhythms, but the sound of the solemn bells give this music an air of seriousness. The mournful middle section adds to the gravity of the atmosphere, preparing for the entrance of the ‟Dies irae” theme as the fast tempo returns. Only gradually does the music lighten up for the final ‟Alliluya” (to use the Russian form of the word from the score). But lighten up it does, and although the ‟sad” minor mode doesn’t go away, the rhythmic momentum and dazzling orchestral colors of the conclusion project faith, strength, and reassurance.
Classics II: Brahms 1 Beyond Borders Program Notes
Pasajes (2022)
by Tania León (b. Havana, Cuba, 1943)
Tania León enjoys a brilliant international career as a composer, conductor, educator and pianist. She has successfully integrated her Cuban heritage with a multitude of North American and European influences, making her one of the most fascinating composer personalities on the contemporary scene. She was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in Music in 2021 and, in 2022, received the 45th Annual Kennedy Center Honors for her life’s work—two tributes that recognize her extraordinary accomplishments.
León’s Pasajes (“Passages”) was commissioned by a consortium consisting of the National Symphony, the Arkansas Symphony, the Detroit Symphony, the Orlando Philharmonic, and the Auburn (Washington) Symphony. The first performance was given in Little Rock, Arkansas, by the Arkansas Symphony led by Akiko Fujimoto on April 9, 2022.
The word pasaje (“passage”) applies to this work in more ways than one: much more than merely a series of musical “passages,” the whole piece represents a gradual transition from an initial, calm and serene mood into a much more vigorous and agitated one. León uses her orchestral forces in ever-changing timbral combinations to create those changes; the result is a dynamic and exciting 14-minute composition that includes a virtuoso cadenza for timpani leading to an exuberant conclusion.
Mirage (2019, rev. 2024)
by Andrea Casarrubios (b. San Esteban del Valle, Spain, 1988)
Cellist-composer Andrea Casarrubios was born in Spain and is currently based in New York City. In addition to touring the world as a performer, she is becoming increasingly well known for her compositions, many of which feature her own instrument. The first version of Mirage was premiered by the composer as soloist with conductor Rubén Fernandez in Madrid. Casarrubios introduced the revised version with Christopher James Lees and the Charlotte Symphony Orchestra in April 2025. The composer has shared the following information about Mirage:
The first movement, Mirage, evokes desert landscapes where music fluctuates between disorientation and a delirious, fierce dance. Scored for solo cello, strings and percussion, I composed this movement a decade ago while living in Los Angeles.
The second movement, Mensajes del agua (’Messages from water’), offers a contrasting, intimate oasis of contemplation. Written in 2019 during my New York years, this movement provides a moment of renewal through unusual simplicity—scored only for cello and piano, defying concerto conventions. Its inspiration comes from the delicate perfection found in unpolluted frozen water, dedicated to Maria de Macedo, one of my beloved cello mentors who gifted me Masaru Emoto’s book Messages in Water as I transitioned to the United States. The book’s essence helped navigate my early years here, transforming challenges into strength and creative purpose.
The third movement, completed in Chicago in 2024, introduces percussive, time-driven elements. Bongos take an essential role, interacting with the cello and evoking a sense of duality. As the movement progresses, winds join for a thrilling dialogue between solo cello and orchestra, breaking the previous calm and marking a pivotal transformation.
The liberating Cadencia leads into the final movement, Marcha—the concerto’s most expansive and stirring section. Here, the cello ascends, blending intensity with accumulated wisdom to reach a triumphant summit.
Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 68 (1876)
by Johannes Brahms (Hamburg, 1833 - Vienna, 1897)
In his review of the Viennese premiere of Brahms’s First Symphony, Eduard Hanslick, the leading music critic of the day, noted: “Seldom, if ever, has the entire musical world awaited a composer’s first symphony with such tense anticipation.” They had to wait for a long time, too. Brahms’s symphonic plans had been known to his friends for at least 15 years. He had shown his close friend, the great pianist Clara Schumann the beginning of the first movement’s Allegro section as early as 1862; six years later he greeted her with the “alphorn” theme of what eventually became the symphony's finale. Yet Brahms seemed to be extremely slow to give the symphony its final form.
