“All Sorts of Trumpetts and Kettle Drums, ffrench: Hornes…”—so begins a blurb on the business card of William Bull, a London brass artisan in 1700. One wonders if the curious spelling of “ffrench” horn had anything to do with the instrument’s sheer novelty. Unlike the trumpet, which dates to antiquity, the French horn was a relatively new invention, having appeared only a few decades earlier, in the mid-1600s. Originally a kind of coiled trumpet, with a similar pitch and timbre, advances in tube-bending technology allowed the instrument to double in length, lowering its pitch and expanding the number of available notes. Its sound became richer, rounder, and more rustic—perfect for the open air. King Louis XIV even kept a retinue of horn players to accompany the royal hunt, as depicted in murals at Versailles.
George Frideric Handel (1685–1759) was among the first composers to feature the French horn prominently in orchestral and operatic works, though his contemporaries Bach, Vivaldi, and Telemann quickly followed suit. What Handel’s Water Music so joyfully captures is the instrument’s “outdoor” personality. Fittingly, the piece was premiered outdoors—on a barge floating down the River Thames for the pleasure and entertainment of King George I. One account describes the party beginning at eight in the evening and continuing until two in the morning. (Let’s hope the musicians were well paid—in pounds or perhaps in pints.)
For many years, Water Music existed in multiple versions, and to this day we don’t know exactly which movements were performed on the barge, or in what order. Handel later added more selections in different keys. Today’s version comes from the so-called F major suite, featuring French horns, oboes, bassoons, and strings. Special thanks to Nicholas McGegan for loaning MOSL his annotated parts.Alessandro Marcello (1669–1747) was a nobleman, mathematician, judge, and the son of a Venetian senator. Unlike the other composers on today’s program, Marcello was essentially an amateur musician, composing, writing poetry, and painting for his own pleasure. Written around 1717, his famous oboe concerto was long attributed to Vivaldi—and later to Alessandro’s better-known brother, Benedetto Marcello. The piece so impressed Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750) that he transcribed it for solo keyboard. Bach “dressed up” the simple, haunting melody of the Adagio with elaborate ornamentation—an approach our soloist Xiomara Mass will employ in her performance.
The year 1802 was a turning point for Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827). That summer, he completed his exuberant Second Symphony. But that fall, he wrote a deeply personal letter to his two brothers—never sent—that reveals a very different emotional state. Known today as the Heiligenstadt Testament and discovered only after his death, the letter is an anguished cri de cœur. In it, Beethoven admits what he had feared for years: he was losing his hearing. I was compelled early to isolate myself, to live in loneliness, when I at times tried to forget all this. Oh, how harshly was I repulsed by the doubly sad experience of my bad hearing—yet it was impossible for me to say to men: speak louder, shout, for I am deaf.
The letter goes on for pages and even reads like a last will and testament, complete with instructions for dividing his possessions. Did Beethoven, at just 31, truly contemplate ending his life? We’ll never know. What we do know is that he emerged from this dark night of the soul and somehow made peace with his worsening affliction.
Which makes the Second Symphony all the more remarkable: it contains not a trace of despair. Hector Berlioz later wrote that “everything in this symphony smiles.” From its broad introduction to the energetic Allegro con brio, the first movement sets a buoyant tone. The Larghetto that follows is unusually lyrical and songful for Beethoven. Instead of the traditional Minuet and Trio, he gives us a Scherzo—literally a “joke”—a preview of the mighty scherzos to come in the Eroica and Ninth Symphonies. The Finale is a whirlwind of virtuosity, complete with surprising pauses and false starts. One early critic complained that it sounded like “a hideously wounded, writhing dragon that refuses to die.” How tastes change. Yet in one way, the critic was right: Beethoven’s music, indeed, refuses to die.
Roger Kaza