One explanation for that delay has to do with the paralyzing effect of the challenge Beethoven’s masterworks represented for Brahms. (“You have no idea how the likes of us feel when we hear the tramp of a giant like him behind us,” he said in 1870.) Robert Schumann certainly had not made things easier by publicly proclaiming the 20-year-old Brahms the next great musical genius; the Leipzig fiasco of Brahms’s First Piano Concerto (1859) was another major setback. But in general, the times had also changed since the days of Schumann and Mendelssohn. The artists coming of age after the defeated 1848 revolutions lived in a darker world. It was no longer possible to begin a symphony with the exuberance of Mendelssohn’s “Italian”; nor could anyone re-create the famous transition from darkness to light in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony as elegantly as Schumann had done in his Fourth. The flamboyance of the young Romantics had given way to a grave and brooding disposition in the post-1848 generation, whose relationship to the past had become quite a problematic matter.
The very first measure of Brahms’s First Symphony with its throbbing timpani strokes makes it clear that we are no longer in a world of Romantic dreams. This is tragic music of an intensity that has not been seen since Beethoven; but it is markedly different from Beethoven’s tragic style. The latter’s Fifth Symphony, written in the same key of C minor traditionally associated with tragedy, opens with a highly excited Allegro. Brahms’s “Un poco sostenuto,” on the other hand, derives its energy from its slow tempo, and the painful rise, mostly by half-steps, from C to high B-flat in the violins, against the equally painful descent from C to F in the woodwinds. The two melodic lines are somewhat like a pair of scissors slowly opening, cutting down and then repeating the same procedure a second time. Unlike the slow introductions of most other composers, this one is less a preparation for what follows than integral part of the drama: it gradually goes over into the Allegro with which it shares all its important melodic material. In the Allegro, there is no temporary relief from the tragic mood: while other sonata movements in C minor gravitate toward a brighter E-flat major, Brahms modulates into E-flat minor instead; in other words, he stays in the “tragic” minor mode for the entire movement.
In the second-movement Andante sostenuto (in E major), the tension finally subsides. The strings play an intimately lyrical melody, taken over by the solo oboe. After a more agitated middle section, the first melody returns. The part that was first played by the oboe is now given to a solo violin (the only violin solo in the four Brahms symphonies).
For his third movement, Brahms didn’t write a Scherzo but a short intermezzo in A-flat major, with sweet woodwind solos and delicate pizzicatos (plucked strings) in the accompaniment. The Trio, or middle section, in B major, is more rhythmical and at one point reaches fortissimo volume, just before the lyrical A-flat major theme returns in varied form.
The fourth movement opens with an extended Adagio introduction which brings back the tragic C-minor world of the first movement and effects a transition to the C-major Allegro. The introduction incorporates the melody, played by the horn, that Brahms had sent Clara on a postcard in 1868, there accompanied by the words: “Hoch auf'm Berg, tief im Tal, grüss' ich Dich viel tausendmal” (High on the mountain, deep in the valley, I send you many thousand greetings). The horn call is expanded as other instruments join in. Four measures of solemn chorale music, played softly by the brass, are heard in passing.
Finally, the joyful C-major Allegro begins. Certain parts of its theme are clearly reminiscent of the “Ode to Joy” melody in Beethoven's Ninth. When this was pointed out to Brahms, he retorted gruffly, “Any jackass can see that.” And in fact, that reminiscence is not crucial here, for Brahms himself had made themes of this kind thoroughly his own as early as the opening of his First Piano Trio (Op. 8, 1858). The movement is in regular sonata form, with two important differences. First, the development starts, unusually, with a full restatement of the main theme, as it were a recapitulation, tricking the musically educated listener. Soon enough, however, the music changes directions and a true development ensues. It is understandable that when the real recapitulation begins, Brahms omits restating the main theme altogether (after all, he has already done so); instead, in another surprising move, he brings back the horn-call theme from the slow introduction. The symphony ends with a brilliant Coda culminating in the reappearance of that almost forgotten little brass chorale from the introduction, now played with full force.
Classics III: Carmina Burana Program Notes
La Minerva–Concerto for violin and orchestra (2021)
by Juan Pablo Contreras (b. Guadalajara, Mexico, 1987)
Two years ago, the Philharmonic performed Mariachitlán, a Latin Grammy-nominated orchestral work by Juan Pablo Contreras. The Mexican-born composer, who currently teaches at the University of Southern California and likes to call himself “Mechicano,” has been receiving a growing number of accolades for what one critic called his “fluid multiculturalism and expressive palette.” Contreras is back on our programs with another work that has received a Latin Grammy nomination: his violin concerto La Minerva. The composer has offered the following description of his work:
La Minerva is a concerto for violin and orchestra dedicated to Mexican women, who are the backbone of countless families across the country. In my hometown of Guadalajara, a statue of the Roman goddess Minerva stands as a proud guardian of the city, symbolizing the strength, courage, and resilience that characterize the women of Mexico. As often happens in my creative process, the first spark of inspiration for this concerto came from a vivid image: I envisioned Minerva, holding a violin and bow instead of her shield and spear, standing as a soloist in front of the orchestra, ready to fill the concert hall with her majestic sound.
The concerto is cast in three movements. The first movement, titled “Canción de Amor” (“Love Song”), is a slow movement in 3/4 time that embodies the romantic and rhythmic qualities of a balada ranchera. It features soaring violin melodies reminiscent of those Lola Beltrán might have sung in a heartfelt serenade.
“Polka Taconeada” (“Heel-stomping Polka”), the second movement, is a lively piece in 2/4 time that evokes the International Women’s March, a global event held annually on March 8th to commemorate the achievements of women and to advocate for gender equality and women’s rights. The title comes to life as the soloist stomps their heel against the ground while playing the main theme, recreating the march’s pulsating rhythm.
The final movement, “Himno a la Mujer” (“Hymn to Women”), is a moderately paced huapango in 6/8 time that invites listeners to unite and raise their voices in a collective anthem of solidarity and celebration of women. It begins with the soloist holding the violin like a guitar and gently strumming the hymn. Soon after, the whole string section joins in, their strumming enhancing the hymn’s spirit. The soloist then plays the hymn with the bow, and gradually, the entire orchestra joins in solidarity. Toward the end of the movement, the soloist performs an intense cadenza. One final time, the orchestra unites, playing the hymn and bringing the concerto to a triumphant conclusion.
Tzigane (1924)
by Maurice Ravel (Ciboure, France, 1875 - Paris, 1937)
We honor the 150th anniversary of Maurice Ravel’s birth with a performance of one of his most popular works, Tzigane, written for the Hungarian-born violinist Jelly Arányi (d’Aranyi), the recent dedicatee of the two violin sonatas of Béla Bartók. After she had performed Ravel’s Sonata for Violin and Cello with cellist Hans Kindler at a private concert in 1922, Ravel asked her to play some Hungarian Gypsy melodies. As one eyewitness later recalled, this performance continued until about 5 a.m., with everyone completely exhausted except for Arányi and Ravel. That was the initial inspiration for Tzigane, although Ravel did not actually write the piece until two years after this memorable all-nighter, just in time for the London premiere, played, of course, by Jelly Arányi.
The Gypsy flavor can be felt in every measure of this brilliant concert rhapsody, yet Ravel did much more than simply offer an arrangement of folk (or imitation-folk) melodies. The melodies are garnished with spicy harmonies that emphasize all the wildness of a musical culture perceived as exotic.
Tzigane exists in three versions. In addition to the two familiar ones (violin & piano and violin & orchestra), there is a version of violin and luthéal. The latter was, in the words of Ravel biographer Arbie Orenstein, an “attachment to the keyboard which produces the approximate timbre of a Hungarian cimbalom [hammered dulcimer] or a harpsichord.”
Carmina Burana (1935-36)
by Carl Orff (Munich, 1895 – Munich, 1982)
Carl Orff’s objective—to create complex music from the simplest possible elements—informs both his compositions and his pathbreaking work in music education. The Orff-Schulwerk, an innovative educational system integrating music and movement, is based on some of the same fundamental principles as Carmina Burana, the large-scale choral work that turned the German composer into an international celebrity.
Orff hit upon the subject of Carmina Burana almost by accident. As he later recollected:
“Fortuna” smiled upon me when she brought into my hands a second-hand book catalog from Würzburg, where I found a title that drew me in with an almost magical power:
Carmina Burana: Latin and German Songs and Poems from a 13th-Century Manuscript from Benediktbeuren, edited by J.A. Schmeller. This manuscript had been kept in the Benediktbeuren Monastery until it was brought to the Royal Court Library in Munich, in the wake of the secularization of the Bavarian monasteries. It was given its name Carmina Burana (‟Songs from Benediktbeuren”) by its editor, the estimable archivist Johann Andreas Schmeller, who had first published it in 1847.
I received the volume on Maundy Thursday of 1934, a day that is still memorable to me. Upon turning to the first page I found the well-known image of “Fortune with her wheel,” and under it the lines O Fortuna velut luna statu variabilis... (“O Fortune, like the moon, everchanging...”)
Picture and words seized hold of me. Although for the moment I was acquainted only along general lines with the contents of the collection of poems, a new work, a stage work with singing and dancing choruses, simply following the illustrations and texts, at once came into my mind. On the very same day I sketched out a partial draft of the opening “O Fortuna” chorus. After a sleepless night in which I nearly lost myself in the poems, another chorus was born, “Fortune plango vulnera,” and by Easter morning a third (“Ecce gratum”) had been set down on paper.
It wasn’t so easy to find one’s way around this codex, with its 250 songs and poems. Most of the poems were in late Latin, but a large number of them were in Middle High German, and some were even in a mixture of Latin texts with Old French refrains...I was fully aware that some of the poems in the collections contained neumes...but I had neither the desire nor the ability to decipher this ancient musical notation.* So I interpreted them rather casually. The things that moved me most of all were the sweeping rhythmic drive, the picturesqueness of the poetry, and (not least of all) the unusually concise Latin text.
Orff divided his work in three sections, devoted, respectively, to a celebration of spring, the joys of the tavern, and “The Court of Love.” The invocation of Fortune and her wheel, which had so impressed Orff, serves as a frame, opening and closing the cantata. This chorus sets the tone of the whole work with brief melodic motifs progressing in relentless ostinatos (unchanging rhythmic patterns). The first major section, “Primo vere” (“In the spring”) begins with a unison melody sung by the chorus that could almost come from the Middle Ages. Its tone continues in the ensuing first baritone aria. The next big chorus (“Ecce gratum”) evokes a folk-music style of more recent date with its clear major tonality. A purely instrumental dance movement then follows, with some changing meters in a definitely 20th-century spirit. In the chorus “Floret silva,” the words “meus amicus” (“my friend”) are given special emphasis by a motif borrowed from Bavarian or Austrian folk dances. This turn, a bold ascending leap of a major ninth, takes on an unmistakable erotic connotation here as the subject matter turns from a description of spring flowers to the blossoming of youthful love. The dance becomes more and more boisterous, ending Part I with some ecstatic high C’s (not often required of choral singers) at the thought of embracing, of all people, the Queen of England!
Part II, devoted to the joys of good food and copious drinks, begins with the “Wandering Scholar’s Confession” by an author known only as the Archpoet of Cologne. This is followed by the Lament of the Roasting Swan, introduced by a high-pitched and tortuously chromatic bassoon solo that is intended to portray the wailing of the unfortunate bird. The tenor solo sings this most unusual “swan song” in a truly murderous high register with some decidedly un-medieval modulations. Meanwhile, the orchestral accompaniment gives us what the late Michael Steinberg, dean of program annotators, called “musical gooseflesh—or swanflesh.” The baritone then continues with some mock-Gregorian chant in a satirical imitation of a church sermon. An universal paean to drinking, “In taberna quando sumus,” concludes this section.
Part III (“The Courts of Love”) picks up where Part I left off. The soprano soloist, singing for the first time, expresses an undisguised sexual desire that will linger for the rest of the piece until, in a breathtaking coloratura passage for unaccompanied soprano, the act is finally consummated. All that remains is a solemn celebration of love and beauty (“Ave formosissima”) before the return of Fortune and her wheel puts everything, once more, in a sobering perspective: our thoughts and our endeavors, our joys and our sorrows, are all transient and subject to the whims of this fickle goddess.
After completing the cantata, Orff told his publisher: “Everything I have written to date, and which you have, unfortunately, printed, can be destroyed. With Carmina Burana, my collected works begin.” The “collected works” continued with two companion pieces, Catulli Carmina (1943) and Trionfo di Afrodite (1951), which were eventually united as a theatrical triptych under the title Trionfi. Yet neither of those later works never achieved the popularity of Carmina Burana. Also, while Orff clearly intended the work to be performed with sets, costumes and projected images (there have been many memorable staged performances), the work is still most frequently heard in concert version. The music is so powerful that it certainly gets the message across even without the theatrical element.
* They were later deciphered by scholars; the original medieval Carmina Burana has since been widely performed and recorded.